--------: "Hello, Police? I think there's a President in my apartment..."

Yes, it's that time again. A time to laugh, to weep, to squawk, smite, shrug, empathize, pasteurize. It's a time to remember what we loved about the old, now long-expired dudes with perfect, parted hair who built this nation on sound principles and morals. And a time to reflect on the more recent ones who didn't even know what -

Well, I'll leave it at that. After all, we're here to celebrate.

HAPPY TAFT DAY!

While Joanna and our dear friend Julie take a luxurious lunch out on the fire escape and have girl-talk, I've been quarantined in the apartment with a Bumblebee tuna sandwich until a new blog's been posted. Cause we've got big news...

Yes, indeed, after much sitting around and checking our watches and cursing the stars, our roommate has arrived! Brendan (we'll call him Brendan) has driven cross-American, checked in, moved in, settled in and built a big white Target shelving unit in the corner, now adorned with books, CD cases, pastel-colored decorative cubbies, a stuffed panda (whose fur is more French Vanilla than pure white) and a **SAFE**.

I do intend, once I've earned his trust, to inquire about the **SAFE**, about the contents of the **SAFE**, and the purpose of the asterisks around and the reason for the random capitalization on the word **SAFE**. Or I could have Jo bust into it with the skills she acquired on the set of CSI: The Video Game. Speaking of which,

HAPPY EISENHOWER DAY!

No, Brendan is not single, ladies, so please practice some restraint.

He too is an actor, relocated from the Big Apple, aiming to strive and starve out here in the Big Peach (the "Big Banana" sounded wrong somehow). Last week, Brendan and his girlfriend Cooper invited Jo and I out for a Valentine's Day Happy Hour at the elegant Edison Hotel. Located downtown, this rockin' joint features 1920s-style decor, overpriced martinis, darkened corners, silent movies projected above our heads and sweet potato fries good enough to bathe in. Speaking of bathing,

HAPPY VAN BUREN DAY!

As far as our ever-changing careers, Joanna had a wonderful audition with the super-selective folks at One-on-One, a group that connects actors with casting agents via workshops and master classes, after which an actress like Jo can sit down with the dude who casts One Tree Hill or the woman who casts Grey's Anatomy and talk to them (here it comes...) One-on-One. It's quite clever.

Meanwhile, having auditioned for a couple projects since last week's well-attended Blog Pity Party, I found out last night that I have been cast in a USC grad film! Layabouts centers around these four college kids, all of them from upper class backgrounds, who are bored to death with their at-their-disposal lives and consider robbing something to spice things up a bit. After much to-and-fro and deliberation on what that "something" will be (humor-humor-humor), the gang decides on a liquor store. Sadly, they find that the liquor store of choice is closed, so - feeling desperate and a bit wired - the group settles for a newsstand, which might have something like thirteen dollars to its name. It's a riot.

I've been cast as Harry, the so-called leader of the group and the brains of the operation (what a stretch!). And with a few more auditions lined up at the end of the week, it seems that the tables have turned and the curse has been lifted. I guess helping that old woman cross the street was worth it after all. And, speaking of old women,

HAPPY JAMES BUCHANAN DAY!

After catching The Bucket List this past weekend, Justin and I passed on our Red Mango Frozen Yogurt (Justin: "Dude, we can't have Red Mango AND beer.") and ventured to Molly Malone's, a well-known hang-out for Irish-blooded LAers, where we ate french fries, checked out a couple bands we'd never heard of, caught a glimpse of The Foo Fighters' lead singer, Dave Grohl, and drank more than our share.

Also on the "exciting" radar ... Jo and I had our first out-of-LA expedition last week. We hopped in the car with the top down and drove to Orange, California, where Jo was scheduled to audition for a student film called Transmission.

Jo: Orange, California? Is that like the O.C.?
Brian: (clueless:) Yup.
Jo: But it's not even close to the water.
Brian: Uh, (still clueless:) this is rural O.C. Rich people who don't like to swim. Like rich farmers. Oil farmers. Like that...

We didn't learn much about Orange, seeing as how we scurried out of there as soon as Jo's Chapman College audition was over, but we did get the gist of their simple suburban existence that in NO WAY resembles the ostentatious, dramatic lives depicted on The Hills.

I insisted on making a pit stop at Knot's Berry Farm, as I had been there as a child but had no recollection of the place whatsoever. We didn't have time to enter the amusement park, per se, but we did appreciate it from outside its cream-colored barricades. There were no berries or farms to be found - false advertise, much? - but we found comfort and cheese bread at a popular, corporate-owned restaurant with a name that was better than the food but that neither of us can seem to remember.

Musical entertainment this week comes from the throaty Willy Mason (If the Ocean Gets Rough) and the folk singer-songwriter Gillian Welch (Time the Revelator), as well as selections from Kings of Leon and Rufus Wainwright's Release the Stars.

And now Joanna and I are off to Starbucks to work (assuming she approves what I've written), and good thing too, cause I'm about through with this third box of conversation hearts...