I thought I'd have trouble adjusting to being single and in San Francisco, but I was suprised to find that the city provides robots for me to kill on nearly every major street.



Work is getting out of control, though. Every time I walk through my magazine's corporate office, an editor screams out that they want a column from me. Apparently, no one in this city calls writers... they just wait until one wanders past their cubicle.

I have about 318 articles to write this week about the usual nonsense, but my weirdest gig is that I'm heading down to LA next weekend to film some sort of fighting video with a UFC friend of mine and some celebrity fighters at TV's Fear Factor's Joe Rogan's house. I'm assuming he's going to make us eat poisonous beetles out of a donkey's asshole from a moving circus train at some point during the shoot.