At some point in history rabbits got loose in Australia. I don't remember when exactly it happened, I saw it in some documentary and my memory's real foggy (meaning that I saw it on the Discovery Channel at about 4 in the morning during one of those really late night, post-dance club fridge raids or during that biology class I slept through my freshman year of highschool) But what I do remember is that they multiplied and over ran all the farms because there are no natural rabbit eating predators in Australia. About now I can sympathize with those farmers. I have bunnies all over my freaking apartment... Dust bunnies that is. This summer I went pro with Yomega. I was now a "Team Yomega Pro Demonstrator" or at least that's what my business card told me. About now I'm sure you're wondering what dust bunnies have to do with me going pro, well, I'm getting to it. Relax. The night before I flew out for the final interview at Yomega- Central, one of my buddies calls me up and says that we're going to Hooters. "Can't do it. I'm flying out tomorrow at the butt-crack of dawn and I have to finish proofing this draft of the book." The book was what would eventually be titled The Yonomicon and the second leg of the trip was to Florida where I was attending a wedding. At this wedding was going to be Steve Brown and the guys from Infinite Illusions who I wanted to give me a read on said book. So I needed to finish proofing the thing, get it onto paper and then run across town to the 20th Century Fox Studio lot (where I worked) to photocopy it. These are my buddies from back East pulling on my pants leg to go get wings. Here in LA there are no Hooters. Again, we're all Florida boys and in Florida you can get good wings served to you by a chick wearing less than my neighbor's terrier in January in just about every city. Not so in LA. For us the closest haven of breast and thigh is Huntington Beach, an hour south of us. But it's the journey not the destination and always one for an adventure (however small), I'm convinced to go. I get suckered in by that part of my brain that tells me "You can always sleep on the plane." That's a fat lie, but I could go for some grease in my veins served with a side of eye candy. I was in. Now I really do enjoy adventure (and misadventure); it is my passion in life. That's why I was about to quit the very cushy job I had in Hollywood to go fling a piece of plastic for the amusement of 12 year olds everywhere. While on this odessy to Huntington with my 2 buds, I'm told that they're finally moving out of their apartment and not into a new 2 bedroom. One guy was drawing a good salary at Digital Domain, the special effects house responsible for Titanic, True Lies, Apollo 13, among others. He wanted his own place. Which made sense. As it stood he commuted something to the tune of 20 miles one way. I could never figure out why on earth he hadn't moved earlier, I think about moving if I have to walk more than 5 blocks to a 7-11. Well, he was leaving the other guy high and dry. When I first moved out here, I crashed on their floor for a few weeks while I was looking for place of my own. So I knew that living with the odd man wouldn't be a problem. As you can tell, I was thinking about moving in with him. I was about to get a job that would have me on the road for an unforeseeable amount of time each month and it made sense to have a roommate so that I would have someone around to intercept the bills and accept collect calls. "If I get this job, I'll get a place with you." I got the job, but he's living with his girlfriend. This is the part of the story that I have to wait for a 15 years declassification or until all participating parties are dead. Let's just say that the chief suspects in our little game of Clue were the unemployed writer, the gay director, the up and coming producer and the guy who had introduced me to the groom of the wedding I was currently in. I ended up apartment hunting with a guy who I hadn't seen since my sophomore year of college. In an incredible coincidence his name is also Mark and he has a younger sister named Monica (so if you ever call my pad, make sure you have the right Mark). Strange universe. He moved to LA to be a rock Śn' roll star. Free advice, kids: follow your dreams early. It's better to regret it now than later. We were looking for a place that we called "Bohemian". That label came from when we started on our quest I asked him, "So, you thinking about getting a nice place or that kind of cheaper cool place that surfers and artists tend to live in." Which as we all know is just a way of saying "Low rent". But instead of saying "Low rent", Mark says, "Oh you mean... ŚBohemian'." From that point on we decided that we were both seeking a "Bohemian" apartment. (Impress women, keep your rent down. It's not cheap, it's Bohemian!) Despite run-ins with about a dozen crazy old Russian landladies, we settled on a crazy old Israeli landlady. The crazy old Israeli landlady, apart from being about 4 feet tall, prides herself on how she keeps her properties in good shape. Part of this was putting in new carpet after the last tenants left. I hate new carpet. You know why I hate new carpet? Because when you put in new carpet you take big rolls of carpet and then cut it down to fit in the apartment. And when you take carpet and cut it, you release dust bunnies. These little balls of carpet fiber, hair, and dirt are called "dust bunnies" and not "dust chipmunks" because like their name sake they multiply. They multiply like an abacus salesman on speed. By this point I was about to trade the manuscript of the book for a signature on a contract. But right before I did, I decided that the cash they were giving me up front could be a better. I really don't care about money, I just wanted to wield a little of the power that my position as author gave me. The publisher told me that he was sinking his money into printing the thing and the rest wouldn't be there until later. He wanted to give me more up front, but it wasn't there. I knew the guy; we went back a few years and I believed him, like I said, we went back. So I knew he wasn't bold face lying to me, but I also knew that he had sticky tubing! Have you ever seen those lint-roller-picker-upper things that are made of this rubber that you can wash off but it stays sticky? Well he had tubing made out this stuff. If you have no idea what I'm talking about, imagine surgical tubing that dirt sticks too. So I told him that I'd sign the contract as it was but I'm attaching a list of demands. First on that list was 20 feet of sticky tubing. Done. The sticky tubing is supposed to be in transit right now. My plan is to get this tubing and cut it into about 18 inch length and tie it all together so it looks like a big Koosh ball. Then I'll just let it go in my apartment. I'll just kick it around and it'll pick up all the crap of the rug. Like one of those mechanized pool cleaners only indoors... and without all the cool water shooting everywhere and your mom telling you not to play with the pool cleaner. But I digress. I'm calling it my "Dust Bobcat". I'll be setting lit loose on the open planes of the apartment. Where 1/4 inch tall beds of polyester grass hide a plentiful population of dust bunnies. It's going to be like The Trials of Life on my carpet. It'll be the Trials of Dust life. If that Attenburough guy sets up his cameras behind my couch though, I'm going to demand a free copy of the finished movie... and a cheeseburger.