Pop Stand

NEW YORK: The Six Year Plan

2007-09-13T02:55:00.000-04:00

So a little more than six years after I came to New York, I'm now leaving for LA.

I got a job at MADtv, joining one of my best friends, Katie Dippold, as a writer there. I went out to LA this past week to look for an apartment; I ended up getting one in the same Melrose Place-style courtyard building as Fart Factory creator Eric Appel. If that didn't already feel dorm-like, Appel's apartment, as I learned rather by surprise, shares a living room wall with my ACTUAL college roommate Mike, and his wife Kristy. Oh, the dinner parties we'll talk about and perhaps even have once.

And after the apartment was signed and sealed, I went about securing my real LA residence and bought a car.

You can see it here, parked behind the little Chevy Aveo hatchback.

The rest of the trip was a purchasing whirl that encompassed Ikea, Bed Bath & Beyond, Target, a crazy Studio City woman selling a dining room set on Craigslist, and various SoCal fast food establishments, ranked here in order of enjoyment: #1 In 'n Out (double-double animal style with fries), #2 Del Taco (veggie works burrito and macho nachos), and #3 Carl's Jr. (Famous Star burger with cheese and mediocre fries). Also - the Subways in LA deserve special mention. Why? For their unheard-of-in-NYC jalapeno cheddar bread and the fact that fresh AVOCADO is a regular shade in the sandwich artist's pallette.

I came down with a fever just in time for a JetBlue red-eye back to New York, which was great because the chills and persistent muscle ache allowed me to concentrate less on sleeping and more on Bravo's uber-prevalent ads for Tim Gunn's Guide to Style. The flight took off on Tuesday the 11th and though by the time we approached Manhattan it was early morning of the 12th, the commemorative twin beams at the World Trade Center site were still shining - the pilot flew us almost directly over them. It was rough. Between the fever flushing through my body, a sudden sense memory back to how I felt waking up on 9/11 (only a couple weeks after I'd moved to New York), and the melancholy of my now leaving the city, that descent into New York was more emotional than most. I teared up like a woman revealing body issues to Tim Gunn (Thursdays @ 10, only on Bravo).

This is the last post I'll put up on this original chriskula.com site. I'm soon to undergo a site redesign (much thanks to Ben Whitehouse of Improvoker.com), and will have myself a new Wordpress-enabled home for photos of all the misspelled signs of Southern California. I wanted to sign off with a "farewell to New York" sentiment, but really, my feelings for this city are best expressed in the subtitled words of Nina Hagen. Goodnight.

One man's touching memorial is another man's unfortunate mailing address

2007-08-15T18:12:00.000-04:00

faux-timely Norbit joke

2007-08-03T02:42:00.000-04:00

Earlier this week Norbit star Eddie Murphy was slapped with a paternity suit from Spice Girl Melanie Brown, with whom he's fathered a three-month old girl. The suit seeks an unspecified amount in child support from...

Eddie Murphy

Eddie Murphy

AND Eddie Murphy.

FAIR GAME: Executive Privilege

2007-07-26T16:28:00.000-04:00

Michael Ian Black was guest hosting Fair Game this week, so he was on the receiving end of my segment on Bush's (shady) use of executive privilege. You can please hear it here, thank you.

IMPROV EVERYWHERE: Redheads

2007-07-24T01:05:00.000-04:00

The above video shows IE's latest mission: 50 redheads protesting the Wendy's logo for its grossly inaccurate portrayal of redheads. Naturally, I find my way front and center.

Check out the full account with many more (pale) photos here.

FAIR GAME: Rove's Letter to Nixon

2007-07-20T00:29:00.000-04:00

Here's my latest Fair Game segment, about an amazing letter that 22 year-old Karl Rove wrote to the Nixon Administration back in 1973.

And I've gotta say, these folks at WNYC do a bang-up job with producing this show. I was flubbing lines EVERY which way while we were recording, and somehow they ended up making me sound halfway coherent. They also cut out the part where I emphatically say the word "bitches," which is undoubtedly for the best.

My segment's right at the top of the show, though keep listening for a piece on the new Seven Wonders of the World by television commercial star and UCBT regular Doug Moe.

We are always on (AIM)

2007-07-18T02:53:00.000-04:00

I IM'd friend and Hollywood dillhole Eric Appel at about 2:30 this morning. This was the entirety of our conversation.

teaser

2007-07-16T03:30:00.000-04:00

July 14, 2007 (photo by Ari Scott)

FAIR GAME: Supreme Court Verdicts

2007-06-28T16:34:00.000-04:00

On Wednesday I recorded another radio segment for Fair Game with Faith Salie. You can hear it here.

This time I was "applauding" the conservative-leaning majority of the Supreme Court for the three back-rakes they delivered to the 1st Amendment this week. And, because this IS public radio, I felt like I should work in some jokes about heroin and fetuses.

ONN News Crawl

2007-06-26T12:27:00.000-04:00

Here's a fun, or at least potentially distracting, game: watch this ONN video and try to guess which two jokes in the news crawl did I write.

Hint: they both relate to topics near to my heart.

Fair Game with Faith Salie (and today, Chris Kula)

2007-06-22T02:09:00.000-04:00

Fair Game with Faith Salie is a very cool variety/talk show on Public Radio International. I went on today's show to present a comedy segment I wrote on the topic of "swiftboatability" - that is, the different ways in which the '08 Democratic candidates might be susceptible to an old-fashioned Republican smear campaign.

You can hear it here - my segment is right at the top of the show. I fear I might have a burgeoning career as an attack ad voiceover artist.

Pistons Fans: Sore Losers and Proud

2007-06-04T04:03:00.000-04:00

Some curious findings from ESPN's Sportsnation poll for picking an NBA Finals winner. As of 4 a.m. Monday morning, some 270,000 ESPN.com readers nationwide voted in a 57% to 43% differential that the Spurs will beat the Cavs. No surprise there.

But the poll results also allow you to see the voting concentrations of individual states. Naturally, the state of Ohio was the greatest concentration of Cavs voters: 76% of uneducated, ill-mannered Ohioans think their team will pull the upset. Seventy-one percent of oil moneyed, gun rights-preserving Texans think the Spurs will win.

But interestingly, Texas was NOT home to the highest concentration of people picking for the Spurs. Or should I say, picking against the Cavs.

The enemy of my more recent enemy is my... insufferable, flopping friend?
OR
Fuck the Cavs. Fuck the Spurs LESS.

I voted Spurs. In a perfect world they will humble LeBron in five...

...and then drown in a victory parade accident at the Riverwalk.

31:57

2007-05-13T22:29:00.000-04:00

...was my finishing time in the Mothers Day 4M race this morning, for a pace of 7:59 per mile. I kind of can't believe that 1) I finished that quickly 2) I felt as good as I did afterwards and 3) that I was able wake up for it in the first place. (Walking through the park to the starting line at 7:40 a.m., my bleary eyes spied many people, totally independent of this race, who were already up and running through the park. Awake and running before 8 on a Sunday - I do not trust these people.)

I credit my first, best and only "PR" to the race environment. Super exhilarating. I'd never even completed a full continuous four miles on my own, but this race setting made it so easy to keep up a good pace. I got extra energy each time I cut through a crowd of slowies, and I helped myself by trying to keep pace with people ahead of me who looked like "real" runners (neoprene shirts, basically).

But mostly I flourished because of my music. I bought a Shuffle last week, loaded it up with a mix of '90s pop, anthemic rock and the theme from Magnum, P.I., and it randomly elicited adrenaline output at all the right times.

Scissor Sisters "Take Your Mama Out" at the starting line, fitting for the initial slow pace of the runner herd and the fact that later in the day, many would indeed be taking their respective mamas out.

Tom Jones' version of "Burning Down the House" which seemed a figurative match for the time I decided to pick up the pace and leave my lady behind - WATCH! OUT!

Bill Withers' "Lovely Day," because it really was. (Much cooler than the weather I'd been "training" in the last couple of weeks - sweat didn't cause my earbuds to fall out NEARLY as much as I'd become naggingly accustomed to.)

"Get What You Give" by New Radicals, to take my mind off my burning lungs with flashbacks to sophomore year, working in the admissions office where I'd hear that song on the radio every hour on the hour and- oh, there's the next mile marker.

"Never Let You Go" by Third Eye Blind, as I grabbed a cup from the water station.

"Material Girl" - because my running style is not nearly flouncy enough already.

I was already running a little bit hot when "Panama" cued up; fantastic late-race surge

Just a little after I passed the final mile marker, the shuffle cued up "The Final Countdown." THANK YOU, OMNIPOTENT GOD. With visions of many'a late-game Pistons rally churning in my head, I opened up my stride - which is already long like Tayshaun - and ended up doing that last mile in seven minutes. That's INSANE for me, and absolutely impossible without the divine intervention of Europe's synths.

Though this version would have straight-up torn my hamstring:

To whom is Weird Al wishing a Happy Mother's Day?

2007-05-11T01:36:00.000-04:00

Spacey's Mom

So, I've started running...

2007-05-04T02:40:00.000-04:00

...and it's pretty miserable.

Check that: the rest of the day after I've run - and mind you, I've only been doing this a couple days this week, so perhaps I'll grow to love the WHOLE experience - feels pretty damn good. I'm loose, my whole body feels relaxed, and I'm not desperately in need of an energy influx via coffee. But during the run, the thought of "Wait, I'm a rational, mentally sound individual - WHY am I subjecting myself to this torture?" definitely does cross one's mind.

My good friend Ms. Kate Spencer got a bunch of us to sign up for a four-mile Mother's Day race in Central Park coming up in a couple weeks. I'm in pretty good shape - I don't smoke, I walk a lot, I keep my buffalo sauce intake fairly manageable - so there was a part of me that figured I could probably pull off a four mile run on a moment's notice. Yes and no: yes, I could complete such a task; and no, after experiencing how strained my body is after just a two mile run these last couple days, it would not be well advised. Hence my entry into the world of jogging/running/training.

But like I said, I consider myself a pretty healthy guy. I'm fairly active, my abs have not yet been rendered invisible by dude paunch and I basically spring up the four floors of my walkup - and yet, about a half mile in to a run my lungs are hurting, my arms feel heavy and, basically, I'm left questioning the evil of Man-who-invented-recreational-running. All of which makes me really, REALLY feel for people who are legitimately out of shape or overweight and decide to turn their lives around and start jogging. Their motivation is admirable, but man, that first run must be absolute. Fucking. MISERY.

To truly stick with a running program and see significant weight loss - while the whole time your body is going Linda Blair on your brain - is truly impressive. My normal sized, non-blocked heart goes out to you, my large friends.

The Michigan Difference

2007-05-01T04:10:00.000-04:00

I spent a fine couple of days in Ann Arbor this past weekend for my brother Andrew's college graduation. I was supposed to fly into Detroit on Friday evening, but Spirit cancelled my 4:30 p.m. flight - without explanation, quite oddly - costing me a cab ride out to LaGuardia and a whole night's worth of sleep, as the only alternate flight that would work for me was at 6 a.m. on Saturday morning, and being that's about the hour I normally go to bed, I just stayed up until my flight.

My younger brother Eric - in from Penn State where he just defended his masters thesis in political science and theory - picked me up at the airport at 8 a.m. Saturday morning and drove us directly to the commencement ceremonies at the Big House (stopping only briefly at a McDonald's for a sausage biscuit meal with OJ and a large coffee for me and a tea for him that came to only like $4 and change - I scoffed audibly in disbelief/praise at the Midwestern pricing). The commencement was to start at 10 a.m., though it ran a half-hour late in getting started, probably due to the increased security detail surrounding the commencement speaker, former Arkansas governor William Jefferson Clinton. (Interesting and somewhat telling note: last week when I'd be informing people of my upcoming trip and mention that "Clinton is the graduation speaker," their response was most often, "Which one?")

When the procession of the university's president/provost/regents finally entered the stadium, they received a nice reception from the audience. But when the Jumbotron screens on the infield showed a glimpse of WJC, the place went nuts. In fact, my dad was telling us how typically 30,000 tickets are given away for these ceremonies; this year it was more than double that - Clinton puts asses in the bleacher seats. I enjoyed his speech (one my mother committed to a mini-tape recorder, the fidelity of which I'm sure will be obscured by her sporadic sighs of, "Ohh, I just wish he'd run again"), but it was hard to focus on his message of interdependency with the morning sun beaming DIRECTLY onto my face. (All morning it'd been cloudy and cool, but almost from the exact moment the first speaker took the stage, the sun burned through the clouds where it remained unabated the remainder of the next 100 minutes.) My forehead, cheeks, and nose took a crimson pounding. I never even thought of sunscreen, and I have absolutely no excuse as I got burned by the exact same type of weather in the exact same geographic spot six years ago at my own graduation.

Following "The Victors" and a hasty retreat to Andrew's house to fetch some SPF 50 (and my begged-of quick trip to Jimmy John's for a #5 with no onions), we all drove into Detroit to catch the Tigers/Twins game at Comerica. Or, due to the long ceremony and the traffic we hit on 94, at least the last four innings of the game. Which was actually fine, 'cause with a final of 11-3 Twins, it was a game TO be missed. (My brothers and I, stuck at a standstill on 94 just outside of Detroit turned the game on the radio about an hour in - the very first thing we heard from the Tigers radio network was a beleaguered announcer saying, "...boy, it has just been one of those days for the Tigs." Great.) We missed Leyland getting tossed, and all of the home scoring for the day, but I still got a dog and a Pepsi, and we made it out of the park and to a sports bar in Greektown in time to catch the ends of both the Wings and Pistons playoff games. (Between all of that game action and the Lions picking 2nd in the NFL draft (Calvin Johnson - a WR, of course), it was a pretty big day in Detroit sports. It was also a pretty big day for homely female Detroit sports fans - between the ballgame and the bar, I saw an awful lot of muffintops poking through Red Wings t-shirts, and Tigers tank tops revealing a siena sea of fake tanning. These women showed a real passion for their teams and their wide leg jeans.) My brothers and I watched both games end (victoriously) within a minute of each other, though with my relative disconnect to hockey and the complete non-threat that was the Orlando Magic, I was probably most excited about the 20 oz Miller Lites that we enjoyed at only $4 apiece (again with audible scoff).

We met up with the folks for dinner at Pegasus, a high-volume restaurant in Greektown (made even more insanely busy by runoff from both the Tigers and Wings games). This whole day's activities - U of M graduation, Tigers game, dinner in Greektown - sort of became a Kula family tradition starting with my own grad day of the same design. Incredibly, it's been 10 years between my first enrolling at Michigan to Andrew graduating from there, with Eric's years wedged in the middle - 10 years of Al and Jane picking up tuition bills and loan payments - and so we celebrated by sticking them with the bill for dinner, too. We started with the flaming saganaki ("Opa!" as the waiters yell over and over and over, and must hear in their sleep, too), then a platter of various cold appetizers the names of which I cannot recall (but can assure you they all ended in vowels). For my dinner I got the entree combo platter: moussaka (eggplant based), spanakoteropeta (spinach and feta based), and dolmathes (ground meat and rice based, wrapped in grape leaves), with a side of lamb (sheep based.) My enjoyment of the food was surpassed only by my amazement at the fact that, after no sleep, a flight, four hours in the sun, midday beers and a heavy Greek feast, I was still conscious.

And even more amazing? As much as that photo above shows a clear Kula family likeness, I think the one where you actually do NOT see our faces reads even more definitively as "brothers."

"Brothers" as in "black dudes."

Grindhouse Trailers

2007-04-09T13:33:00.001-04:00

Saw Grindhouse over the weekend. Tons of fun - a zombie movie by Robert Rodriguez, a car/slasher film by Quentin Tarantino - but one might argue that the MOST fun came in the trailers for fake grindhouse movies like Werewolf Women of the SS and Thanksgiving that played between the double features.

...just as one might argue that the only thing better than a fake trailer for a bad '70s horror/blacksploitation/revenge flick is a REAL trailer for a bad '70s horror/blacksploitation/revenge flick. Of which YouTube offers a plethora.

Bare Knuckles - if you were TRYING to make a shoddy b-movie trailer, you'd be hard pressed to fuck it up worse than the preview for this '77 vigilante flick. Fans of leading man Robert Viharo might find the credit sequence somewhat disappointing. (And stick around for the second, completely original trailer about a great white shark terrorizing a beach community.)

Werewolves on Wheels - "...the most exciting and unusual horror/motorcycle film yet made." Thirty odd years later, and I think that tagline still holds true. The story of a motorcycle gang who "ride into a new kind of hell" - one inhabited by Second City great Severn Darden!

Trouble Man - If adjusted for inflation, the trailer's description of Trouble Man - "He wears a six-hundred dollar suit. And drives a ten-thousand dollar car." - could be an apt modern description of a junior-level pharmaceutical sales rep. BADASS! A highlight of Trouble Man is Marvin Gaye's soundtrack answer to Curtis Mayfield's Superfly. BONUS: this clip also includes trailers for Invasion of the Blood Farmers and a preview for "Dracula's soul brother" (actual wording)... Blacula!

The Italian Stallion - Poor young Sly Stallone. Does one X-rated porno for food money in 1970 - playing a character named "Stud" - only to see it dusted off, renamed, and re-released after he strikes it big with Rocky. Well, at least it's in the capable hands of director Gail "Amber Waves" Palmer, helmer of John Holmes' "The Longest Foot."

Boss N*gger - Wow. (beat) Wow.
(Be careful if viewing this at work - the opening title song might not be something you'd want your boss to hear, REGARDLESS of whether they're "black and brutal.")

Sports Ticker

2007-04-05T14:40:00.000-04:00

Pretty great sports week thus far: I won my NCAA tourney pool (picking Florida over OSU in the title game - and really, any outcome where Ohio State loses is a victory for me); the Pistons bench continues to encourage as the playoffs loom; and perhaps best of all, the Tigers opened up and, after three days of being highly frustrated that MLB had nixed their Extra Innings package in lieu of a Direct TV deal (leaving me and millions of other out-of-town rooting, non-dish-having fans out of luck), MLB completed a cable deal.

I'd grumbled so much about losing out on Extra Innings that I had emails from no less than three different people awaiting me this morning alerting me to the compromise. So I can now watch my Tigers in New York from somewhere other than the ESPNZone. What does this mean? That I'm going to take SO MANY excellent lazy summer naps with Tiger ballgames on in the background.

Onion News Network: Live!

2007-03-28T03:30:00.000-04:00

I'm writing for The Onion's new Onion News Network. The site launched this week - here's one of the inaugural news stories (with new vids to be released each week).

The Onion News Network has set the standard for nonstop, globe-encompassing 24-hour television news since it was founded in December 1904. The network currently offers channels in 171 languages and has unbiased in-the-field reporters stationed in every country in the world. Inside the U.S., the network can be viewed in 92.2 million households and more than 500,000 prison cells.

Oh, Sheed! Ball DON'T Lie!

2007-03-27T04:47:00.000-04:00

I'll probably use this clip from last night's 'Stons game in lieu of coffee for the next week or so.

Pistons won it in OT 113 to 109. But the real winners are those of us who get to hear George Blaha and Greg Kelser absolutely Lose. Their. Shit.

And just so we're clear - Sheed's was not just a lucky shot. As Special K says, "He practices those!"

The Secret

2007-03-22T06:30:00.000-04:00

I was in line at Borders today when a woman walked up and said to the guy in front of me, as she gestured to the dvd rack next to us, "Can you please hand me a copy of The Secret?"

As he did I wondered aloud, "Aren't you supposed to just imagine getting a copy of The Secret?"

The woman didn't hear me. Or if she did, she didn't let on that I'd just broken this one WIDE OPEN.

Hair

2007-03-21T14:15:00.000-04:00

Not getting a haircut in a couple and a half months will inevitably see one's hair grow out, and that's the state in which I find myself now.

I'm liking it a little shaggy and think I'll keep it going, but please, my friends, sit me down and TELL ME if it starts to approach the lengths of the ill-fated "Cinammon Tangle" coif of 2003:

I do not know that person.

Classic Upsets

2007-03-20T05:03:00.000-04:00

I read Nick Hornby's Fever Pitch not long ago and though I don't quite approach his level of Arsenal victory-or-misery fan zealotry, it did get me thinking about those times in my life when I actually have been emotionally affected by a loss of the sporting variety.

1987 Detroit Tigers lose ALCS 4-1 to the Twins

The first year I really followed baseball - watching on TV, collecting cards, memorizing stats (Alan Trammell in '87 - .343, 28, 105) - happened to coincide with the Tigers' AL East-winning campaign. Late-season pickup Doyle Alexander came on to win nine down the stretch, the Tigers edged the Jays 1-0 on the last day of the season (Larry Herndon solo homer, Frank Tanana complete game shutout), and... then were promptly ushered out of the playoffs by a decidedly inferior - though charmed, and aided by Metrodome air blowers - Twins team. I buried my face in my bed and wept.

Michigan basketball loses '93 NCAA title game to North Carolina on Chris Webber's timeout

Same deal as above: even despite the surprise NCAA run in '89, the first time I really got into Michigan hoops was the Fab Five, while I was in middle school. The loss to Duke in the title game the year before had been strangely acceptable - "Eh, they were just too young" was a satisfying justification - so the '92-'93 season came with an almost foregone assumption that we'd win it all. The UCLA game in the tourney - coming back from down 19 - furthered cemented the whole team of destiny angle.

Unfortunately the destiny was one of destroying the emotional health of an already hormonal Chris Kula. I didn't cry, but I do recall lashing out at my mother when she tried to comfort me, something to the effect of, "There is no God. Because if there was He wouldn't have let Webber do such a terrible thing." (Atheists, feel free to reference this argument.)

Michigan football, the Kordell Stewart Hail Mary game against Colorado, '94

The hardest thing with this one was how vividly I saw the whole play unfolding. The ball slowly returning to the ground. Bouncing off a tangle of arms. Westbrook sliding in underneath. The ball finding his arms. Rolling. Touchdown. I felt powerless - which I obviously was, watching on TV two hours away from Ann Arbor. The majority of the hurt came from a disconnect between my brain - which had processed all the visual information before me - and my gut, which simply could not accept what had just happened. I don't remember any outward emotional meltdowns, but to this day I can't watch that play when it's shown in highlight packages today. And I refuse to give any change to Rashaan Salaam when I see him begging in the subway.

Pistons-Spurs, '05 NBA Finals, game 5 at the Palace, Robert Horry's shot

I was flying back from a visit to Michigan the night of this game, and the whole cab ride back from La Guardia Sussy kept getting score updates on her phone for me. We got to her apartment in time to see the last like two minutes. What killed me almost as much as Horry's 3-pointer was his stupid and-1 a minute before. Old-ass Robert Horry driving and dunking in CRUNCH TIME? Unacceptable. I had a bad feeling already at that point, like if he pulled that off this might be another outcome of destiny for me. I just remember thinking before the inbounds pass, "Don't let Horry get it. He lives for these shots. Not Horry. Anyone but Horry." Of course it was Horry. Horrible. Horry-ble.

I ended up numbly throwing myself on Sussy's bed, face down, complaining. About everything. The game, my shitty day job, Robert Horry, personal frustrations, Robert Horry, impatience with my career, Robert Horry's mother. Sussy gamely tried to massage away what probably seemed like ridiculous, unjustifiable lamenting. (I was in Seattle a couple days later when the 'Stons lost in Game 7, and she called me to make sure I wasn't heading directly to the top of the Space Needle. I was actually okay - I was able to accept the Game 7 finality a lot easier than the Game 5 shock. I just took a nap on Kurt Cobain's grave and felt much better in the morning.)

So there, if I keep up this pace of four major sports disappointments every 20 years, I'll have enough material for my own Hornby-style fan memoir by the time I'm, oh, 240 years old. Though God forbid the Lions give me anything to care about.

Gmail Adverts

2007-03-19T14:30:00.000-04:00

Gmail offers up a dozen sidebar ads that are based on the text of the email you're displaying - ex. an email that mentions Chauncey Billups might result in Gmail running ads for Chauncey's new Adidas shoe.

So I thought it was curious when this ad popped up on my screen late last night:

Nowhere in the email I was reading was there any text that mentioned redheads. Gmail's ad sensors are apparently so fine-tuned they can now prescribe ads simply based on the user's sassy attitude.

The following takes place between 3 a.m. and 4 a.m. in Los Angeles

2007-03-15T12:31:00.000-04:00

This story comes from my friend Andrew van Baal, a film editor in L.A. ...

So last night I worked late, left my office at 3 am, and the street is completely vacant at that hour - everything's closed, nobody's out. Except for the occasional stray homeless person sleeping underneath the side entrance to my office building, or underneath the awning of Monte Cristo, the Armenian banquet hall.

As I approach my apartment I see this girl walking down the sidewalk away from me toward the crosswalk at Melbourne. She's by herself, wearing really tight pants, and she has a pretty attractive figure.

Then I hear some catcalling, some whistling, and my peripheral vision registers a figure crouching by the bushes in front of my apartment. A male figure; he's the one doing the whistling. I assume it's a homeless man, probably drunk. I ignore him, purposefully refusing to make eye contact so I don't become an unwitting recipient of whatever late-night desperations are swirling through his head. He continues to yell at the girl, who responds with a girly, not-entirely-convincing, "Leave me alone."

I stop at the door and take out my keys. "Hey," he says. Shit. He's trying to engage me. I ignore him.

"Hey man."

I turn around. He's standing up now. He's not homeless. He's clean-cut. And his features are somehow...familiar.

"She's lookin' good, right?"

He wants my approval.

He's Keifer Sutherland. And he's definitely intoxicated.

"Yeah," I say, "She's got nice legs."

This is exactly what he wants to hear. "Hey!" he yells after her, "I need a fuckin' cigarette!"

He runs after the girl.

Tired, I don't bother to see how the rest of this scene plays out; I enter my apartment and fall asleep shortly thereafter.

I hope Kiefer found that cigarette; apparently, that girl was his only lead.