The Apartment

 My father is chuckling at this reference, and that's all that matters.

One of my best friends is flying into town to see me tomorrow, which coincidentally is the same day that I foolishly promised some people I’d have a script ready for them. So between cleaning, writing, work, and laundry, today is a pretty huge crunch for me – one that could’ve been entirely avoided if I’d simply not procrastinated on any one of the various things I had to do before Thursday, which would have required a degree of adulthood I do not possess.

What this adds up to is not a lot of time for writing a blog. However, I’ve done a lot of meticulous cleaning and organizing to get my place into top shape to entertain guests, and since it’s looking this good I figure I may as well share it with the Internet.

So if you came here looking for a lengthy essay on a personal, cultural, or political matter that absolutely nobody cares about, I’m afraid I can’t help you today. If, however, you just want to look at some pictures of the room I live in, you’re in luck!

My bed is the first thing you see when you walk into my room, which was an intentional design choice on my part because of the statement it makes: "I am Truman Capps, and lying completely still is one of the things I do best." Also, my room is pretty small, so it's basically impossible to be in it without seeing my bed.

"That's art. Get it?" - Joel McHale in Ted. 

Adulthood is framing the shit on your walls.

My bed photobombed this picture of my lamp and Chinatown poster. (My old roommate in Culver City had a shelved lamp just like this. He hid $700 worth of marijuana inside the paper shade at the top.)

Rather than use my lamp for drug storage, I'm using it to display two prized posessions: My hardbound cover of The Great Outdoor Fight that my Main Bro Alexander got me for Christmas, and my newly-framed City of Los Angeles Business Tax Certificate, which by law must be displayed in my place of business. 

When I lie on my right side in bed, this is what I see. Not a coincidence. (Fun fact: As a copywriter at a video game-centric ad agency I was able to write off virtually everything in this picture on my taxes. SUCK IT, THE GOVERNMENT.) 

I proudly display a statuette of a supporting character from Mystery Science Theater 3000 next to my TV, yet I laugh at guys who own My Little Pony figurines. 

The problem with having a mint condition autographed VHS case for Time Chasers is that every time a woman sees it she just starts tearing her clothes off and then I have to DVR Parks and Rec because of all the frenzied lovemaking.

And this is where I do basically all of my writing. I know a lot of writers who say they do their best work at Starbucks, but I've found that I do my best work when I'm not wearing pants, which is why I'm not allowed at Starbucks anymore and have to do all my writing here.

Truman Capps promises a return to substantive content on Sunday. Unless he's too busy that day, in which case he'll probably do more of this shit and you'll just have to deal.