Happy-pocolype New Year my little lambs,

First of all. Do you like the new look? We’re getting minimalist up in here at NikkiYee.com. By next year it will just be a blank, white page!

I apologize for the absence. I’ve been busy clocking in my hours at the movie theater before awards season fully kicks in. How about that Fassbender, huh? Anyways, I’ve also been involved with my first love, screenwriting. Oh, sorry. You didn’t think that I was an actual blogger did you?

Ah yes, the love affair with writing. I distinctly remember the first journal I filled to the brim. It was a $2 notebook with pictures of teddy bears all over it. I received it as a spontaneous present from my mom when I was 8 years old. It was there that I conceived my first novel, a tale about a group of female spies who were sent to recover stolen treasure. It was the Spice Girls meets Lara Croft written by Bret Easton Ellis. Unfortunately, during my subsequent tween and teen years, I didn’t take writing seriously enough to consider it as a lucrative career. I mostly did it as a hobby, writing Hamlet like parts for myself to play on the big screen opposite Orlando Bloom. But generally, I let my way with words always fall secondary to my good looks and nouveau shamanic method acting practices.

Academy Award level acting: Lawrence Olivier only dreams of being this talented.

I wrote my first film when I was 14 years old. It was basically The Royal Tenenbaums on all kinds of acid starring my family, also replacing the incest for Engrish. It was so liberating because it was the first time in my life when I realized that there was more to life than being really, really, ridiculously good looking. Not too long after, the red seas parted, and the flood gates opened, and here I am, writing a blog, a pilot, a spec, 12 screenplays, and providing coverage for 38 more. So why put up with all of the reading, big words, and dangling participles? Well you see, Lady Gaga has this song called “Born This Way“…no I’m kidding. People like to say that where words fail, music speaks. But those people have obviously never heard dialogue before. I like to write because sometimes I wish people were as witty and gorgeous as they are in my head. You like to read it because you wish you were as witty and gorgeous as me.

In all seriousness, stories, and especially screenplays (holla), are a way to express yourself. They allow you to check yourself before you wreck yourself, so you don’t end up punting your horrible boss at your day job. And you all know me, I will absolutely reserve my right to escapism. I will always live my life as if David Lynch is filming it right now, and Saul Bass is composing the opening credits, but I’m writing the scenes.

Speak up or ship up!

xx

N

My writing can beat up your writing!

Happy new year biddies and brosefs.

Supposedly the world is going to end in the coming year. According to conspiracy theorists, this will happen on December 21st, 2012. But the cool kids know that isn’t going to happen, because Django Unchained is going to hit theatres 4 days later. Still, it gives us an excuse to do what we do best: loot, pillage, and plunder like we’ve been doing for the past 21 centuries any time anything happens really. It also gives me an excuse to make the most renegade new year resolutions in the history of renegade  new year resolutions.

So without any further ado, the ultimate list of year-end lists. My fucking resolutions!

1. Start chain smoking, try to quit by Valentine’s.
2. Gain lots of weight, try to lose it by St.Patrick’s Day.
3. Write a film for Nicolas Cage, something where he punches as many women as possible, preferably with a freakout scene and a new hairstyle.
4. Start a fight between the Avengers and Justice League impersonators on Hollywood Boulevard.
5. Get IMDB to list my age as 12 until I’m 87, then change it to 13 when I’m 88.
6. Start a vicious street gang called “The Candy Cane Smilies”.
7. Convince someone to tattoo “see you in hell” in sanskrit on their bicep, tell them it means “let it be”.
8. Stage a local musical production of Donnie Darko in a Midwestern town. Kick ass and take names.
9. Un-cancel Community. That shit ain’t cool NBC, #sixseasonsandamovie, we will Chang the world.
10. Come up with a 10th resolution.

There it is motherlovers. Thank you for your patience with the all of the recent list posts. It’s pretty lazy of me, but I’m on break! So suck it. Anyways, good luck at failing with your resolutions for 2012. I hope you have the most balls-amaze, tits out, guns blazing, party-hardy new year!

xo

N

I'm on a boat. It's a classy way to spend the apocalypse.

Merry X-Max (X-treme X-mas) hookers! It’s time for the annual-est of holiday annuals over here in Nikki Yee land, which is decorated in snow covered skulls and Christmas razor blades. Now, IRL I’m a no presents kinda gal, because A. most people can’t give good gifts for shit, and B. there are so many hot and sexy people on this planet who get nothing for Christmas every year, and who are much higher on the nice list than I am, that I don’t mind opening my wallet and my heart (which is usually two sizes too small on a low carb diet) and spreading a little joy to the less fortunate. That being said, if you throw an Urban Outfitters gift card my way, I would go to town.

So here it is, in my favorite list form, everything I’d like for Christmas:

1. To perform one last improv game with my Groundlings class: Let me take this opportunity to tell you a little something about life. You have not lived until you’ve taken an improv class. For some, being on a stage is scary, for others, it’s exhillarating. For Nikki Yee, it’s pure, sexual, joy because she gets to share her humor and her beauty with others like the saint she is. Jooookes. That being said, there isn’t a soul in the world who hasn’t had fun in an improv class. And if such a person exists, please throw them my way, so I can silence their ignorance with a crowbar to the back of their head.

2. For a “generally nice, but sometimes kind of a prick” list to come into existence: Dear Santa, there is a very large gray area in our moral and ethical choices. We can’t be all nice or all naughty all of the time. Most people are just trying to get by, so in order accomplish this, they turn into a bit of a prick, which in turn causes others to act like pricks and so forth. You know what they say, the road to hell is paved with good intentions, so make room for the bulk of us on this updated list, and I’ll see you all in hell.

3. Charlie Day: Charlie Day, better known as the illiterate janitor, Charlie Kelly from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, and the guy who gets ear fucked by Jennifer Aniston in Horrible Bosses, is a strange kind of cute. Granted, he’s not ripped like Hasselhoff, or rich like Hefner, but he does have moves like Jagger.  Sure, he’s kind of a weird, little guy, but I just want to dress him up in corduroy overalls and sew buttons on his eyes and sit him on my mantle. I’m sorry, I fail to see how you find that creepy.

4. To Bring Back Arrested Development: Wait. We did it! No, actually, Obama did. It was the Christmas miracle of the decade!

5. To spend Christmas on Venice Beach: Here is how I’ve imagined it. I’m sitting on the cement steps under the awning on the boardwalk. I’m eating pizza with my local friends, Paco, a medical marijuana card administrator with the word “cadillac” tattooed on his neck, Nebula, the lead singer of a punk band, who has a multicoloured mohawk, Roy, a drifter who only owns two shirts, both of which, are Hawaiian print, and our junkyard pitbull, Bob Gnarly. We all wear tinsel and eat 99 cent pizza. It is glorious.

 6. DIAMONDS: I just wanted to put something on here that you could actually buy for me.

There it is my little rum balls!  I hope your holidays are filled with lots of good looking people and cake. Have a very merry one!

xx

N

Now I have a machine gun. Ho ho ho.

Happy lol-idays fatties,

I call you this because you’re probably stuffing your face with Mee-ma’s butter tarts. That’s okay, because I am too. Not from Mee-ma though. Store bought,can’t go wrong with that Galen Weston character. Anyways, the holidays are often a time of despair and loneliness. Everyone wants to couple up, so they can have a pretty thing on their arm for the Christmas partywhere they can give their least favorite coworker an Old Navy giftcard for secret Santa. Yeah, I know how you do.

But that’s not how I do. Once I’ve completed a long semester of procrastination and self medicating, I like to kick back by my lonesome (in my finest lingerie of course, what am I a farmer?) and watch movies. Although, if you know anything about me, it’s that I believe in the non-medicinal, truly homeopathic, healing power of the cinema (See “Movies as Medicine Part 1″). And to keep away from a complete dependency on neuroleptics for my self diagnosed psychosis, I instead attend the church of David Lynch, John Waters, Quentin Tarantino, David Cronenberg, Edgar Wright, Alfred Hitchcock, The Coen Brothers and especially, TOMMY WISEAU for guidance. Mostly, they have taught me that everyone (especially people in the suburbs) is crazy, and I too, am crazy, and all of this will end in a shoot out. Hopefully, they’ll also give you something that an $11.50 ticket and $40 refreshments can’t buy. Lock the door, close the blinds, and turn off the lights, we’re going for a ride. Wait–get your hand out of my shirt you dink, I’m trying to watch the movie.

When you’ve recently lost your job: The Big Lebowski–Unemployment sucks a big dick. Trust me, I know. But that being said, it’s always a good time to re-evaluate right? Yeah, it’s also the perfect time to kick back with a joint the size of Amsterdam and watch someone just like you continually fuck up and think to yourself, “wow, good thing I’m not that guy.”

When your family is visiting from England: Hot Fuzz–Think about it. They talk about how beautiful their little village is, that they live down the road from Chaucer’s birthplace and it’s so pretty in the Spring time. But you know better, you know they’re full of crap, and this obvious satire of cop films, and less obvious satire of the English countryside, is why.

I see what you did there.

When you’re ready to finally move out to Hollywood to “make it big”: Mulholland Dr.–Yeah, good luck with that.

When you are a young woman scorned: True Grit (2010)– Her name is Hailee Steinfeld. She’s 14 years old, and she will eat Josh Brolin’s babies. This is why she’s my spirit animal.

When you’re about to make your first micro-budget movie: Cecil B.Demented–Granted this is not John Water’s best film. The cast is nowhere near good looking as the one in Cry Baby, BUT, it’s extremely relevant when you’re one of those pretentious art house pricks who hates the way Hollywood recycles ideas and shoves their Wal-Mart sponsored values down Midwesterner’s throats. Bonus points if you understand the lyrics to this perfection from the soundtrack.

When you want to celebrate the holidays in style: American Psycho–“Hey Hamilton, have a holly jolly Christmas. Is Allen still handling the Fisher account?”

"And for you Patrick, I have a Greatest Hits of Phil Collins tape and a brand new Surge Master chainsaw!"-Santa

 When you’ve started your new semester at a new school in the new year: Suspiria–Yeah, good luck with that.

There you have it, my cure for all holiday loneliness, drunken relatives, and unwanted fruitcakes. Let me know when you’re ready for the midnight mass a.k.a. Rocky Horror Picture Show screening, I have to get my body ready.

Straight from the ‘nice, but sometimes kind of a prick’ list,

xx

N

Strange Nikki Yee Fact: I’ve pretty much been employed in some capacity since I was 10 years old.

Now don’t get me wrong, this wasn’t any sort of child labor violation. In fact it was always my employers who complained about my totalitarion take downs staged by a then 12 year old me. Don’t worry, I’ve toned down since then.

Because of this, I’ve never actually gone through one of those “transitional” phases, crudely known as unemployment. I’ve been balancing school, work, filmmaking, blogging, being sexy, being a volunteer cock fight referee, starting and managing 5 prison gangs, hosting an underground fight club, picking up hookers and murdering them under the guise of “Paul Allen”, selling dick towels, staging coup d’etats, seducing the president, making special brownies, and reading to old people, for so long that I haven’t had a lot of “me” time. Recent events like, I don’t know, moving to another country and moving back, have finally put me into that euphemistic transitional phase that I’ve heard so much about.

Here is a typical day in the unemployed life of Nikki Yee:

10:37am: Wake up. Snarl. Snort–wait for it, saline water from a neti pot.

11:00am: Watch Maury and find out if the pancake house cook or the mailman is the father. I may change the channel, unless it’s “Wild Teenage Girls” then I’m fucking there.

1:00pm: Heat up one of the old frozen pizzas. I probably should read something, but you know, my Twitter followers need me.

2:00pm: It’s tired in here. It’s siesta time. I don’t give a shit if it’s November, I’m taking a nap.

5:00pm: Oh shit. Where’d the day go?

8:00pm: Survivor is on. Go away.

10:00pm-3:00am: “Look at all these cool pictures on Tumblr. Huh.”

I think you get the picture.

It sucks balls, but unemployed life and transitional phases and all that jazz don’t really make sense to anyone unless they’ve been through it. And no one wants to risk sounding like The Dude when they introduce themselves to a sexy, new stranger. Of course jobs put low sugar bread on the table and combat boots on your feet, but they also give you a reason to get out of bed in the morning, even if it means that part of your work is to blue yourself every night before a show, or having to pull Hanukkah cookies out of your eye.

But don’t you worry about me. I’ve managed to stay afloat “mailing” letters, getting lost on the way to White Castle, knowing nihilists, running crack operations out of Coffee Time franchises, looking cute, throwing people under buses, putting shitloads of acid in people’s beer, and rescuing bunny rabbits, among other things.

On to the next one,

N

Abide!

Personally, I can’t stand Katy Perry. I’m sure she’s a really nice girl, and she’s also like, a total babe. That being said, I just generally cannot deal with people whose image of California is slutty CandyLand, or people who wear latex gumball dresses, or people who associate with weepy first world problem whiners.  Like seriously. Still, I have to give her sugar coated drivel a little credit, as she wrote this arguably sexist song, “One of the Boys” which I shamefully admit that I relate to in my own chauvanistic way.

In the song, Perry sings about how she used to be a total kick ass tomboy, but boys didn’t like and/or notice her until she went got all stereotypically girly by smelling like roses and shaving her legs and shit. Unfortunately, I understand her plight. As I can somewhat fall into that category. Now don’t get me wrong, I will forever be an unathletic gym class failure…but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to think with my dick in your mouth (oh snap).

What scares a man off more than a videogame hoarding, nacho eating,  gun shooting, prison rappin’, tattoo sporting, beer guzzling, action movie watching, axe wielding heroine? Nuthin’. I grew up with an older brother, so while I am reasonably not that competitive, as a result of my total chillaxed-ness, I will still try to outdrink a 6’8″ Scottish army general because he dared me to. Now this really is not a good way to find a husband, especially an American Husband. But I believe that I am simply too barbaric and licentious for courtship.

I have this theory that guys delude themselves into believing that they want a cute chick who can kick back bro style. Ya know, a hottie with a body who they can roll down the street with, smoking indo and sip on gin and juice with. They tell the editors at Seventeen and Cosmo that they just want to play rockband with us and that we look adorable in our comic book t-shirts. So if this is the case, then tell me why all the cute guys are dating chicks with the personality of sunfaded beige coloured wall paper. Does this mean that I have to trade in my worldy worldiness so I can find my ~*one true luv*~? Do I have to act like one of those interchangeable white chicks that MTV keeps shoving down my throat? Do I have to straighten my hair and buy clothes at Hollercrombie and Bitch? Do I have to become so basic that people will go up to some drywall and be like “Hey Nikki” and I’ll have to step forward from the other side of the room and be all like “Um, I’m over here.”?

Fuck. No.

I’m not trading in my personality or my knife collection for anything. And ladies, cool, interesting, outspoken, super sexy and a little bit loca ladies, you shouldn’t either. The moment you start watering yourself down to  impress some interchangeable white guy with a stupid name like Talan is when you should call it quits and learn to embrace your inner lionness. And until guys truly learn to accept our wild demeanours and maybe are even a little bit turned on by it,  we’ll just have to keep being awesome and have fun by posioning their drinks or something. I’m sorry Katy Perry and I’m sorry male population. The cool chicks and I are gonna open up some whisky, order some pizza, and kick it old school with my Die Hard DVD. When you’re ready to sack up and join us, you’re totes invited!

Until I’m tamed by some guy who looks like Anton Yelchin,

N

Sexy drywall.

When I was a kid, my mother used to tell me that I suffered from excessive happiness. Somehow, along the way I developed a penchant for prison rap and punching people in the throat. I like to think that my descent is attributed to other girls’ jealousy of my fabulous hurr, but it is much more likely due to my failed career as a six year old grand supreme pageant queen. I have spent most of my life dreaming of a way out of my childhood hometown because the rememberances of  drunken highschool mistakes and auditions I missed out on started to haunt me after a little while.

Four months ago, I found my golden ticket to the dream factory. I thought that going to L.A. would be one of the hardest things I would ever do in my life, but as it turns out, leaving it was much worse. You would understand too if you had to say goodbye to your favorite crack head in Venice beach before you had a large serving of ‘one last time’ animal fries at In-N-Out. For you see, it was these little things about life in L.A. that retriggered the excessive happiness that I suffer from. I’m sure that the constant intake of vitamin D while walking through weed clouds had something to do with it, but it can’t be more than 69%.

So this is my thank you and p.s. I love you to all of the people, places and things in L.A. that made my stay there excelballs. The hustlaz of the jewellery district, the people who don’t give a shit in Venice, the sales associates at Kitson who insisted I buy the wallet with David Bowie’s mugshot on it, the clumsy skaters at the original muscle beach, the curly fries and ranch dressing at Jack in the Box, the immensely talented buskers at Third Street Promenade (except for that annoying chick with the showtunes),  the bleunami burger at Islands,  the guys who dress as Jules and Vincent and terrorize tourists on Hollywood Boulevard, Brandy fucking Melville, the hillbillies who taught me how to shoot a 9mm beretta in the South Bay, the drunken bros of Balboa Island, the hidden celebrities in Malibu, and especially my cuties at UCLA who made me a Bruin for life. I truly wanna get drunk and key some Audis at the University of Spoiled Children with all of you.

But let’s be honest here, I will mostly miss the good looking, single men of Los Angeles. Did it hurt when I fell on you from heaven?

Here’s to the misunderstood tangle of highways and excessive happiness that is L.A.

xx

N

Conan knows what I'm talking about.

My legally allotted time in this fine country, the United States of America (or as I like to call it, “America, fuck yeah!”) is running out, so I am going to go through some purely hypothetical options if I was actually* interested in staying .

One of them would be to get a company, say El Pollo Loco, to legally sponsor me (in exchange, I will mention items from their loco value menu every 7 minutes), another would be to illegally make a run for the border, so long as they don’t put up a giant fence around Canada (haha I can’t even pretend to believe this). The third, also a legal option, is the most interesting: get married.

Now my readers who know me well will scoff at this notion. “Nikki Yee? A wife? You mean the chick who put cigarette butts in my mom’s hair when she wasn’t looking?” “Yeah gurl, and she turned six Catholic priests gay last year.” Oh, that Nikki Yee. Well I could be like the asshole at Third Street Promenade who holds up a sign that reads: “I want to get married. Must be 18. Must have $250 000.” You know, the fat one in the white overalls who blows kisses at the young ladies? My Angelenos know what I’m sayin’. What would my sign read? Hmmmmm, probably something like: “I need to get married. Must be an American Citizen. Must have a functioning penis.” But I don’t want to do that because I’m one of those try-hard attention whores who has to be original at all times. So here it is, my personal ad that I’ll never dare to put up on Craigslist out of too much self respect.

Dear American Men,

Hey, my name is Nikki Yee. I’m a newly legal, eternally single, Canadian HELLCAT who is looking for a green card*. Since I am an incompetent pothead, I have been unable to secure a longer work visa. Where do you cum in? Well if you have an American citizenship (and I will put you through a Donald Trump-esque test) and a penis, then you have already passed the first round. But since I’m the one asking for the favor here, I’d like to mention some of the services I can offer you as a wife:

-I will attempt to make you meals in my bikini!

-If you’re a screenwriter, I will critique your screenplay very harshly for the low price of $7.99.

-I will pretend to like your band.

-I will make suggestive attempts at trying “shinshi shinshi“.

-I will perform my dance routine to “Pony” by Ginuwine on demand anywhere you want, say at a mall, a zoo or the federal building*.

-I will record myself singing your favorite song so we can listen to it while smanging.

-I will find an Arrested Development reference for literally everything that has happened in your life.

-I will smoke pot with your parent(s).

If one or more of these seem attractive to you, then congratulations stud, you have passed the second round; and if you’re Matthew Gray Gubler, what are you waiting for? My body is ready. In the event that you are not Matthew Gray Gubler, and just a nice, American, boy then I feel compelled to tell you that while I will probably end up stealing your shirts and your dignity, I will marry the shit out of you. Besides, what’s better than a lusty loca whose been named “Minx of the year” 3 years in a row?

Still unconvinced? Think about it this way, you’ll be helping me stay in your country* and I’ll be freeloading off of you, and drinking your whiskey, and calling your friends behind your back, and sleeping in your bed and hogging all the covers, and borrowing your car without asking, and turning your family against you…but I’ll look amazing while doing so.

Like it or lick it America,

xx

Nikki Yeeeeeeeee-hawwwwwwww

Here is a charming and modest photo that you may print and clip and insert into your wallet, so you can show your friends.

*meaning shut your cocks Homeland Security, this whole thing is a joke.  Sorry if this is confusing to the rest of you, I’ve just been warned is all! (you: gurl what?)

Ah, the age old question. It begins with a conversation. Say for instance I have been talking to you about my aspirations to be a auteur film maker. I bet you your titties that you will inevitably ask me what my is favorite movie of all time. Why? Because I’ve been asked by everyone. For some reason it is always accompanied by this bumbling follow up, something like, “well maybe not ever, but like, what movie do you love?” or “or just like your favorite genre or whatever.” I’d like to apologize for the way my eyes always widen to that question, but it’s true. Of course I don’t have one single favorite. I like movies because I like movies not movie (lol FOB alert).

Usually I appease the trembling and fearful person (am I that scary y’all?) with a reassuring “Zoolander“, because it’s true, that film has been a big part of my life since I was a kid. Mostly I like the way they smile at the fact that I didn’t say Citizen Kane (oh snap). But you were right to be afraid to ask that question my friend because I do like different movies for different reasons, and I like watching them in different moods. So here is a list of favorites, for no particular reason, just because I like them. You can see some of my other faves in my old post, Movies as Medicine, and no repeats I promise!

Rebel Without a Cause (1955): My heart will always belong to James Dean, and Sal Mineo seemed like he could have been one of my best gay friends, and don’t get me started on Natalie Wood. But mostly, because every time I watch this, I live vicariously through Jim Stark, in all my broody teenage angst and desire to knife fight with some  squares.

Kill Bill Vol 1 & 2 (2003 & 2004): Whenever I feel like life has trapped me in a pine box six feet under, I watch the Kill Bill series to remind me to three inch punch my way out.

Die Hard (1988): What? Why would a little girl like me like Die Hard? Are you ready to get fucked up with some truth? I honestly, whole heartedly believe that Die Hard is one of, if not THE best screenplay of all time. I’m not giving you the reasons why here, but hey, drop me a line, nikkiyee@nikkiyee.com, and if I’m sober, I’ll give you the deets.

Clueless (1995): Okay, so I was a little girl when this came out and Cher Horowitz had my dream life. I’m skipping over the important part here, it brought young Paul Rudd into light. Also consider this image, a baby Nikki Yee singing “Rolling with My Homies” by Tupac Shakur. Oh how we laughed.

Here’s a doozy:

The Wicker Man (2006): Nicolas Cage is the god of acting. He invented a special technique that all actors should bow down to. He even calls this technique Nouveau Shamanic. This movie, nay, cinematic masterpiece displays him in all of his epic glory. We mere mortals are not worthy of such supreme talent. (I hope you can read sarcasm by the way. Love you betch.)

I hope this selection was satisfying. Here’s a few more that don’t require any explanation: Pulp Fiction, Fight Club, A Clockwork Orange, Donnie Darko, Anchorman: The Legend of Ron Burgundy,  Shaun of the Dead, North by Northwest, Mulholland Drive, Black Swan, Swingers, The Big Lebowski, Rushmore, friggin’ Star Trek and most of all, The Congress of Vienna.

So I suppose this does not really answer your question at all. But to me it does, and as long as I’m happy, that’s all that matters.

From my beehive to your honey,

N

I’ll admit, I tried not to have expectations before I arrived in L.A. But when you have the brain of a schizophrenic on PCP,  you become the victim of fantastical delusions of grandeur. For most people who don’t live in L.A., the image of young people there has been corrupted by the interchangeable white people of MTV. While I have the advantage of being neither interchangeable, or fully white, I still wondered if my time here might turn me into this:

Now this is like, a classy look that I would like, wear to a job interview or maybe to get some icecream, you know?

I came here believing that I was probably going to become a famous film actress who would do so by becoming acquainted with the ubiquitous casting couch and the finest blend of cocaine and silicone. There has been substantial evidence in my life that could prove this theory, such as the time I showed up to church with a flask in my bible, or when I auditioned for a girl band under the pseudonym “Buttah Lipz”.

I thought that I was going to become the Fabutan using, Crunch gym abusing, hotel party musing, Barbie doll that L.A. is so famous for turning people into. I’ll admit that my desire to systematically tear apart and dominate the Hollywood studio system doesn’t help. But much to my surprise, something else happened. I arrived with my one suitcase filled with nothing but a tuxedo shirt, my Arrested Development DVDs, and a bikini (I didn’t even pack me underwears). I stepped on to that fresh-to-death West Coast pavement…and I was overcome with the desire to learn how to ride a bike. I wanted to wear one of those stupid feather headbands and dance barefoot on Malibu beach with Laird Hamilton. I wanted to start a gang called The Grape Slushies and throw tridents at the Venice 13 gang.  Gone were the visions of being Beverly Hills’ 9021-hoe, I just wanted to watch Millionaire Matchmaker all day and write scripts all night.

I’ve made a lot of single serving friends here in L.A. and I consistently find myself surprised by their general mutual lack of enthusiasm towards being a “handsome”, tanned actor with an agent, a mountain of strippers and an ever evolving floral arrangement on their dining room table courtesy of the lowly assistant who is secretly in love with them. Aw shit, I probably just gave them all ideas. My initial point was, from the hipster chicks in Silverlake who like my shoes, to the gay store clerks in Century City who welcome me as a fresh breath of air to the rich housewives with labradoodles, to the seemingly endless line of white boys who enjoy my Nicki Minaj impersonation; L.A. has made me the anti-Kardashian. In fact you could argue that I’m even more of the grass smoking, ass spanking, paint-the-town-red rebel than I was before.

But let’s be honest here, first studio deal I get, and I’m moving to a mansion in Newport with a six car garage and getting a yacht called “Da Hustla XXX”.

From my hood to your heart,

N

Which one of you boners ordered the knuckle sandwich?