chasewaterhouse

My dad's turned into Dr. Phil.

It wasn't very gradual. It wasn't very flashy. But it's happened. He's officially a "life coach." With a website, no less. He's posted pictures of the family and it's all guru-y and filled with messages of how to change your life and stuff. It's oddly alluring and I kind of want to be a life coach too (I wanna! I wanna! This is where I pitch a fit and fall on the floor and Nanny 911 comes).

If he ever gets his own talk show, I'm totally coming on once a week and we're going to face off in table tennis or something while waxing philosophical over how high school kids should stop getting high by taking lots of cough medicine. That's just wrong. And too easy. I was giving girls wine coolers when I was their age. Bartles and James taught me right.

But, yeah, I guess I just find it weird when your parent starts making decisions after their "what color is my parachute" phase? Last time I was at home, I had a deep talk with my dad about careers and stuff. This was before his foray into life-coachdom. It was kinda sad in a way. In 20-odd years, am I going to be going through the same stuff? Am I going to have to resort to friggin' awful Monster.com for jobs? Will it be too late to fulfill my childhood dream of being the guy that gives the final OK for space shuttles to lift off? Does anyone really know the muffin man?

Damn. I'm getting all thoughtful and crap. I'll end on a happy note.


Balki Out!!!

"Whatever happened to the Goots?"

I said this to myself after the Rocketeer tried to rocketeer in and take Kirsten away from the so-much-cooler and less oily Sandy on last night's ep of the O.C.

"He's got a jetpack Kirsten!! It's hidden behind his nice greasy clothes!!"

So, yeah, I thought, the Goots would be so much better for this role. He has the rapist wit without the rapist grin. He can talk to robots. He can help old people get to outer space. He can foil Captain Harris and Lt. Proctor at the drop of a hat. And he can take care of a doody baby diaper on a pool table as a ghost is watching him from the window. As All 4 One would sing, he gots skillz. He could so come in and be a great cameo character. Maybe Cohen's uncle??

But I think that a lot. Just imagine. Take yourself to your happy place. How cool would it be if the Goots was a terrorist (maybe playing himself pissed off for not getting enough roles) on 24?? Or a lesbian tranvestite on The L Word? Or the 4th judge on the Starlet, which btw had perhaps the most awe-inducing hour of TV EVER last night? I'm so mad at myself for not taping it. You don't even know.

But back to Goots. He needs more work. Shannon Elizabeth is getting work for god's sake. And she makes children cry she's so terrible. Let's spread the positive energy. The Artist Formerly Known As Captain Mahoney would like it that way.

I might have to give up my Hardcore Mofo Card.

In the span of three days, I have watched this season's first episode of America's Top Model, the first episode of The Starlet and the first disc of The L Word: Season One.

Why?? Because I'm weak. And for other reasons:

• America's Top Model - vodka and Hawaiian Punch
• The Starlet - one of the girls kicked off last night was a dumber clone of a college g-f and/or beer
• L Word - those naked group billboards and/or my need to get in touch with my inner lesbian

There you go. Complete honesty. My WCCQ (Watercooler Conversation Coolness Quotient) has increasisized to enormous levels. To be brutally honest, everyone needs to start watching "The Starlet" because that show has potential to be crazier than Love Cruise, Paradise Hotel and the first season of Temptation Island combined. I think they're rerunning the first episode during the week because I missed the first half hour.

p.s. I'm serious about this "Starlet" stuff. I envision a post where everyone has seen the episode and we can just gossip and talk trash about it until 1000 comments racks up. Then I can bronze the post like baby shoes and instantly quit the game to sail away with a Styx CD and my baby's mama.

Gosh Bob Dylan damn, I gotta move at the end of this month.

My roommate is moving into an apartment/house of his own with his gf, who practically lives with us anyways now. It's like, "Adios, Chase. Nice to meetcha. Wouldn't want to beeya, boy-a."

Moving blows. I don't wanna move. I want to stay solitary. In one place. For a inordinate amount of time. I want to be Zack Morris and call a time-out and watch everyone stand mouths agape as I walk around and eat PB&J sandwiches at my non-rushed heart's content. As I finish the sandwiches and possibly wipe peanut jelly crummies on everyone's faces, I can arrange appendages in uncomfortable contortions and put on godawful music like a Celine Dion/Kenny G greatest hits boxed set. Or a Maroon 5 b-side sampler.

The best thing about finding a place to live in LA is that you better damn well like the place you pick. 'Cause you have long leases and traffic and possible bullets flying through your bathroom window as you take a shower. Yep, Los Angeles is one of the most populated cities in the world but sometimes it seems like Mayberry had more cops. Hell. The only Beverly Hills Cop I've ever seen is Axl Foley. And I haven't even seen him, technically, since 1987, 'cause you know you can't count part 3. This is disheartening to a kid that wanted to either be an astronaut or Eddie Murphy growing up. Imagine my lilly-white Baptist grandmother when I told her that.

But, yeah, I'm planning on loading my outhouse on wheels shown above and setting down somewhere over the Hills. Somewhere in North Hollywood, Sherman Oaks or Burbank, where you can hit a porn star or a WB star with a rock if you like that sort of thing.  So if anyone knows of or has a rich parent/grandparent/cousin/friend/uncle/sugar-momma who has a huge house with a guest-house/yard, I will willingly be their semi-adopted child/grandchild/second-cousin/buddy/nephew/love-slave in exchange for some prime real estate and a hot shower.

I'm serious 'bout this. I gots needs, yo.

There are dreams I've had. There are dreams my dreams have had. And then...there's this piece o' news.

It's like my personal John Connor has been sent from the future, guided my hands to the website and said, "Looketh at this...eth."

I don't get excited for a lot of things. OK, hell, I get excited for tons of shat. But, for this, I would fill my own Ark with endangered species aplenty and steer it straight into a volcano. Of course, I'd have to have some kind of jet-propelled Rocketeer pack or a hoverboard like Marty Mc Fly to escape. Goodbye bald eagle. So long three-toed sloth.

Seriously, besides personal caretaker of the Playboy Mansion grounds, I don't know of a job I'm simultaneously qualified for AND stoked to start tomorrow. I was a young kid gettting up at the crack-ass of dawn every Saturday morning to watch the Duke Brothers get into shenanigans. Do you remember shenanigans?? I do. And they were glorious.

The best part about this gig?? It friggin' pays:

* "The Vice President, CMT Dukes of Hazzard Institute will be paid $4,167 semi-monthly -- not to exceed $100,000."

AKA..."And while you're busy fulfilling your childhood dream job, here's more money then you've ever seen. K, thanks."

I just took a vitamin. It might has well have been coke.

In this turbulent time in my life, I don't know a lot of things. But I do know who's going to win American Idol this year.

You might say, "Ha ha. Very funny. You don't" or "You watch American Idol? Nerd." or "Stay away from my pancakes." But I do know. And I will eat those pancakes. And you will like it.

I don't have any inside info. Donnie Darko didn't throw me the final ep through a wormhole. Nope. As Brit Brit would say, I'm a motherchuckin' soothsayer, y'all.

I picked last year's winner, Fantasia. She was from my hometown. Easy.

The year before, I begrudgingly picked Clay Aiken. I was thisclose on that one.

This year's winner was the easiest to choose: Constantine Maroulis. A sure thing. I have witnesses (well, at least one) that can attest to the fact that the first time he came onscreen weeks ago, I said, "He's the winner. End of contest."

Let's crunch the data:

• He's got long flowing hair like Fabio
• He's got the rocker thing going while really he's a theater guy
• The guy can kick really high - huge cool points
• He has a livejournal community of his own
• He has a friggin' movie coming out this weekend (Note, this situation is akin to Mr Wizard slumming it by teaching kids physical challenges on Double Dare, just for kicks, because he's bored being awesome. Or something.)

Since I see the contestants, shopping or restaurant-eering, eventually throughout the next few months, I'm going to try to take Constantine under my wing and give him the sure-fire method for pocketing the competition a few months ahead.

1. Don't ever ever ever ever cut the hair.
2. Eliminate the blonde Clay Aiken guy. He's your comp.
3. Sing that cheesy Maroon 5 song. At least once.

Who wants to bet against me? I dare u.

If Netflix was a drug, I'd be freebasing it until my hair caught on fire about now.

Seriously.

It allows me to discover things like the complete season of Wonderfalls, now out on DVD. I've only watched the first episode (out of 12) and I already want to load the entire series into a van, hit the open highway and write sweet Jewel-like poetry about our newfound love. We would drink Boons Farm, eat Juji Fruits for sustenance and occasionally stop to ride bareback unicorns over snowcapped mountains.

How did I miss this show? If I find out I have a friend who didn't recommend it to me while it was actually on the air (if only for its first 3 episodes), I think I might have to rethink that friendship.

"But, dude, I tried to tell you...," he or she might say.

"(Holding my finger to their lips) Shhhhhhhh...just go."

I don't want to be that friend to you. So...this is my recommendation.

I am mos def a child of the 1980's.

And this list makes me remember that. Do kids today even actually play with toys? Three years ago, I worked as a summer camp counselor. One day I suggested that I could bring in some of my old "board games" for entertainment. 

"Board games! They're boring," they groaned.

I thought they were going to cut me with their Magic cards.

"(in my best Adam Sandler) Nooooo...they're not. Board games are the cooooolest. And so is peeing in your pants!" (okay, everything but the last part)

So the next day I brought in some old-school faves, such as Life, Connect Four, Operation, Boggle, MouseTrap and the greatest game to ever live, Fireball Island. I expected them to say things like, "WHAT? You actually have to use your hands for this! Lame!" But they didn't. Their eyes grew like saucers the size of saucers. They laughed with glee and said I was "Rad." Of course, I had to set up the MouseTrap game at least 50 times, which is insanely hard even with directions. 

"IKEA should put out a version of this game. This is hard work," I said to all of them watching me with anticipation.

Blank stares.

I wanted to clue them in but I figured by the time they were my age, SuperIKEA's would rule the world like the company in Terminator 2, building chairs that walk your dog and bookshelves that hold banks hostage.

p.s. Sorry about the lack of commenting/posting. I'm trying to save the world, one screenplay at a time. And then there's this.

p.s.s. I've also been talking to the IKEA help lady about S&M issues with my coffee table. 

Dear Mr Groundhog

Why must you leave so soon

I had the Apprentice tivo'd

Now you'll have to wait til June

 

Your shadow you doth see with luck

Over that big belly o yours

Must be downin' Double Big Macs

Washin' em down with Coors

 

But I truly understand, I do

If you turn your back and go

The Superbowl's gonna be a blowout

And no boobies at halftime, yo

 

So until next February, I say

Good luck with your groundhog huns

If she's just not into you

We'll always have sticky buns.

 

Peace Love and Throw Pillows,

Ned Ryerson

Dakota Fanning scares the bejesus out of me.

I know. I know. Be a man. Don't let a little girl scare you. And to this I say to you, "Have you SEEN Uptown Girls?"

Everyone's had the "Fear Factor conversation." What would be your breaking point? My hetero-best friend says anything involving testicles and he's out. Pussy. My girlfriend says she's not down with roaches. She's obviously never lived in a fraternity house. Me? If Joe Rogan was to ever trot out Dakota Fanning, I would throw up white flags all over the place. She'd just come around the corner as a special guest in slow motion with that weird graphics thing where they're topless with their stats ---shh...you know what i'm talking bout---and I'd be like, "Oh hell naw!! HELL NAW!!"

So what does that mean? I'm a wuss, yes.

But just imagine if they stuck you in a plastic tomb with little Dakota Fannings climbing all over you. Or, worse yet, what if they put you on a farm and in a big suit that you'd wear if bloodthirsty Dobermans were after you, AND THEN, they opened the gates and there were THREE DAKOTA FANNINGS?? Hungry for your subtle young flesh like Pac-man after a hangover. I'd rather go against Alien or Predator or Dick Cheney.

I don't even want to talk about what any poor not-me person would do if Joe Rogan lifted up the silver platter thing in Round 2 and Dakota was sitting there all DEVILISH smiles.

Seriously, is this girl on the Iraqui ballots or what? She's damn scurry, which is North Carolinian for scary, btw.

p.s. I'm going to see "Hide and Seek" tonight.

p.p.s. Is "Oops I Crapped My Pants" a real product?

 + Tall people = Not good

Dear 24 Hour Fitness/Hollywood,

Hello. How r u? Good? Great. Me? Not so good. You see...I'm tall. And I like to kick carb ass every now and then. But I have a problem. Jay-Z = 99 problems. Me = One. That problem is that I look freakishly weird on any of your 5000 elliptical trainers. Have you ever seen a tall guy ride a bike? It's kinda like that...but stranger. With your short elliptical models, I have to bend over a bit to reach and I always feel like I'm slowly running downhill on my heels. Girls try to give me the "head nod" or ask my caloric burning rate, but all I can do is look straight ahead (not even at the TV) and hope I don't stumble face first into the console. Which reminds me of a time I saw a sorority girl in college pass out on a treadmill while trying to lose weight for spring break. That wasn't smart. And neither would me stopping everyone's workouts by passing full out on your short elliptical trainer. I'd hate to have to hire Johnnie C. and bring in a sample trainer to a courtroom to illustrate the enormous safety hazard you have thrust upon my hips, lower thighs and calves. Soo...if you could please special order a taller elliptical and place it somewhere in the near vicinity of the elliptical area, I would be much obliged. You could even put it on the other side facing the others. I can be made an example of. I don't mind. I'll even wave and tell jokes to everyone while they train. Completely gratis.

Peace, love and lats,

Chase

p.s. There's this one 40ish guy that I don't even think works out at the gym. He just gets gratuitously nekkid in the locker room and wants to talk to me about politics. If you could please ask him to either work out or cover up, I wouldn't have to puke out my $7 protein shakes. Thanks.

 

Days like this make me love L.A.

Sunny. 84 degrees. Relatively smogless sky.

I'm off to the beach, yo.

People who know me well understand I have a serious problem with "movie quoting."

I quote movies many of you might have seen, like "Swingers" or "Big Lebowski," (which, with the latter, I just did last night--"Obviously, you're not a golfer.") Unfortunately, I also quote or reference movies that maybe .00005 % of the population have seen. Which means I'll be in group setting, everyone's laughing ha ha and having a good time, drinks a flowing, then BAM. I utter some stupid quote from "Man of the House," starring JTT and everyone turns to me like I simultaneously farted in all their grandmothers' faces. Debbie Downer am I.

( Luckily, if it happens on the phone, I don't have to see your face... )

Once upon a time, I was a boy without a job. I had just graduated from l'university and I was driving across the country with a Uhaul, the Taurus and a dream. A dream to one day become a successful Hollywoodian. "You need connections, dude," said my friend who owned a bong for every day of the week. "If you meet Jennifer Aniston, will you tell her I said hi, and that, like, omg I love her hair," said random sorority girl. So I pulled out my Rolodex, which in reality was a bunch of post-it's stuck together, and looked at my biggest connection out here in Lost Angeles: my godfather.

( Cue the dramatic Corleone music... )

 vs.

Dear Y'all,

I have a friend. Let's call him Cory. Because, hey, that's his name. He's short and Jewish and is kinda pudgy in the middle like a little Pillsbury Dough Boy. Very George Constanza-esque.

So, yeah, we're brosephs. If he were to lose his hair in a freak hair-cuttery accident, I would shave mine off so he could wear it as a wig. Then I could laugh at him about it. Unfortunately, Cory and I are having a difference of issues on one MAJOR moral issue. Not abortion. Not affirmative action. Not rainbows or cotton candy. Nope. We differ on the one huge issue known as thus:

Who would truly win in a fight between Magnum PI and Michael Knight?

( Now. Stop. Think about it. And proceed to agree or disagree )

Does anyone else feel/smell/hear/taste that? It's 2005. Clap on, y'all.

As I sit here contemplating why my roommate has a Star Trek Enterprise 2005 calendar and what the hell betamethasone dipropionate cream is, I'm going to ramble. I'm not drunk. At least not on anything but life and Arizona ginseng tea. It's just that I love you all. Every single person on my friends list, whether you comment or not. Even people on my non-friends list, which is more of a bunch of scribbles with frowny faces than an actual list. But alas...if any of you were in front of me, I've give you two thumbs up. And some of that ginseng tea. Because it tastes damn good.

As I sit, it's 56 degrees and cloudy in LA. The sun is breaking through and the clouds are off in the distance, dark and menacing, like those alien-spaceship clouds in "Independence Day." A seagull sits on our terrace. Which makes me wonder since we're a ways from the ocean. Maybe they're talking to my dog. Or looking for Nemo. I bet they're thinking, "Who is this loony bastard waving to us?"

Yesterday, I devised that the Spanish-language stations (of which we have 7 of our total 20 or so) have the best daytime programming. Since I can only watch so much Dr. Phil and Sesame Street, I viewed the entire new version of "Night of the Living Dead." I can now act and grunt like a Spanish zombie. I actually just practiced to the dog and he's scared. Good.

My new year's resolutions

1. Drink more ginseng beverages. This stuff is good.
2. Finally get that gold-coin-filled silo like Uncle Scrooge.
3. Read this (per my grandmother). Will go well as hobby on resume. "Know all 5 languages of love."
4. Sing in a Broadway show. Or near one. Or about one. Not too picky.
5. Be more open to others and their opinions. Number 3 will facilitate this like butta.
6. Hang onto the bottom part of a helicopter. (Holdover from last year)
7. Buy a new monster truck. Take picture in it. Sell it back next day.
8. Start meaningful conversations with more random strangers. Always end with high five.
9. Laugh at myself more. (Either alone or in a quiet-inside voice).
10. Live 2005 like a French film. With Spanish-zombie subtitles.

The Fockers ain't got nothing on the Waterhouses.

Actual Conversations Concerning Chase's New Love Interest On Christmas Day:

( No, seriously, I transcribed it into real words and stuff.... )

 

To the tune of "Have Yourself a Merry Christmas," my gift to you...

( Have Yourself An Emilio Estevez Christmas... )

Working the late shift sucks ass.

I'm already sleepy. I can't eat for another hour. I'm in small editing room in the studio dungeons talking to an editor who makes Bill Lumbergh sound exciting. And someone just came by and pulled the "sniff this scented marker and tell me what it smells like so i can really mark all over your nose" trick. Pffffft.

Otherwise, I'm trolling the internet looking for presents for the fam. Luckily, that "special someone" (she knows who she is) is already covered. Dad's already said he wants a book ("whatever, nerd"), Mom already bought her gift and she wants me to pay for it (LAME) and my little brother wants Brooke Burke in his stocking. Or her stockings. I don't know. I wasn't listening.

As for me, I'm expecting hilarity. Each year, I have at least one gift that defies everything in terms of logical gift-giving standards. For example, one high-school year an aunt knitted me a toilet paper holder cover in the design of a orange poodle head. Needless to say, it kept no toilet paper rolls warm that year. Instead, it became a running gag my senior year as to how many yearbook photos it could end up in on random student heads. End result? 14.

Two years ago, my mom, a hippie in Southern mom's clothing, made me a gigantic photo collage. Consisting solely of pictures of myself. "Mom, where am I supposed to put this? On my own wall? Please don't make me." I now have to put it up every time she visits California. Painful.

Ugh...zzzz.

p.s. I just went to the restroom and got sprayed in the face by one of those automatic on-the-wall scent spritzer thingees. I think it was strawberries. It didn't taste like strawberries, though.

p.s.s. Seriously, I think it went in my ear.

I like making lists. And if my boredom right now was an animal, it'd be a giant pteradactyl sitting in the corner being unawesome. Or a unicorn riding a rainbow but not laughing. In short, lame. I will probably defend most of my choices to the death. Not because I really like them that much. But because I like saying that I'd do anything "to the death." I actually just faxed someone to the death. It was intense. Collating to the death, pointing at someone to the death...my list of things I'd do to the death is slowly forming.
( Listing to the death )