The latest evidence that my roommate and I are heterosexual, or at the very least, slobs:

ME: Hey, man, the dishwasher is leaking water and soap suds all over the kitchen.

HIM: Yeah, I know.

ME: Cool.

The matter was discussed no further.

I almost lost my cartoon sweater.

I think that everyone has a cartoon outfit. Your cartoon outfit is the combination of clothes that you wear the most often, and it's so called because if you were a cartoon, you would be drawn wearing that outfit. Cartoons always wear the same thing, from Charlie Brown to The Simspons.

For example, my roommate: His cartoon outfit would be a pair of sandals, those wackycrazy cargo shorts with three million pockets, a t-shirt, and a long sleeved button down shirt over that. Voila! Instant Jonny.

Most people who know me would agree that this description of my own cartoon outfit is very accurate: I wear a darkish/navy pair of Vans, always jeans, usually a black t-shirt, and over that, the piece that says Bill: a black, long sleeved, v-neck sweater with a stripe going down each arm from shoulder to wrist, thin blue line, thick white line, thin blue line.

If I were animated, that's what you'd see. I'd also be holding a cigarette and a cup of coffee. And probably smirking.

So, on my way to my lighting shift Sunday night, I discovered that I was not in possession of the sweater. I was upset and disturbed, and suddenly I understood how JonnyBoy feels when he goes nuts and turns the apartment upside down while looking for the keys in his pockets. I reasoned that I must have left the sweater in the theater green room, and when I arrived, I found I was correct. I located my beautiful friend nicely folded at the bottom of a stack of clothes that another show uses. I recognized it by touch, pulled it out, and examined it for the tell-tale sleeve stripes. I sweetly kissed the sweater and made a promise, "Never again, baby, never again."

I then left it in one of the classrooms last night and had to have the training center unlocked so I could go back in and get it.

I am a genius.

Saturday night, I ate far too many worms.

Which is to say: Almost one.

My friend Natalie, in a bout of humanitarian aid, purchased and brought over some Baja Fresh. We happily consumed Mexican food and watched tv while Natalie unsuccesfully attempted to engage us in conversation. I finished my meal and began to make my way through what demure little Nat neglected to eat herself. There was a pile of rice on her plate that she wasn't going to eat, and I rose to the task, deciding to make the meal a bit more interesting with one of those little cups of pico de gayo.

I mixed the tomato into the rice, readied my fork, and went for a bite. Thank God I wasn't all that interested in whatever was on tv at the moment, and paying more attention to my utensil and it's contents, because that's when it happened. I don't recall exactly what was said in those initial, confusing, alarmed moments, except for the very first thing out of my mouth:

ME: What in the bloody FUCK is THIS?!?!?!?!?

It was quickly determined that it was a worm. It was dead, but it had feet. And I had very nearly eaten it.

Natalie squealed. Jonny made a face. I was sad, as I was stil hungry.

An autopsy was performed. Baja Fresh was cursed. We discussed contacting the lawyer we knew.

Eventually, the worm was given an unceremonious burial under some coffee grounds in our garbage can and we went back to watching Buffy. We decided not to pursue legal action against the food chain, allowing them this one worm. Next time, though...

Dig it: My team, The Excuses, has managed to impress Those In Power and has three (3!) shows coming up this month. We're playing Wednesday nights at 11pm, on the 3rd, 10th and 17th. And it's free.

If you live in Los Angeles and you're not going, you'd damn well better tell me why.