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Written by Rob Schultz (human).

Jolly ol' St. Nick's

Seems I've been giving all the update typing to specific people in their E-mail instead of this thing here. So we were turned down for the fancy expensive two-bedroom Hollywood apartment. Then a cool cheap three bedroom place with lots of space and a private patio and built in bookcases and other fine things was found. We got applications and prepared to fill them out.

Then Mr`Death decides that he doesn't like to move and wants a place to live for years. Except that he's worried he might not like any roommate for as long as he would like to not move, so he's going to find a place to live alone and should not Tobin and I find our own place?

So we did. That same day. It's in 'tha 'Bank,' which is how I imagine all the cool kids refer to Burbank. Don't trust those kids from the "(hol)LyWo(od)," they don't know what's up.

The next day was about finding money somewhere. My bank isn't quite so populous in this part of the world, so I was slow and wasteful in my attempts to change my American Dollars from one form to another. I did not solve the puzzle before it was time to rush off to an interview that didn't happen and then to beta test the new DVD game Simpsons Trivial Pursuit, which was pretty cool. You don't seem to require a deep or encyclopedic knowledge of the Simpsons to play, but sometimes it helps.

Wednesday saw a lease signed, and I took an interview for an editing position where apparently they were after editors who have never edited before, because they want to spend time training employees instead of having 'em just sit down and work. I guess they want to be the next youtube, but you have to be at one of the universities where they've sent a cameraman, instead of using your own camera. Or something.

Much time since has been spent on ye olde craigslist looking for more jobs and some furniture to fill out the apartment. I've been moving some of my belongings over from Russellville. In the apartment itself, we encounter slight problems that show me how inattentive to detail we were while just glancing around at apartments to see if we could fit inside. So we'll keep phoning up 'Bill' the manager until they go away. His command of English doesn't seem to be quite up to par, which can make the prospect of phone conversation more daunting.

One such point of order involved each bathroom of the californian apartment, which is equipped with a ceiling mounted coil that can glow with the heat of less than a thousand suns. It seems like an odd choice to provide that instead of a fan. Even more odd is the fact that my bathroom obviously has a fan, with no clear system for energizing it. Also, we preferred keys that could actually open our mailbox, instead of the shiny keyring weights that were originally provided.

And last night - St. Nick's. The old standby of 'people who recognize you from something prior (school, let's say) magically recall what great friends you were, regardless of truth' holds true. There was an awful lot of Quinnipiac in one place last night. And it was very Quinnipiac indeed.