Grant Klein

Glass is three-quarters full.

This morning, my friend emailed me a picture of his five-dollar-latte from Starbucks, only three-quarters full.

I don’t understand how this happens? I mean, the asshole-barista behind the counter obviously knew that he didn’t fill up the cup all the way. He could see it. Feel the weight of the cup. He even had the balls to hand it off to a customer. What he didn’t know, was that this would somehow be a metaphor for the current state of America. A three-quarters-full mentality.

When was “good enough,” good enough? I wasn’t raised that way. I work hard. I take pride in my work and it bothers me to cut corners. I’ve never been a barista, but if I were, I would’ve been the best barista. I’m not saying I wouldn’t be an asshole to assholes, I’m just saying that I would take pride in my work and deliver a good cup of joe every time. I didn’t learn this mentality at college; I didn’t learn this at a Learning Annex class. I learned this from my hard-working father growing up in a normal household under normal circumstance. I learned that hard work and determination pay off and if you go 100% you will sleep well at night.

I find more and more nowadays that people don’t like their jobs. I get it. You are under-appreciated; your boss is an asshole, etc. Get the fuck over it. If jobs were easy, it wouldn’t be called a job. Did you really think that those three classes at your local city college entitle you to not deal with any shit for the rest of your life? Welcome to the real world, bitch.

Be lucky you have a job in these uncertain times.

And shame on big corporations (Starbucks, aghemmm) for employing people who don’t give a fuck.

And shame on everyone in America who supports this three-quarters-mentality. Set an example. Fire that dumb-ass who doesn’t give a shit. Because if you continue to employ the three-quarters-full barista, you are saying that type of work-ethic and mentality are okay. It’s not.

I see more and more people bending over to bad service these days. I don’t put up with it. Just the other day a waitress at a restaurant had me and my wife wait 15 minutes for our drink order. I left ZERO tip. Yep. Nothing… it was hard, but it was my way of saying FUCK YOU to a person who doesn’t give a shit about her job, or people for that matter. A lot of my friends see this as being an asshole, I see it as not letting myself get fucked in the asshole. Standing up for yourself is admirable and I wish more people did it.

I was watching, “Hell on Wheels” last night on AMC. And it got me thinking about the Old West mentality of solving things with a pistol. I’m not advocating shooting everyone, don’t read into this…. All I’m saying is that I think settling things with an old-fashioned duel would probably handle 95% of the world’s problems.

Some hospital billed you too much for services? Instead of those 15 calls to customer service you know you are going to make, you could just challenge them to a duel. Problem solved.

A barista gives you a three-quarters-full coffee, you throw it back in their face… well, maybe not, but you get the point.

Don’t put up with bad service. Don’t expect it. Demand someone to do a good job. You’ll find that people will respect you, even if they hate you.

The Official Guide to Birthday Dinners

Now that my birthday is right around the corner, I thought it was a fitting time to explain why birthday dinners are a terrible, terrible idea.

Birthday Dinner Amnesia Syndrome:
Most people will tell you they hate birthday dinners, and yet, for some god-awful reason, they still decide to have one for themselves every year.  I call this Birthday Dinner Amnesia Syndrome.  This guide will hopefully remind you why Birthday Dinners are a terrible idea, and if you insist on having one, there are a few rules.

Don’t Have Birthday Dinners
If you want to go out to dinner on your birthday, go with your significant other, and then meet everyone at a bar later.  You don’t have a significant other? Well, obviously no one loves you, so why the hell would you have a birthday dinner?

But wait? You said this was a guide!  Really, I should just slap you in the face and tell you that nobody really wants to spend two hours with you.  You might be worth a phone call every once in awhile, but that’s it.  

And that’s the truth. It hurts.  If someone actually wanted to spend time and money and have dinner with you, wouldn’t they have invited you to dinner already?  And yes, I know, you are processing this and weeping at the same time.

Six People or Less
If you must, Six is the golden number.  It’s not because Six sounds like Sex. It’s the fact that six people will keep that bill under control. The food and service will be good, and with six people, you can actually have some type of decent conversation. 

And if you are dining with two other couples, Violá, you will also be able to split the bill in thirds. Easy, Peasy. This makes for a pain-free experience and you even get to tip as you wish, but that should still be 18% you cheap bastard.

Eight people is pushing it, but only do this if you really have eight friends. My guess is you probably don’t really have eight friends.

Let’s make the list. Hypothetically speaking, if there was a zombie apocalypse, and you had to kill all of your friends, pick the six people that you would feel bad about blasting in the face with a shotgun.  There’s your six.

Not a Fancy Restaurant.

I’ve been to all sorts of Birthday Dinners at expensive restaurants with very large birthday parties. And you know what, it’s a fucking nightmare.  Everyone has so much fun until they get that check for $1,500.

Think $20-$30 per person. 

Even your friend working at Subway can save up enough cash in six or seven weeks to pay for his meal.

Ordering Wine for the Table

Want to drink shit-tons of wine? You’re in for it.  Birthday Dinner drinkers are the worst.  They figure they can sneak a few extra glasses on the tab, lost in a sea of people. Those bottles will disappear into the great abyss.  And then when the check comes, ahhhhhh shit. You start to hear slurred statements like, “But I only had ONE glass.” And, “I’m pregnant, I didn’t have any.”  Uh no, you’re not pregnant, you are just a fat bitch.

Better yet, instead of drinking tons of wine, pregame at the restaurant’s bar, or have an 18-pack in the parking lot.  Been there, done that.

Still want to drink wine with your dinner?  You went to Italy once and now all of a sudden you’re a fucking sommelier?  Well, okay here’s the solution. Find a restaurant that has a low corkage fee and BYOW.  It’s super easy. Super cheap, and it cuts the bill in half.  Do I sound cheap? Yes, probably. But you will be thanking me when you’ve watched that asshole you barely know drinking right out of that $85 bottle of Malbec.

The Cheap Bastard

There is always a cheap bastard in the group.

Somehow the Cheap Bastard has no concept of 18% or 20% gratuity being included in the bill already. This is like nuclear physics to him.  He seems to think that he should pay for the service he received. Which means 0% tip, and 0% tax.  Oh, and that Diet Coke and the appetizer he ordered, he totally forgot about paying for that too. Happy Birthday to you!

And if you are really depressed and need a large Birthday Dinner group, the probability of having 2-3 cheap bastards in the group will result in everyone’s meal costing 50% more.  Now you are asking all your guests to literally pay for someone’s dinner.  Way to go. Happy Birthday to them.

Restaurants Hate Them

Oh, you really want your Birthday at [Most Popular Restaurant Right Now] and you have a party of 18 on Saturday at 8pm.  That’s the worst-case scenario for a restaurant.  The chances of the food quality, timing and service being great for your Birthday Dinner… it’s virtually impossible.  And we know you will complain about it.  And everything has to be perfect for your birthday.

And don’t bring a fucking cake.  A decent restaurant usually has a decent dessert, so you are annoying the shit out of everyone involved.  When the poor waiter adds that Cake Service charge for $30.00 on your bill, don’t complain about that either.  You just screwed the restaurant out of money and they had to slice your Vons store-bought cake for you in 32 tiny pieces. Ugh, I’m really starting to hate you.

You Don’t Need to Pay for the Whole Thing
Nope.  Unless you’re Harvey Weinstein, and your shitty third car is an Aston Martin Vantage, no one expects you to shell out for an entire meal. And if for some reason a guest thinks that you should, and didn’t bring any money, they aren’t really a friend and they showed up just to screw you.  Happy Birthday again.  

Bring Cash
Cash is King at Birthday Dinners.  It allows you to get out of that bill unscathed. You never should have to pay $86.00 for Chicken Pasta.   

Summary

In closing, don’t have Birthday Dinners. If you do, have them at a cheap casual place with six people or less.

May I suggest Olive Garden or Black Angus.  No, don’t go there. You’ll die from food poisoning. But you know what, if you still want a Birthday Dinner after reading this, maybe you should go die from food poisoning.  Yep, never mind, I just made you a reservation. Olive Garden, party of 23 at 8pm.

Bad Coffee + Packaging Tape = Shitty Day

Sometimes you don’t really need a reason to be in a shitty mood. Maybe I’m naturally in a state of shittiness and it takes a really good day to just break even.

I’m not sure if it’s the three hours of sleep, the fact that I seem to gain weight by just breathing oxygen, or maybe it’s because I’m in the process of finding a new place to live and I’m not quite sure how that 1 bedroom crack-den in Silverlake is $2,300/month.  I don’t know.  That’s a good start at least.

Also, when I got my coffee this morning, it was terrible.  It tasted like I face-fucked a cup of battery acid.  Really? Is it that hard to make coffee?  I do it every day on my $40 coffee machine and it tastes delish, so how is this even an option? 

I have a feeling someone doesn’t understand the scoop/cup ratio.  Are they using bad product? Do they clean the machines?  With all of the coffee competition, how does this still happen?

Also, why the fuck is packaging tape the worst invention on the planet? 

Seriously.  It’s like $8 a roll and it comes with the cheapest little plastic dispenser.  I mean, God forbid you actually buy the two items separately, then you find yourself spending 15 minutes putting the tape into the cheap little plastic thing, cutting yourself on the sharpest metal edges known to man. 

Really? Yes, really. 

I’m a smart guy. This isn’t rocket science, but it sure feels like it.  And why the fuck would they ever allow the tape to get stuck back to the roll.  I spent 10 minutes today finding the edge. FINDING THE FUCKING EDGE OF THE TAPE. 

What has my life become?  I can’t even tape something.  This is a joke right?  This is just some company’s way to screw with me.  [Crying]

I hate you packaging tape and I wish you were never born. [Screaming and Crying]

So it’s almost 1pm.  I have a feeling this day might just get worse.  I still have to package something and I still can’t find the edge to the fucking packaging tape. 

Time to put on the protective padding and hope for the best.

10 Things I LOVE about Parking Lots

1.  I really appreciate when people get in their cars, turn them on, and then sit there for five minutes doing nothing while I’m waiting for their space.  I really appreciate that. Because turning off your car and waving me off would be entirely too fucking easy.

2.  When you park your Suburban, please take as long as possible getting your kids out of the car. Oh, and please make sure that all your doors a wide-fucking-open so your gas-guzzling-piece-of-shit-SUV actually takes up three spaces.  That’s nice of you. Kisses.

3. As a pedestrian, I always recommend walking slowly in the middle of the road, or walking diagonally, so it takes as long as fucking possible to get out of my way.

4.  Please SUV, go ahead and park in the “For Hybrids Only” parking spot. That’s cool. YOU TOTALLY GET THE POINT.

5.  Oh, you were waiting for the same space as me.  That’s weird.  I know I put my blinker on as soon as that car started backing up and you didn’t.  Oh silly me. Please, go ahead.

6.  That person going 40mph in a parking lot full of kids must be really late for something.

7.  No, I don’t think talking on your cell-phone while holding it with one hand is impairing your ability to navigate the parking structure at all.

8.  No, please, when entering a parking structure, drive as slow as fucking possible looking for a space on the first two levels.  I know there are 10 levels in this garage, and the chances of more empty spaces at the higher levels is just fucking ridiculous.  What was I thinking?

9.  I feel extra safe when walking in a parking garage and hear squealing tires and  Middle Eastern music blasting from an Infiniti G35 coming around the corner.

10.  I really appreciate you leaving your shopping cart in the middle of a parking spot. Nothing is more fun then getting out of my car, returning the shopping cart, and then taking your old space. XOXO.

The tale of the Triple-Slasher

Slash·er  / slaSHər /  Noun 

1. Someone who has two jobs.

2. A horror movie, esp. one in which victims (typically women or teenagers or Grant) are slashed with knives and razors

Example:

A Model slash actress
A photographer slash Designer

Get it? Good.

A slasher is not strange.  It’s pretty common in Los Angeles.  You commonly hear “waiter slash actor”  or “screen writer slash barista.”  This is normal.  It’s hard out here for a pimp.  Most people understand that you have to slum it to pay the bills.  Fuck. LA rent is expensive.  Then there are car payments, gas, insurance.  It’s okay.  I’m a prostitute slash photographer and no one seems to mind.

But when you start promoting yourself as a Triple-Slasher, you just sound like a crazy person.

Example: 

Today I was heading out of my office and a lady in her mid-thirties was outside the door.  You know, just hanging out.  She asked me what I did for a living.  After a little small talk, she told me she was waiting for a tow truck because she locked herself out of her car.

FIRST WARNING SIGN.

She told me that she runs a non-profit.  Something involving chocolate and kids. 

SECOND WARNING SIGN.

Then told me she also is a Veggie-Lifestyle-Coach. 

APOCALYPSE IS NEAR. 

Side note: And what the fuck is a veggie-lifestyle-coach? And why would someone pay to learn how to eat vegetables?  It’s actually pretty easy. Just eat them.  Problem solved.  No coaching necessary.

And then she told me she was a singer/songwriter/dancer AND a personal chef.

OH HELL. STAB ME WITH A DICK.

[This girl is starting to sound like a serial killer.  I really hope she doesn’t google Veggie-Lifestyle-Coach and find this.]

And yes, she was looking for work.

Big suprise. 

What the fuck!  What are you?  I can’t even keep track at this point.  That’s like six jobs. 

Some advice?  Oh, you didn’t ask… uh, I don’t care.

Don’t have six jobs.  Have two.  Keep your sanity.  It’s okay to be good at lots of things. Just don’t promote it, because really, you can’t be that good at everything.

So, my message to the Triple-Slasher.  Maybe just focus on one thing.  Or maybe two.  And maybe your first job should be not locking your keys in your car.

An Open Letter to Girls Traveling to Ikea Alone

Dear Girls Traveling to Ikea Alone,

This is not a good idea. 

Lord knows, you will buy a ton of shit you don’t need. Probably because your friend/boyfriend/husband is not with you. You will somehow find a magical way to max out your credit card in a cute way. 18 bookcases for all your shit. Check. 360 tea lights. Check. $150 in fake flowers. Check. Tons of Chinese crap that will fall apart in a week. Check.

That isn’t the problem that I have though. 

My problem isn’t that you don’t mind that we are growing more dependent on Chinese products every day and you really should purchase American made products.  It isn’t the fact that you just rammed your empty shopping cart into my knee while you were looking at that cool print of the Brooklyn Bridge. No, no, no, that’s not my problem.

The problem I have with you is that you’ve managed to make it to the loading area with 940 pounds of bookshelves, furniture and crap and YOU ARE ALL ALONE.

What makes you think this was a good idea?

Did it cross your mind that maybe, just perhaps, you wouldn’t be able to load this all into your sub-compact car?

Did you think that someone would help you because you are a girl, at Ikea, all alone?

Well, you’ve guessed right. The answer is, “Yes.”

Yes, I will help you load your eighteen bookcases into the back of your compact car. Not because I think you are nice person, or because you deserve it, but because my parent’s raised me right. Because I’m 6 foot 3 inches and I’m physically obligated to help you. It’s Darwinesque, I know, but it’s true.

And what makes you think that it’s okay that you take a phone call while I’m loading all your stuff into your car? Dear Lord.  What is happening?!?!

So, I say to you ladies, the next time you think, “Hey, I want to go to Ikea and buy a bunch of shit.” Maybe take that thought one step further and bring someone.  A friend, a dude you used to bang in college, someone. Anyone!  And not an emo dude with holes in his sweater for his thumbs. Bring a man.

Me and my herniated disc would really appreciate it.

Help save this dog

Some friends of mine found this wandering the streets of Little Tokyo.  I saw him today.  He’s a great dog, but needs to see a Vet.  Any contribution will help.

http://babyh.chipin.com/louies-vet-bill