You want the Sims? You drive the Sims! We transported the Mayor of Culver City to the exceptionally warm confines of North Hollywood to find out just what makes your favorite lovable malcontent tick. [Hint – Jameson Irish Whiskey] Eric was kind enough to wax curmudgeonly over his favorite California Seething moments, his experience as a speaker at the Rotary Club, why Murder She Wrote is better than you think and how he was bamboozled by someone claiming to be Gore Vidal.   As if that wasn’t enough, we delve into the enigmatic debacle of After Earth, the hubris of M. Night Shyamalan, Vampire Weekend’s newest album Modern Vampires of the City and why grown men find fart jokes about The Last Airbender endlessly amusing.   Your browser does not support the audio element. Podcast Powered By Podbean   Or download it here: Fierce & Nerdy Podcast 002 Pub Trivia 10 Score – 7/10. Related Articles: California Seething – The Big Seethe Top Five Worst M. Night Shyamalan Movies The Four Greatest Rock Star Collaboration Train Wrecks After Earth Video Review A major thank you to Ms. Dana Martin for recording our...

The rantings of a non-driving theatre professional living in altogether the wrong city. I’ve been reading Raymond Chandler recently and he’s inspired me to try and better describe L.A. This is much better than what happened when I first read Raymond Chandler in Middle School and he inspired me to become a Private Detective. And by, “become a Private Detective” what I really mean is open up my own Encyclopedia Brown-style detective agency in the backyard of my parents’ house. Turns out, though, that much like Free to Be You and Me and the Bible, the Encyclopedia Brown books had some very misleading ideas about life and the backyard of a suburban home on a quiet street in upstate New York. It’s a terrible location for a Private Detective Agency that depends entirely on walk up business. I mean, sure there was the Case of What the Hell Are My Sister’s Friends Smoking in the Garage and Will They Let Me Have Any, the Mystery of God and Why is My Sister Such a Bitch Once a Month, but aside from those brief investigations – not a lot of action. So after a couple of lonely days sitting at the picnic table behind our house, with a handwritten sign illegibly advertising my services, wearing a deerstalker cap in 90 degree weather (yes, I know I’m sort of mixing my literary detective metaphors but it was left over from a past Halloween costume and I WAS 12 YEARS OLD WHAT THE HELL DO YOU PEOPLE WANT FROM ME, BLOOD? I didn’t have the pipe, though cause my sister’s friends were using it in the garage). I closed down the Agency for good. It was all very disappointing. Not a single dame walked into my office with eyes as blue as a mountain lake, hair the color of honey and gold and a set of gams that starts at the ground and ends with a lump at my throat (my sister doesn’t count and her gams usually ended with a foot up my ass). Not a single flashy hood walked in with slicked back hair and cream colored pigskin driving gloves to call me “cheapie” and “shamus” and threaten me to keep my nose clean or he’d cut it off and feed it to his goldfish. Hell, I didn’t even get to foil one of Bugs Meany and the Tigers’ stupid schemes. What a gyp. Then again, it’s probably for the best that I never had any clients, because the truth is – I would make a terrible Private Detective. I mean – let’s face it: I forget stuff all the time I’m easily distracted I never pay attention to details What the hell were we talking about again? I was thinking about monkeys. Oh, monkeys.  I like monkeys. Cute little guys. They’ll rip your face off, though, so watch out! And they love bananas which is weird cause I hate bananas. Nasty vile things. Wait, I’m sorry – what were we talking about again? Which is fine, actually, cause I didn’t really want to be a Private Detective so that I could solve crime or “detect” stuff – except maybe the faint trace of sweet, sweet smoke seeping out from under the garage door or the carelessly tossed instructions from a box of tampons on the bathroom floor which warned women of the dangers of Toxic Shock Syndrome and warned me to get THE HELL OUT OF THE HOUSE for 3-5 days or maybe just hide in my room until the lambs stopped screaming. No, I wanted to be a Private Detective or Dick, as they were once called much to the schoolgirlish giggling delight of 12-year-old Eric (OK, and 40-year-old Eric. Tee-hee-hee. Dick) so that I could talk tough and crack wise, wear a trenchcoat and fedora and a cynical smirk, take belts from the office bottle when the...

So, last week I left the comfy, drought-ridden, hazy and slightly scorched confines of my Los Angeles home for the moist, green landscape and bright clean air of Seattle and other random bits of Washington State. Now, you probably think I heart Seattle. Or looove it. Or lurve it. Lurve – is that a thing? Do the kids say “lurve”? Are the kids that dumb? I mean, I know they’re dumb cause they’re The Kids and the whole purpose of the next generation is for them to be dumber than we were so we don’t feel so bad about ourselves for getting old and not understanding their music or clothes or YouTube videos or the Instagram GET OFF MY LAWN! So, yeah. They’re dumb. But dumb enough to say “lurve”? Discuss. Anyhow, like I was saying, you probably think I have a certain fondness for Seattle. And I can’t blame you for thinking that – I mean, I am a card carrying member of Generation X (the card says “card”) and I went to college during the height of the Grunge Era in the early 90s. And Seattle during the early 90s – well, hell, that was the epicenter of cool – like San Francisco in the 60s, though instead of LSD and enlightenment, we had heroin and crippling depression and instead of the Grateful Dead and Janis Joplin, we had Alice in Chains and Soundgarden and instead of The Graduate and Harold and Maude, we had Singles and Reality Bites. Wow. The early 90s were TERRIBLE! What a fucking horrible time to come of age. I mean, don’t get me wrong, it was a great time for fashion. For me, anyhow. After all, a broken clock tells the right time twice a day and an unkempt, slovenly, unshowered dude is fashionable twice a millennium (the early 90s and THE ENTIRE DARK AND MIDDLE AGES). And then there was the dancing – which, during the Grunge Era was outstanding! Jumping around, slamming into each other, screaming at the top of our lungs – hell, that’s what I do when I’m taking the bus – I was a goddamn moshing natural! What a fantastic time to come of age! And then the stupid Swing Dancing craze came along and everyone started learning dances with actual steps and caring about their appearance and showering like every motherfucking day. Thanks John Favreau! Thanks Vince Vaughn! Thanks Big Bad Voodoo Daddy! Thanks for ruining everything with your suits and hats and your hair product and your dancing that requires a modicum of coordination. I’m glad you’ve all turned in to a bunch of total washouts. I hope you had fun playing the Snoqualmie Casino, Big Bad Loser Daddy. It’s right outside Seattle (CALLBACK, BITCHEZ!)! And speaking of Seattle you still probably think I like Seattle. Well, you’re wrong. Totally wrong. So wrong, in fact, that it should call into question all the other decisions you’ve made in your life. Like going to grad school for playwriting, or buying your 5 bedroom, 4 bathroom, 3 story Dream Forever Home in Las Vegas in 2006 (Interest only ARM loan? No problem! Values are just gonna go up, up, up!), or trying that thing you saw on TV where you put a full glass of wine on the mattress and then jump up and down next to it, or getting bangs (they don’t work with your face, sorry), or using your position with the IRS to go after Tea Party organizations applying for tax exempt status – that was particularly wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong. TOTALLY FUCKING AWESOME but so very wrong. But awesome. Totally awesome. I mean, I have a total bureaucrat crush on the IRS right now (shhhh, don’t tell the Bureau of Labor Statistics or the ATF. They get, like, super jealous). For me, Seattle is like Mad Men – it’s beautiful to look at,...