Monday:
Bob Odenkirk’s cat is named Star T. Cat. The “T” stands for “The.” I, for one, am shocked that the man who channels Saul Goodman couldn’t do better. Why not David? Ronnie? Terry? Fancy Pants?

Also Monday:
An update on last week’s gigantic fire at the neighbors’ from one of the tenants at my fabulous hilltop abode: turns out the house was made of thousand-year-old redwood. The house was gone faster than a pork chop on Matthew Sweet’s plate. Said tenant also went on to explain that the supposed former manager of Stone Temple Pilots/guy in Apt. 7, who claims to have saved our building with his garden hose, is actually a jobless, gun-toting lunatic from West Virginia. She has a restraining order against him yet continues to live across the hall. Awesome.

Tuesday:
The nanny-show people are now booking parents who are heroin addicts. “You know, like, for later in the season when the shit gets rill, rill deep, yo.”

Wednesday:
A lady at the Rite-Aid thinks my jacket is “fabulous.”

Thursday:
To save cash, I’m borrowing a pal’s car while I’m out here. I was promised a “clean Toyota.” While technically correct, what I actually have is a 1994 Tercel with 130,000 miles and a bike rack. It’s the smallest goddamn car I’ve ever driven. I have to bend over to unlock the door. While stuck on the 110 this morning, a gentleman of Latin descent yelled over at me, “Yo, bro! You lowered that piece of shit?”

Friday:
We didn’t hire the unit manager who worked for Dickhouse. Instead, we hired the one who has worked on shows for Shark Week over the last three years. I worship the ground she walks on.