You know our beloved Fairfax Jesus Guy? Of course you do. He’s graced my neighborhood and general vicinity of Holly’hood with his holiness and sic hip hop dance skillz since before this blog began.

What you might not know though, is that FJG earns his living by standing on Hollywood Blvd and posing for photos with tourists. Hey, even the son of god has to pay rent.

There’s actually a group of people who make their living in this same way, standing on Hollywood Blvd, infront of Grauman’s Chinese Theatre. There’s a Superman, a Marilyn Monroe, an Incredible Hulk, a few Jonny Depp’s from Pirates of the Caribbean, and many more. The city of Los Angeles doesn’t hire these folk; it’s by their own volition that they choose to dress up and take photos with tourists with the hopes of tips.

Hey, we all have our niche.

If you want to see the best documentary EVUH, check out Confessions of a Superhero. Actually, you really just must watch this movie.

I realize I’ve been on a documentary binge lately, but I guess that’s what happens when your own life consists of: work, poop, eat, poop, work, Bravo TV, eat, work, poop. (Who am I kidding? I only wish I pooped that much.)

Confessions follows around Superman, Wonder Woman, Batman and the Incredible Hulk in their daily lives. They range from struggling, out of work actors to spectacular nutcases. Not much more that I love than a good nutcase.

Speaking of Jesus, a few days ago the city of L.A. began arresting these Hollywood Blvd. superheroes. Apparently one now needs a license to dress up and take photos with strangers…And how would one go about obtaining this license? Riding your magic carpet to city hall and giving the Mayor 3 magic beans?

Oh wait, lemme guess…it’s going to be some sort of fee. Then you can carry around a little scrap of paper saying that you’re allowed by the grand city of Los Angeles to dress up in costume and stand on the street.

Hooooow…officially nauseating.

Just more evidence of the city’s absurd fund raising tactics. To be filed in the same category with LAPD stationed around parks writing out tickets upwards of $300 to anyone with a dog not on a leash.

Thank you Mr. Officer—I don’t know what I would’ve done if that Yorkie wasn’t put back on her leash! Golly, I sure will sleep easier tonight.

Cuz that’s what we got here in the City of Angeles, priorities.

Let’s get back to Fairfax Jesus Guy already. A few days after the arrests of Spiderman, Catwoman, Batman, Scooby Doo, Jack Sparrow, Elvis, and several others, I saw a sullen Jesus pulling weeds in his garden. I mean, if Jesus is depressed, is there any hope for the rest of us?

Batman being arrested. And that’s not the fanny pack fashion police.

So I began to think, what kind of job will FJG get now? Once you’re Jesus, you can’t just get any regular old job. FJG would be a terrible waiter—he doesn’t seem to be in much of a rush and I don’t think his hair and beard would be up to health code. He couldn’t be a teacher, all that church and state rigamaroll.

And so, I’ve come up with several job ideas for our beloved FJG now that he’s unemployed.

1) Being my personal assistant.

Ever since I began working a bazillionty hours, I barely have time to do all the necessary chores in life, much less keep up with my strict Bravo and cocktailing schedule. The job requirements would include, but not limited to: performing all mundane house chores; organizing my TiVo and creating a rigorous viewing schedule; walking Bella and examining her poop to confirm that her bowels are working properly; and finally, congratulating me daily on my large brain and shapely thighs.

The pay is shit, but the benies are decent. I make a mean cocktail and encourage drinking on the job. And we’re neighbors, which would eliminate a commute. An extinct concept in L.A.

2)…

Ya got me, that’s the only idea I came up with, but isn’t it a terrific one? When you hit it out of the park with your first try, why continue? I mean, how could he say no? Doesn’t Jesus have to say yes?

Oh I CANNOT WAIT to drink margaritas with him as he folds my laundry! But don’t get me wrong, this is purely a selfless act on my part. I asked myself, “Self, what can you do to make the world a better place?” And I answered, “I can let unempolyed Jesus wash my dishes.” I’ve brushed off the title of saint before, but this time, I may acquiesce.

Maybe I’ll even invite his out of work superhero pals over for game night. [Note to self: in his training, make sure FJG knows how to make all my favorite snackity snacks.] We’re going to make magic, he and I. First, we’ll he’ll conquer my dirty toilet bowl, then Los Angeles, ultimately the world. Together, me and FJG, one episode of Real Housewives at a time.

Now all he has to do is say yes. Details.

I better get a special place in heaven for saving Jesus.

First, at my commercial shoot a fellow actor started telling me about this BBC documentary called Real Dolls. Have you seen it? If not, put down your pastrami and youtube that shit. And don’t blame me for the queasy feeling afterwards.

Real Dolls are high-end sex dolls. The cheapest one you can get is $6,000. The cheapest.

The documentary follows a few guys who have completely substituted Real Dolls for real women in their lives. Their dolls are their wives, mistresses, and only friends. I guess he doesn’t have to worry about PMS mood swings or her drinking his last beer.

My perverted brain became fascinated with these dolls and found the Real Doll web site. (The site provides hours of entertainment while avoiding work and house chores.)

When choosing your own doll, you have many options. Here’s some snap shots from the site:

I’m going to go with Britney (she looks especially fuckable loveable, no?) with tanned skin, violet eyes and hmm…perhaps slate eye shadow. Yes, yes, I think that will look lovely with her skin tone.

It goes on to ask your choice in eyeliner width, nail length and color, mouth size and color and other perhaps more important features such as pubic hair style and color and if you would like the vagina to be permanent or removable…oh to have a removable vagina! The places it could go! The sites it could see!

Now incase you were wondering (I was) yes, they DO have male dolls. God Bless America. I have some qualms with the male dolls though, as will be evidenced below.

First of all, both types only come in 5’9”? Not to be rude to the averagely heighted man, but I’m paying close to $10,000 for this doll, I want him to be at least 6 feet tall, for the love of god. I want to be able to wear my heels around him and not shatter his silicon doll ego. Bullshit.

Also, why does the second guy’s dick swing right? Again, that’s cute in real life, but this is Real Dolls; I want a straight shooter.

And why in the hell does the darkest skin option only go to “Light African” – I’m not gonna get all MLK here, but really? I mean, really? If I’m getting a Real Doll, I sure as hell want dark chocolate as an option.

Furthermore, Michael, Nick and Nate? I’m sorry, but could we have a guy who doesn’t have more manicured brows than I do and look like he wants to borrow my nail polish?

And my final quandary about the male doll are the penis options. (Minors and family members, I apologize in advance for below.)

Whywhywhy. Flaccid and small? I might not choose the donkey size, but again, this is fantastyland people. Clearly these Real Dolls are made by real men. Sorry dudes, if there’s choice involved, I ain’t choosin whatchya already got. I’m surprised they don’t have balding and beer gut as an option.

Continuing down the site, for the particularly freaky out there, on either a male or female doll, you can opt to get elf ears…no comment. And if you just can’t decide if you want a male or a female doll, then why don’t you get the Shemale? Oh yes, they don’t discriminate (except against black people apparently).

As for any questions regarding your Real Doll, please refer to the FAQ section of the site. These are my particular favorite questions and answers:

I’m sorry, did I read that right, you can remove the face? Just eww. And you have to transport the doll via wheelchair? Wow, sexytime.

Yes, please do tell me more about the doll’s “entries.” And how convenient that the tongue can be removed. And incase you lose it, you can buy a replacement tongue for $100.

Honestly, my hips hurt just reading that one.

Aight, I’m all wiped out from choosing my new friends, but next time we’ll get into the other fakesters that rocked my boat this week. Hopefully together we can figure what the hell the universe is trying to tell me. Because so far all I’m getting out of this is a deep desire for elf ears.

The road to nowhere

After following our Bossman for 30 minutes up a winding, deserted mountain road, I not only started seeing our town outings evaporate, but I also began to see our faces on milk cartons.

We pulled up to the bottom of a very steep dirt road, and Bossman jumped out of his car.

“Okay ladies, some cars can make this road, and some cars can’t.” ’Nuff said. I’d like to be in a car that can, por favor.

It should be noted here that I have a Prius, which I now know is perhaps the world’s all-time worst off-roading car. It barely clears speed bumps, and Priuses are to steep hills what I am to corporate ladders — you’ll never see it climbing one.

Bossman continued. “So you should start way down there, at the bottom of the paved road [about 50 yards], and gun it. Then once you hit the dirt road, just keep pushing on that gas, and hopefully you’ll make it to the top.”

“Um, can I just park it down here?”

“No, ’cause during trimming season there’s lots of weirdos up here who will strip your car.”   Flashing red light in brain…

I was in over my head. Why did I feel the need to add “marijuana trimmer” to my already ridiculous resume? But at this point, I was in too deep. We had just driven 11 hours from Los Angeles, and I was now depending on this money. The market showed its ugly face again. No turning back.

I told myself, “Okay, I’m cool. I’m cool. No worries. I can do this,” as I tried to ignore the image of my mom’s face when I’d tell her that I totaled my car by driving it up a dirt road to trim weed. I drove to the bottom of the hill, and at the last minute I yelled out the window, “Oh, what do I do when I get to the top? Go straight?”

“Oh no! You’ll go off the side of the mountain if you go straight! You gotta cut hard right.”

Good to know.

Jenn turned to me and, in the calmest manner possible, said, “How you feelin’?”

“Like I might barf and have diarrhea at the same time.”

You know those friends who are really good influences on you? The ones who really put your issues in check? That’s what Jenn is for me. I have a tendency to be neurotic and high-strung, but Jenn is calm … really calm. But at this moment, I needed Valium.

Port-O-Potty and Prius

So I gunned it. We barreled up the hill and I cut hard right, and then the Prius coughed and pooped her pants and stopped. I floored the gas pedal, but the wheels just spun and whined, and we went no further. Bossman ran up and told me to back down the hill (oh, piece of cake!) and that he would go get his truck and they would tow us up.

My level of anxiety shot through the roof, and my shirt was now covered in sweat. But I was trying so hard to be cool. At this point, I began to feel sentenced.

A few minutes later, he sped down the hill in a beat-up truck with Bossman No. 2. They jumped out and started tying a rope (which I could only imagine was made of hemp) to my bumper.

Jenn crouched down with them, coolly inspecting the situation and knot-tying, while I stood a few feet away with pee trickling down my leg. Then Bossman dropped this load: “So, we had a little land dispute and lost the cabin. But there’s space for you ladies to sleep outside.”

My brain immediately jumped to the weather forecast (watching the weather is part of my genetics) and the fact that it was going to drop to the 30s at night while we’d be there. A) I might’ve grown up in a commune, but I do NOT enjoy sleeping outside. And B) I live in L.A. and I get cold if it’s below 70 degrees. I was speechless.

Jenn, Queen of Calm, said, “Huh. Well, we didn’t bring a tent.”

Bossman No. 1 replied, “Oh, that’s okay. You can share with the guys.”

Suddenly, we were not going to have movie nights, town outings, and Jacuzzi Sauvignon Blanc-sipping; we were going to be sleeping outside in 30-degree temperatures with “the guys.” I imagined these guys were like the dirty, barefoot, grime-caked, BO-stinking hippies we’d seen in town. In my head, Mom’s face was replaced by my boyfriend’s, shoving my belongings into a box and dumping them on the sidewalk.

“Well, that about does it,” said Bossman No. 2 as he secured the rope. “I just hope it doesn’t rip off your bumper.”

Well, gosh, me too. I didn’t think Toyota Financial would recognize “bumper ripped off on marijuana trim adventure” under my warranty.

But I stuffed down all my good sense, and with paranoia burbling to the surface of my brain, I said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

And so we did it — we towed my citified car up a dirt roller coaster using a hemp rope. Miraculously, my bumper remained secure and I kept my lunch down.

Down on the farm

The farm really was something beautiful to behold. Nestled amongst the redwoods, the land was pristine. The only man-made items on the property were a small trailer where Bossman No. 1 and his girlfriend slept (and cooked most of our food), a large tent for trimming the marijuana, two small sheds where the marijuana dries, and THE GARDEN! This Eden boasted 45 marijuana plants ranging in size from 2-foot-tall babies to bushes well over 6 feet tall and 4 feet wide. These were some impressive plants.

Who says size doesn't matter? And excuse my braless hippiness. When in Rome...

We were then introduced to our workspace — the tent — and there was no getting prepared for the sight. Not scary or grotesque or hilarious, just reeeaally strange. Seated around a long table were 10 latex-gloved, heavy-metal-listening dudes — “the guys.” The air was thick with pot smoke, pot pollen, and dust from the dirt floor. The table was piled high with marijuana branches to be trimmed, and there were several large chafing dishes filled with the completed product — trimmed buds. Beautiful, perfect, and pounds and pounds of them. But the most peculiar thing about the tent was the flat-screen TV at the end of the table.

That goddamn caveman's everywhere

Here was a place where no one got cell reception, where we only had a Port-O-Potty, where there was no refrigeration or even ice, and where we had to sleep outside, yet we had DirecTV and a flat screen.

Metallica blared on the speakers and a baseball game filled the screen. Jenn and I were suddenly very aware that we were two women from Los Angeles in a male environment that chose TV over refrigerating meat. When we were given the option to go work in the garden by ourselves or stay in the tent to trim, in one voice we opted to work in the garden.

The cleanest the food table ever looked.

That first day in the garden, we couldn’t stop laughing. It wasn’t the pot — it was either laugh or cry. We kept asking ourselves what had possessed us to put our lives on hold and drive 11 hours to do manual labor with a bunch of dudes and then sleep on the ground? What were we thinking? So we just kept laughing. And pulling leaves off marijuana plants.

That was our job in the garden — pulling the leaves off the mature plants that were ready to be harvested. Doesn’t that just sound like a sweet little painless chore? That’s what we initially thought too. We had grand visions of finishing the entire garden in two days. And then we began our first plant.

First of all, we had to wear latex gloves because the resin from the plants is so thick and so sticky, in a matter of minutes you are covered in the gummy tar, which is impossible to get off. Later we learned an interesting fact: The resin can be removed from the gloves and smoked as hashish. At that moment, though, this information was not a bonus.

The resin on our gloves after only 2 hours of work.

Anyhigh, we had to wear latex gloves, long-sleeved shirts, and long pants to avoid becoming resin babies. What we thought might take a few minutes of leaf-pulling per plant actually took over an hour per plant. There were zillions of leaves, and we had to pull delicately so as not to rip off the bud. We were immediately daunted, and as the sun bore down, we had a notion of what it must be like to be a migrant field worker.

Once the sun dropped, we joined the guys to work in the trim tent. The dust from the floor mixed with the pot smoke (yes, the trimmers smoke pot the entire time they trim — but as anyone who’s worked in a coffee shop knows, the last thing you want is a cup of joe) mixed with the airborne debris from 12 people trimming plant matter causes a sinus horror show. I blew my nose, and actual pieces of bud flew out. Listen, potheads, this is not okay. The tent was a constant cacophony of sneezing, wheezing, nose-blowing, hacking, and spitting. It was there we learned the term “the Humboldt hack.”

Trimming the buds into perfect little sellable nuggets was more mind-numbing than the garden plants’ deleafing, thus the flat screen. It also caused our hands and back muscles to cramp.

This is my mind being blown at the world's biggest bud.

My multitasking, iPhone app-fiddling, Twittering, emailing, blogging, texting brain started to short circuit. I began to have a panic attack reserved expressly for middle class white people. How in the world was I going to do this for over a week, 12 hours a day? All the while sharing a Port-O-Potty with 10 dudes? I was not only dirty and disgusting (already!) I was bored. Picking and trimming leaves all day and night? Really? The social injustice was primarily body odor, and it seemed hardly worth the financial reward.

This was the temper tantrum my brain threw for the next two days. Bossman must have sensed my panic, because he got everyone a hotel room to share. And by hotel room, I mean a $25-a-night cell with a goat in the yard, 45 minutes away, in which we crammed as many bodies as possible. But hey, it had hot water and a roof, so I was grateful. I felt as though I were on Survivor, only without a million-dollar grand prize for surviving.

Meditations on pot

I’m not sure what got me through those first couple of days. It was probably Jenn’s constant calmness. And the fact that I needed to make this money or else I wasn’t going to be able to pay rent. It was also the knowledge somewhere deep, deep down in my gut that I needed this experience. I needed to be ripped away from my electronics, my comforts, my routine, and my false sense of control.

On the evening of day two, I had this epiphany: The universe sentenced my ass to a marijuana farm, and I had to do my time. I had to chill out, relax, and let go. If I counted the seconds, they would only get longer. I had to commit and be in the moment here more than in any of my previous meditations.

On day three, I embraced my epiphany and the work and living conditions. It started to feel less like prison and more like a spiritual retreat. I was becoming unplugged from my own expectations. That’s when I began to be fully aware of the unique experience I was having.

Getting zen

Big old batch of pot butter brewin' in the trailor

I started to ask the guys questions. I was amazed to find that what I once thought to be a motley crew of potheads and metalheads was in fact a group of interesting human beings. One had been a monk for 17 years in Laos. There was a chef, a firefighter, an actor, a screenwriter, a musician, a sports TV project manager, and a dad. We all had a desire to fall off the grid, if even for a brief period, and to experience some of the last days of the Wild West. And to make some fast money…

This truly was the Wild West. Our bossmen were in the throes of a major land dispute over another piece of property on which they had 350 mature marijuana plants. A mature plant can yield anywhere from half a pound to 2.5 pounds of dried bud. A pound of dried bud can sell anywhere from $2,000 to $4,000. So we’re talking about a lot of money.

The daily news told stories of local robberies and even violence. We would hear gunshots in the distance. Target practice on squirrels? Possibly. More land disputes and more robberies? Very likely. Small planes would fly over our heads as we worked in the garden. Private joyriding? Perhaps. Scoping outdoor gardens? Maybe. This is big business, and it is largely unregulated.

We often mused about how once marijuana is legal on a federal level, it will be so regulated that working on a pot farm will no longer be a retreat of sorts for those of us who are wandering and could use $20-per-hour cash. We could eat, drink, and pretty much work when we wanted. We just kept track of our hours, on scraps of paper, through a perma-haze. But once it’s universally legal and regulated, there will be masses of real migrant workers who, being paid $8 an hour, will be required to produce a certain amount of pounds per hour. There will be no DirecTV, no free Coors Light, no joint being passed around the trim table, no constant chatter, no getting to know a monk from Laos, a chef, or a musician.

But this is how it’s done now. This moment of time presents a brief opportunity for an opportunistic few to make a considerable amount of money. Cash. And let’s be clear: This Wild West scene has been created by the law.

The ambiguity of the law is tough to navigate. Proposition 215, the Compassionate Use Act, under which California voters approved the use of medicinal marijuana, is completely silent about transportation, distribution, and sales of marijuana. In 2004, SB 420 was passed, but it only focused on cultivation and possession.

Contradicting the very keystone of this debate is that while pharmaceutical prescription drugs are not taxed in California, medicinal marijuana is taxed. So medicinal marijuana is being treated more like alcohol and cigarettes under state law. This is just more evidence of the hazy laws and California’s own indecision of how it wants to treat marijuana. Like the citizens of Humboldt, the state likes the money it brings in but is having trouble with the stink.

The debate over pharmacies is likewise thick and convoluted. The laws themselves conflict and clarify little. In similar murky waters, the pharmacies and the patients who buy the bud are taxed, but the growers — the caregivers — are not taxed. Typically, a caregiver will sell his bud to a pharmacy (also called a “dispensary” or “collective” under state law) that will then sell it to the patients.

According to the California Attorney General’s elusive guidelines —

California law does not define collectives, but the dictionary defines them as “a business, farm, etc., jointly owned and operated by the members of a group.” (Random House Unabridged Dictionary; Random House, Inc. © 2006.) Applying this definition, a collective should be an organization that merely facilitates the collaborative efforts of patient and caregiver members — including the allocation of costs and revenues. As such, a collective is not a statutory entity, but as a practical matter it might have to organize as some form of business to carry out its activities. The collective should not purchase marijuana from, or sell to, non-members; instead, it should only provide a means for facilitating or coordinating transactions between members.

Well, isn’t that a fluffy mouthful? Let’s be real: Medicinal marijuana is a multibillion dollar business that could potentially help rescue us from a pulverized economy. The state of California stating that a pharmacy “might have to organize as some form of business to carry out its activities” is like refusing to admit your daughter is going to have sex at her senior prom.

Come on, give the girl a condom. Let’s look with eyes wide open at medicinal marijuana as the emerging, booming industry that it is. We need clear, concise laws to be mandated so that the grower, the transporter, the pharmacy, and the patient are at no risk for infringing on the law. And once we can do that, then maybe California — and the nation — can welcome another taxable business into the mainstream.

Key skills: opening wine on the farm with a shitty steak knife

The give and take

Jenn and I went to the farm with our own agenda. From Los Angeles to Humboldt, we carried with us plans and schedules — an itinerary of what we wanted to accomplish. Humboldt took our plans and bitch slapped them. On the marijuana farm, we weren’t so much seduced by the high of weed, but rather by the buzz of letting go and being in the moment.

On the eighth day of our stay, it became overcast and cold. The forecast called for rain — lots of rain. Jenn and I took this cue and realized it was time to return to L.A. After hugs and promises to stay in touch with our new “trim” family, we packed up our sleeping bags and resin rubber gloves. Then, reeking of ganja, we headed down that winding road. In the redwoods, on a farm up in Humboldt County, we left our agendas, our naïveté, and our phone numbers for next season.

Trim tent requirements: pot of coffee, wine, snacks, and pot krispie treats

Sentenced: 8 Days Hard Labor on a Medical Marijuana Farm

We knew only one thing: We needed to pack sleeping bags and rubber gloves. Jenn, my friend and farm coworker, and I were gearing up for our trip to Humboldt County.

It was the old “friend of a friend who knows a guy” scenario. Yes, that’s how we committed to working on a medical marijuana farm. We didn’t know specifically where we were going, what the work entailed, who we were going to be working for, where we would stay, or even how long we would be there. But somehow, from our comfortable couches in Los Angeles, the complete omission of specifics only heightened our anticipation of the adventure. All Jenn and I needed to hear was “$20 per hour cash” and “marijuana farm.” We were in.

On the drive to Humboldt...life is good.

We had been instructed by the Bossman to wait in a small town about 40 minutes away from our destination. He would meet us nearby and then escort us to the farm because there was “no way” we’d find it on our own. He was right.

During our hour or so of waiting for him, we were entertained by the sight of packs of dirty hippies. I say the term “dirty hippies” lovingly, as I spent the first seven years of my life in a hippie commune. But apparently in order to qualify as a dirty hippie in Humboldt, you must A) have a dog with a hemp rope tied around its neck, B) be barefoot, C) smell like BO, turmeric, and flightiness, D) ask for money, and E) style your hair with nail clippers and mud. A tension exists in Humboldt County’s new social strata, as the locals are repulsed by this ganja-reeking crowd but attracted by the money they spend.

Finally, we got the call from the Bossman. It was time to go to the farm.

We were instructed to meet him by the side of the highway, which seemed rather gangsta. We were excited and nervous, but mostly excited.

And then we saw him waiting for us, our Bossman — an energetic, bandana-wearing Southern boy with a slight Eau de Hippie.

How it all began

I’ve long had a fascination with marijuana. When I’m numb from hearing about health care, unemployment, foreclosures, and H1N1, I turn to the debate over legalizing medicinal marijuana for stimulation. The agri-counter-culture that is budding in California is at the very least interesting.

Grape Ape

For those in an ethical struggle over the value of legalizing pot for medicinal purposes, try a more pragmatic angle: the United States would experience staggering economic benefits from its legalization. According to a National Public Radio report, each Southern California pharmacy contributes hundreds of thousands of dollars per year in state tax revenue. Then there’s the geopolitical bonus: Stateside-grown marijuana directly threatens the dominance of Mexican drug cartels.

In fact, according to CBS, “The shifting economics of the marijuana trade have broad implications for Mexico’s war against the drug cartels, suggesting that market forces, as much as law enforcement, can extract a heavy price from criminal organizations that have used the spectacular profits generated by pot sales to fuel the violence and corruption that plague the Mexican state.” Yeah, duh. Of course “market forces” can take a bite outta crime. Think Al Capone and the repeal of Prohibition.

And then there’s the social justice angle. Users — perhaps you and I — will no longer have to risk buying weed from the sketchy kid down the block. Instead, we can take our cash and our self-respect and purchase our sack from the local, taxed, state-regulated pharmacy. I’m thinking you’d rather go to a pharmacy instead of waiting for “Tyler” to text you back to let you know the “Red Head” has arrived. Do we really think that by keeping marijuana illegal it’s going to go away and that bunnies and unicorns will run free?

Our hard work: fresh-cut and deleafed marijuana branches

I was once in a grow house up in Sonoma County, but it was literally that — a regular suburban house with its bedrooms converted into marijuana grow rooms. Each room had 30 6-foot-tall plants and an exceptional amount of lighting and fans. It was very impressive, very well contained, and definitely NOT “green” (as in carbon-neutral).

Because medicinal marijuana in California is an emerging industry, the laws are murky. According to the Drug Enforcement Administration’s website, “In California there is no state regulation or standard of the cultivation and/or distribution of medical marijuana. California leaves the establishment of any guidelines to local jurisdictions, which can widely vary.”

The laws are different in every county and every city. In Los Angeles County, each card-holding patient or “caregiver” (someone who grows marijuana for patients) can grow fewer than 10 plants. In Sonoma County, the maximum jumps to 30 plants. And in Humboldt County, a caregiver can grow up to 99 plants! Seems like encouragement to move from houseplants to farming. How much bud a caregiver or patient can carry at any one time also greatly varies per county. So as long as you’re following the specifications of your city and county for growing, you have nothing to worry about as far as the state’s law is concerned.

The thing you do have to worry about is getting robbed. It’s not the law that is the danger, but rather gun-slinging criminals. People associate growing marijuana with mountains of cash, which is a fairly accurate assumption. Grow houses are risky, as the smell alone, wafting from the house, is enough to give someone a clue. The blacked-out windows and the air-conditioning turned on full blast in January are additional clues. So if you’re considering starting your own grow house, do yourself a solid and get an off-site safe.

Anypuffpuff, speaking on the phone about the details of our trip wasn’t smart. Marijuana, medicinal or not, is still illegal federally, so Jenn and I could only assume the situation in Humboldt would be similar to the one I witnessed in Sonoma.

We had heard through the grapevine — from the friend of a friend who knew the guy, our soon-to-be Bossman — that our job description on the farm was to be “trimmers.” We were unsure of what being a trimmer entailed, but it sounded like something you might learn in home ec class.

In addition to our sleeping bags and rubber gloves, we also packed running shoes for daily jogs by the river; yoga mats for morning asanas; DVDs for movie nights in the cabin; bikinis for the possible Jacuzzi on premises; multiple purses, because really, you just never know; tweezers, just ’cause I’m in Humboldt doesn’t mean my brows have to go to hell; our computers for intermittent Internet distractions; and a plethora of different outfits. We were starting to think of this as our “Humboldt Vacation.” The marijuana gods were laughing.

On our stop over in SF...wondering what the next 8 days would hold.

But that’s the lifestyle we were expecting to live for two weeks while communing with nature and trimming some ganja. This is what actually happened…

To be continued…

So I had to make a will. Not because I had a kid, or a lot of money, or a lot of fine belongings, nope. It was because I started acquiring a lot, and I mean a LOT of porn. You can imagine the frenzy my collection stirred amongst my guy friends. I was instructed, not asked, no, instructed by them to draw up a will. You know, just in case I dropped dead and the state claimed all of my belongings. I’m sure my porn collection would be on the top of their list…

I’m not even a porn person. I’ll watch it, sure, but it’s not something I particularly enjoy or seek out. So why not just give my porn away? Well, I did, I gave some of it away. But I had to keep such films as Pregnant MILFs, and Smoking Vaginas (no really, some women can actually smoke a cigarette out of their vagina—I’ve seen it), and of course any film with multiple black men and one white woman. Just for the sheer physics of it.

I also couldn’t just give away all my porn because, well, I felt it was hard earned. And you know, it’s my legacy to the grandchildren.

But the greatest keepsake from Hustler, and the most prized possession in my will, are all of the letters to the editor that I kept. That’s right, the really good letters, I kept. [NOTE: please do not report me to LFP.] These letters fill two Trader Joe’s paper grocery bags and they’re probably the most incredible things I own. I’d say 90% of the letters came from prisoners. The grammar is atrocious, but if you can get passed that, there are some real gems. The other 10% were from just all around lonely guys. Really, really lonely guys. 99% of the guys wrote to specific models, who of course never saw them (not just because I took the letters home, but because these were letters to the editor, not letters to Miss January.) The other 1% of the letters were from motherfucking crazy dudes writing to Larry about spaceships and shit. Some real kuh-razies.

I wanted to take a photo of some of these letters so you could see them, but they are buried deeeeeep in our garage. Like, there is no way I’m getting to them unless money is involved. But many of the letters went something like this:

“Dear Shanon. I like yoor pussy yoor pussy is nice and pink and I like pink pussy i want to slap my dick on yoor foorhead.”

Etc, etc.

But my absolute FAV letters were the ones that included photos. ESPECIALLY naked photos. Well, the guys were never completely naked. For some reason the dudes would just pull down their pants to their ankles and then take the pic. Note to the males: that’s not hot. Take an extra 15 seconds and take off your construction boots and your pants and then take the photo.

For some time I couldn’t figure out why in the majority of the photos the men were holding a broom or a mop pointed towards camera. What the? It took my seasoned counterpart at Barely Legal to enlighten me: someone or something had to take the photo. In these cases, the men used the broom to hit the capture button on the camera. I know, right? I’m still rather speechless about the matter.

Oh then there was the time that I took an elevator ride with Larry and his two bodyguards. Unfortunately our conversation only consisted of pleasantries, but I admired his all gold wheelchair. And the fact that he still goes to work every day.

Oh and let’s talk about the penthouse! If you haven’t seen The People vs. Larry Flynt, do it. Just to see that damn penthouse office. They shot the film in the actual location. I can’t remember the exact figure, but there’s something like several million dollars worth of art in there. And the furniture and décor is straight up Louis XIV, or something shmancy like that. I used to love going up just to cruise around and say that I went to a museum that day.

What I really started to enjoy though was when the Editor in Chief of Hustler started to call me into his office for my opinion on spreads. Now, I know, it sounds extraordinarily creepy. But it actually wasn’t. Nothing there is actually that creepy (except for Barely Legal) primarily because everyone’s so numb to it all. For better or for worse, I’m in no way phased by looking at girl on girl, gang bangs, and double penetration. It just became a matter of the 8-5 monotony.

But it was fun when I was pulled in to give creative input on layouts. Now, it wasn’t like, “Buffy, what do you think of this D in the A while riding the horse?” Um, no. More like, “What do you think of these colors, these fonts?” etc. People at my level were never called in to the Editor in Chief’s office to give such input. But being the token chick my ideas were golden.

But you know me, I can never stick around at a place for too long. And I certainly can’t work at a J-O-B for 40 hrs a week without starting to become a maniac. Because after all, with pursuing my career, that meant that I was really working 70+ hrs a week and that’s just no bueno. Mama needs to have some fun too. So I quit.

I retired any sort of remaining innocence that I had at LFP. But, I walked away with a treasure trove of naughtiness to fill a will and one more notch on my resume of ridiculousness.

After working at Saddle Ranch, then as a hand model, then for a little over a year as an assistant to the VP at a major PR firm, I came to the conclusion that I’m not cut out for Assistant to Dickhead work. I spent my entire time there covertly stealing office supplies until I found out they gave severance pay to fired employees. Then I made it my full time job trying to get fired—making my recycling bin my inbox, purposely giving my boss the wrong directions to meetings, landing him in South Central (he deserved it), faking falling asleep in “team meetings,” blatantly stealing office supplies, etc. Nothing worked. I realized that my boss was more interested in my ass than the fact that I was a terrible employee. So I quit.

Then I spent over a year floating around, until one day my temp agency called and asked if I would consider working at Larry Flynt Publications for $20 an hour. Would I consider it? Um, yes, done and done. Clearly, it was a job that needed to be added to my resume of absurdity.

On my first day at LFP, I was greeted in the swankest reception area I’ve ever seen. It was dim and sexy and there was gold gilding every piece of furniture. I was then escorted to my office…which was HUMONGO. One entire wall was glass in which I had a killer view of L.A. I almost shit my pants. I thought they must’ve made a mistake. Or was it a temporary holding pen till I was escorted to my cubicle? Nope, it was my office. And I could shut the door if I wanted to. I was in momentary heaven.

I then got the job descrip lowdown: I would be working exclusively on Hustler Magazine, reading all letters to the editor and deciding which letters were passed on to the Editor in Chief. I also had to do some technical layout crap with photo credits, but that was a snore. The letters was the best part of my job. That and the office. And being treated like royalty—all my coworkers were men (I know, can you believe it?). Being the only 20 something woman in an office doesn’t go unnoticed.

Down the hall from me was Barely Legal and Taboo. In the other direction was the office of who would become my closest friend at LFP. He had worked there from the very beginning, is close personal friends with Larry and is, at first meeting, the scariest mofo in the world. Coworkers warned me about him. But I have a soft spot for grumpy older guys so we quickly bonded, to the surprise of everyone in the office. How can you not like someone who goes by “Tex” and is in charge of the Beaver Hunt section of Hustler?

For those of you unfamiliar with Beaver Hunt, it’s a spread in the magazine where women from around the world send in their unprofessional (and I mean, reeeeally unprofessional) photos of themselves with their “beavers” open for all to inspect. The prize if your photos/beavers are selected is $350. If you’re so lucky to get the annual grand prize you get $5,000. I’d like to think my beaver is worth a lot more than that, but I don’t judge beaver exposing ladies.

So that was Tex’s job, selecting beavers. Most men’s dream job if you ask me. But I worked in a coffee place in college and after a few months the smell of coffee made me want to vomit. So I think after 30 years, even the sight of beavers to a straight man might be a turn off.

As you can imagine, my guy friends were beside themselves when I landed this gig. I got death threats if I ever decided to quit. During that brief time, I became a legend amongst my male peers. They couldn’t get enough of the stories.

Especially when cover models would come in to sign their contracts. These women were all pretty standard porn star types: babe with beach ball tits. But when the Barely Legal models came in, I felt like dipping my brain in turpentine. It wasn’t because I’d seen them naked (that doesn’t bother me, after all, I was a cocktail waitress at a strip club after college), but these girls looked adolescent. What disturbed me more than these pre-teen looking girls doing a spread, was the thought of the guys’ who bought the mag. I really try not to judge, but that makes me want to sew my eyes shut.

Next time, more on all the porn give-aways, letters to the editor, how my “expertise” was put to use, and my brief encounter with Larry…

One day, while signing a contract at my agency, my agent spotted my hands and started sending me out for hand-modeling auditions. This, I thought, was hilarious. I was excited to add it to my resume of ridiculousness.

This was my “Hand Shot.” Don’t laugh.

For a brief stint I became the Sizzler’s hand. Awe-inspiring isn’t it? Did you have any idea you were in the presence of such celebrity? Now I’ve had some demeaning jobs, oh have I had some demeaning jobs. Los Angeles really perfects degradation. But being the Sizzler’s hand was a whole new category of demeaning—they treated the shrimp I was handling light years better than they treated me, aka “The Hand.” And it was also the closest I’ve ever been to existing in an alternate universe.

On one commercial I had to dip a shrimp into cocktail sauce. That’s it. It was a 3 second shot. Simple enough right? REEEong. I dipped shrimp and got notes for NINE HOURS PEOPLE.

The advertising agency would tell me to accent the plumpness of the shrimp more. *#@&%@#*  The producers would time each of my movements, which consisted of dip, quarter spin in sauce, and lift, and they would then nit-pick the length of time I spent on each. &%*&%$#*  The cinematographer would bark at me to get more light on the shrimp while not causing the sauce to drip. @&$@#%&  The director would tell me to make the motion of the dip more sexual…

Let me remind you that in the shot, you only saw my hand from the wrist down. And I was dipping a shrimp into cocktail sauce. I would give my best attempt at a sexy shrimp dip, but you know, there’s only so much a girl can do to sex-up some seafood.

The director would yell “Cut!” and say, “Hand [that was me], that was too sexy. I don’t want this thing being lewd. Think sensual, not pornographic.” Oh riiiiight, my bad. I guess I shouldn’t be giving the shrimp an HJ in the shot? What the?

And then doing my best sensual shrimp dip into cocktail sauce, he would once again scream “Cut!” shake his head and say, “Okay, pretend you’re in love with this shrimp for chrissakes. You love this fucking shrimp.”

No comment.

And then the producers would squabble about lighting and the ad agency would chirp that I was making the shrimp look too small. This lasted for nine hours. I got paid $100.

On my next Sizlicker commercial I squeezed a lemon over lobster for 17 HOURS. It’s almost incomprehensible. The peanut gallery wasn’t happy with how the lemon juice squirted out. Because, I’m not sure if you knew this or not, but I fired Mother Nature a while back and started creating all the world’s produce by hand. Yep, little ole me. So really, if a lemon isn’t juicy enough to drench a piece of lobster, it’s clearly my bad, as everyone on set pointed out.

The crew ended up rigging clear, plastic tubes into each of the lemons so that when I squeezed a lemon, a guy at the other end of the tube would be frantically squeezing water through the tube, so that it would squirt out the lemon in my hand. I’m surprised we didn’t get an Oscar for that shit people.

On hour 15 my hand cramping was getting unbearable and my patience was as foreign a  piece of history as my embryonic sack. So I did what any good actress would do and started plotting on-set suicide. I thought I might be able to figure out how to electrocute myself with lemon juice and wires. Or perhaps jostling the camera rig out of position so it fell on my head. Anything would be less painful than listening to the peanut gallery “coach” me on my motivation to squeeze that motherfucking lemon all over that motherfucking lobster one more motherfucking time. As evidenced by me typing this, my oh-so-dramatic on-set suicide attempt was unsuccessful.

That was my last Sizdickler job. I told my agent that Siznutsacker can sensually, sexually and pornographically suck my balls.

I did still life hand modeling after that—photos of my hand opening a wine bottle, dispensing seasonings, displaying crystal, oh yes, I know, quite shee shee. That was tolerable because they didn’t give me acting notes like Sizbuttlicker and they treated me like a human being with hands, not a hand attached to a robot.

Yep, that’s me.

But what really got to me was the lifestyle. Yes, I said it. The lifestyle of a hand model is absurd. You basically can’t do anything with your hands, ever. Any sort of cleaning is out of the question, which is cool if you can afford a maid. I could not. You can’t play sports, or do anything remotely active. And do not even think about going outside without your hands covered—the sun will destroy your career. And you really should wear gloves when at all possible.

For anyone who doesn’t know me, well, I’m basically a dude with tits. So there’s a pretty brief window of how long I’m going to tolerate being forced to get frequent manicures, wearing gloves around and constantly being worried about chipping a nail or scratching my hand. I mean, I’d suffer through it if I was making a decent living or was stimulated by the work, but there are only so many new steak knives you can hold for a couple extra hundred bucks till you realize, it’s time to move on.

And move on is what I did. To become an assistant editor at Hustler Magazine.

“Oh great, so glad to hear that Lindsay Lohan was offered 15 trillion dollars to star in her next movie after being arrested and going to rehab for the 47th time. That makes me really inspired to go to acting class and set aside 3 hours a day to write.”

NO.

I try to stay as far away from celeb gossip as earthly possible while still living in Hollywood. But it’s impossible to live here and not be somewhat inundated. And as much as I try to be zen and remove myself from the absurdity of it all, once and a while a lunatic celebrity pisses me off.

And I really try not to be a hater. I don’t like passing bad mojo around. I really don’t. But sometimes, sometimes it’s just too much for me to take and I have to rant. Because there’s nothing that makes me more fired up than inflated egos.

Right now, Kanye West and Lil Jon have me wanting to crack skulls. As you know, I love me some hip hop. Love, love, love. I love the beats, the culture, the grills. Always have, always will. I’ll be cleaning my dentures while shakin’ my arthritic ass to Tribe and Common.

But, Kanye West. Kanye, Kanye, Kanye…when are you going to get it: you’re a conceited hack of a rip-off artist, and you’re also JUST NOT COOL. It’s one thing to be a hack, but when you’re also a total douche, you really have nothing going for you.

Things that piss me off about Kanye:

1) comparing himself to Michael Jackson. Just don’t even go there, homes.

2) Storming the stage when he lost the MTV Europe VMAs “Best Video of the Year” award. He not only stormed the stage ruined the best moment of another artist’s life, but he then proceeded to rant that he should’ve won because he spent a million dollars on his video. And I quote: “Oh hell no! Oh hell no! If I don’t win, the award show loses credibility.” I’m sorry, shove my dick in a blender and call me petunia: What. The. Motherfuck. And THEN he admits he never even saw the video that won! Wow, Kanye. You’re not even a douche, you’re douche backwash.

3) Yet again storming the stage at the VMAs when Taylor Swift won best female video. Now, this is a tougher one for me because Taylor Swift songs makes me want to rip my finger nails off and eat my own vomit, but Kanye’s dicklitude outweighs my revulsion for Taylor.

4) Degrading women. In Essence Magazine he even called women of mixed race “mutts.” Really, Kanye? Really? WOW.

5) One of the things that I love about hip hop is its urban, post-modern artistry. I believe that hip hop is post-modern because it rejects conventional forms of music (its emphasis on rhythm and not melody, e.g.). Also, I believe that its avant-garde use of sampling clearly defines it as post-modern. BUT, all Kanye can do is sample and coast on the talents of others. Hip hop’s genius is demonstrated when it samples to create something entirely new. But all Kanye does, every single time, is throw a catchy beat to someone else’s talent which I see as a highly exploitive form of plagiarism. He’s an all around punk-ass bitch who’s a disgrace to the hip hop community.

I want to get in a cage fight with Kanye. Lemme tell you a lil sumthin sumthin, this Reno girl would leave Kanye TOW UP. And that’s a fact.

And now, Lil Jon. He’s less of an asshole than Kanye (who isn’t), but still pretty worthless. The other day I’m driving through rush hour (god help me), but I’m trying to get my good vibe on so I’m jammin’ to 105.9 and attempting not to fall into the pre-work K-hole. I’m blasting Pitbull’s “Krazy” (I know, I know, but it’s a guilty pleasure of mine) UNTIL fucking Lil Jon starts yelling, “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” Come. The fuck. On. Get out of this perfectly good song!

Lil Jon is a gagillionaire just for shouting “What!” “Yeah!” and “Okay!” Outrageous. Artists pay him millions to be featured yelling “What!” in their songs. I mean, WHAT?! Honestly, I’d recommend not stewing on it too long because I did and now my brains are sprayed all over my walls. MESSY.

His shouts are not only obnoxious, but they completely ruin potentially awesome songs. I just don’t get it. I want to put four tube socks in his mouth and then go spend all of his money. Am I alone in this? Is this just an example of me being too white? I mean, it’s hard enough living in L.A. and pursuing these grand dreams, but when we are faced with hacks who are famous for reasons unbeknownst to me, it just really makes me wonder why I don’t throw in the towel, move to Costa Rica and spend my life sipping rum out of coconuts.

I had one such gratifying day this weekend. It had been a while.

2010 and I got off to a bumpy start. I entered it with a terminator cold that was 2009’s last parting gift to me (thank you, you son of a whore), so up until this weekend 2010 looked like more of the same old bullshit to me.

And then there was Saturday.

Saturday was one of those days that life looks at you and says, “Here slugger, I’m gonna give you a freebie.”

I didn’t book any major roles; I didn’t get a check in the mail; I didn’t win any Most-Awesomeness awards, but all the sweet-ass little things that lined up made me feel light. Made all those bad days seem less bad. I attribute it all to having a run in with Fairfax Jesus Guy. I touched his robe. Just brushed it as we crossed paths on the sidewalk, but some Hollywood Holiness definitely rubbed off on me.

A quick tour of my day: (and there is a GRAND finale coming…)

***I went to Urban Outfitters to get socks, but saw an adorbs shirt for $9 and decided to try it on…I mean, it was $9. It would be criminal NOT to. And what did I find? Urban Outfitters on Melrose has goddamn skinny mirrors! Aw snap. (Dudes, are you tuning out? Stick with me. I’ll talk about titties later.)

Skinny mirrors people! The ONE thing in Los Angeles to compete with everything else aimed at making you feel like a cow. After 3 weeks of not working out, I haven’t exactly felt toned. Those mirrors were like a hand job to my ego. Oh, and I got the shirt. Had to.

***Dried pineapple is back at Trader Joe’s. MOTHER OF GOD. I have a severe addiction and they haven’t carried it for 6 months. Titties. When I saw my precious dried pineapple at Trader Joe’s I let slip a squeal. Yeah, a full on pig squeal. But I didn’t even care. Titties. Gotta have my dried pineapple

***Here comes the grand finale, suckas. Get ready for this! Here’s a little necessary back story: for the last two weeks I’ve been watching a LOT of TV due to being el sicko. My brain most certainly is growing mold. One thing that I’ve become mildly obsessed about are those infomercials that that meth-head Vince does for the Sham-Wow and the Slap-Chop. I neeeeeeeeed a Slap-Chop. Slap-Chops chop up everything from veggies to nuts in just seconds. I need a Slap-Chop like Vince needs meth.

Anyslur, every year two of my good friends throw a party in January where everyone brings the worst Xmas gift they were given. They wrap it, put it under the tree, then we do a white elephant type thang with the horrible gifts. The rules are complicated, but basically you can steal gifts from other people.

There were 60 people at this party. There was me, one other woman, two straight guys and 56 GORGEOUS gay men. I mean, this is West Hollywood and that’s pretty much the demographic. I love going to parties at their house because the men are fabulous and they never stare at my tits.

They’re friends with some major actors (me being one of them, PSYCHE). So there’s a few “names” there, but the important one to this story is Neil Patrick Harris. And I love me some NPH. We’ve hung out at parties before and he’s always really sweet, fun, and generous. And who doesn’t love Doogie?

So the gift game has begun and it’s my turn to choose a wrapped present. Years past I always scoped out what could possibly be booze bottles given by the AA members at the party who somehow were given alcohol for Christmas (talk about bad form). You never wanna get stuck with the Sponge Bog ski mask or the cans of green beans. Or the paper, make-your-own Dradel that I brought. (One of our neighbors actually gave that to Jon as a real gift. He’s Jewish, but he’s not 7 years old.)

But this year, I took a risk. I went for a smaller, rectangular box whose tinsel caught my eye. I ripped into that bitch and what was it?

A MOTHERFUCKING SLAP-CHOP!!!

Who would give that away at a worst gift party?! That is the BEST gift. I let loose my second squeal for the day, shook my titties to the delight of the gay boys and sat down with my prize. And then seconds later someone stole it from me. Heartbreak.

That whispered loop began in my head that I only learned here in L.A. after 7 years of disappointments, “Of course that was too good to be true.” I didn’t pout in the corner or anything, but there was that teensy part of me that was bummed. Hell, I could buy a Slap-Chop off the internet at any second, but randomly winning one amongst a pile of shit? That’s magic.

Anysadface, the slap-chop continued to be stolen around the room 10 times (enter complicated rules here). Who knew it was such a hot item? It finally landed in the hands of Neil Patrick Harris who apparently is also a big fan. Motherfucker. Some people get it all.

So it’s the very last person’s turn and what does he do? He steals my gift, which was trail mix and some tea. Really? Go right ahead, be my guest. But what did that mean?! I had one more turn and then the game was OVER. After my turn, no more gifts could be stolen. END OF GAME.

What did my ass do? Damn straight, walked right up to NPH and stole that goddamn Slap-Chop. WHAT-WHAT!!!

I cannot even begin to tell you how gratifying that was. It’s absurd. But here’s me, a long-time struggling actor/writer, broke as a joke, hanging on to threads of hope, and I got the Slap-Chop. And NPH didn’t. It’s infantile, I know. And in reality I want everyone to have a Slap-Chop, billions and billions of Slap-Chops around the globe. I want NPH to have one for all of his houses. I don’t want anyone to cry anymore while cutting onions.

But on Saturday night, only one person could have a Slap-Chop. Only one person was the winner. And that person was me.

The score now rests at      Hollywood: 657,352,091      Buffy: 1

I’m comin’ back suckas.

“Today was a good day.” –Ice Cube

He was dressed in his typical long, white robe and sandals, thin frame, approximately 6’ 2” tall with sandy brown hair down to his shoulders, you know, Jesus. No mistaking it, Jesus. Really, it couldn’t have been anyone else, not an anorexic Fabio, not a shaggy haired toga dude, nope, Jesus. Standing on the corner of an extremely busy intersection with his hands outstretched to his Pops. What. The. Fuck. You gotta love Hollyweird.

I have to say, I was mesmerized. I’ve seen some weird shit in my hood, crazy shit, but this ranked high. I don’t worship Jesus, or go to church, but it kind of takes your breath away when you see him, or at least someone who really looks like him and has the balls to stand on the corner dressed like him. I wanted to stay and just stare, see how long he’d stand there, if anyone would talk to him, but Snoots subscribes to the religion of afternoon treat proceeding afternoon poop so I was lead home by my whining dog.

Two weeks later, same scenario, poop fiesta underway, and what do I see? Fairfax Jesus Guy (this is the name that I gave him when relating this story to my friends ad naseum) BOARDING THE BUS. Apparently Jesus is green. Or he’s one of the five people in L.A. who doesn’t have a car.

I was really excited about this sighting and called a friend who had his own Fairfax Jesus Guy story. Unbelievable. Apparently my friend has a friend who lives in the same hood and while on her deck one day she witnessed a car accident (which are about as common here as venereal diseases). Before the cops could come (they were probably too busy rehearsing their lines) Fairfax Jesus Guy walks up to the car, opens the passenger side door, and helps the female passenger out of the car. My friend of a friend who’s still sitting on her deck watching what is now proving to be better than the Top Chef finale, then sees the female passenger walk away with Fairfax Jesus Guy, leaving the driver in the car.

Can you EVEN imagine?! You’re in a car accident, you’re disoriented, injured, etc. and then JESUS walks up and helps you out! I would absolutely think I was dead. And shocked that I was getting into heaven.

What was Fairfax Jesus Guy doing? Is that his pick-up move? Waits around for car accidents and then swoops in as the son of God? That’s a homerun. Really guys, when you’re at a bar shmoozin’ on the ladies, maybe you should think, What Would Fairfax Jesus Guy Do?

After hearing this I became mildly obsessed with F.J.G and started carrying my phone on our afternoon poop fiestas in hopes of getting an up close photo of him. Here’s my best shot to date.

We actually crossed paths here, and he said hello. I was twitterpated. My next goal is an autograph. I could for sure sell that shit on eBay to someone in the South.

And in case you were wondering, Jesus takes days off. I was yet again minding everyone else’s business, having tea with my homie Tim Coyne at the local coffee shop and who walks in? Day-Off Jesus. And what does he enjoy drinking on his day off? Coffee, black. Yes, I snooped; it was my obligation as a fan. And yes, I furthered my creepiness and took a photo.

I figured, Fairfax Jesus Guy isn’t someone to miss an opportunity. I will follow his lead. Afterall, WWFJGD?