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Tuesday, December 28, 2010

A Gift for Baby Jesus

Jesus was born on December 25th 2,010 years ago.

If I were alive back then what kind of baby gift would I bring the little tyke?

There weren’t any malls so a gift certificate to Baby Gap would be out of the question. Mary and Joseph would have no place to redeem it.

Then I was thinking a baby mobile decorated with clay figures of farm animals to hang above the Jesus crib. Goats and sheep and cows and mice and little rats. It sounds like a great idea but something tells me there was no roof to the manger, and if there was a roof it was probably made of thatch and how would Joseph ever hang it? I fear it would end up in the sack that’s tossed over the mule when traveling, or worse, gnawed on by the goats and sheep and cows and mice and rats.

Next on the list was a big ‘ole stuffed Teddy or Panda Bear, but once again, not available 2,010 years ago.

What about a book? “Winnie the Pooh”? “Everybody Poops”? “I Have Two Daddies”? Damn, they pre-date little Jesus.

Because our savior-to-be was wrapped in a swaddling cloth I was thinking a baby blanket, but I’m certain everyone would be bringing blankets. Sheep skin. Pig skin. Woolen. Calf skin. The woman-folk of Bethlehem were probably staying up late skinning and sewing for that perfect blanket secretly hoping their blanket would be Jesus’ favorite. I can’t compete with expert skinners and seamstresses so I’m not even going to try.

Then it came to me in a vision... a beautiful vision of white puffy clouds, angels with golden wings, and symphonic music...

If I were alive 2,010 years ago I would go to the nearest bazaar and trade my sandals for an abacus (aka a counting frame). It’s educational and by the time Jesus grew up there wouldn’t be any technological advances which means it wouldn’t be outdated for centuries to come.

An abacus for Jesus. The perfect gift.

Saturday, December 18, 2010

Heavenly Happiness

Have you ever wondered if there’s a way to communicate with those who’ve ventured to the other side via email? Let’s face it, technology has come a long way and if we can send music files through the internet why can’t we trade emails with the beyond?
Does Heaven have it’s own website and email system? I imagine it would be something simple like heaven.hvn, and to email the Big One, aka God, all you’d have to do is send an email to God@heaven.hvn.

Besides doing good deeds and watching over us what does God do on his spare time? He probably sits on his thrown cruising the internet on his MacBook, laughing at how stupid earth people behave, choosing who’s next, and trading email stories with Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

God probably also contributes articles to Heaven’s monthly email newsletter, Heavenly Happiness. Oh I can imagine how heavenly the newsletter would look with its cloud and pearly gate logo against a beautiful blue background. So peaceful. So divine. So full of heavenly gossip.

The newsletter would give us the scoop on who’s hanging out with who, names of those denied entrance at the Pearly Gates and immediately sent south to a much hotter climate, sneak peeks at the new angel wing designs, who’s the most popular newcomer, who’s the most angelic, and who’s the one person they’re all anticipating.

To get on the mailing list all you’d have to do is send a request to newsletter@heaven.hvn and Heavenly Happiness would be all yours. And if you opt to become a heavenly subscriber (for a nominal fee) you’d be rewarded with monthly coupons redeemable upon your arrival. Coupons? Oh yes, for a variety of items and discounts at the Heavenly General Store, the Heavenly Cafeteria, the Heavenly Hotel, and the Heavenly Cinema. (FYI - Tyler Perry movies are very popular at the Heavenly Cinema.)

Sounds heavenly, doesn’t it?

Tuesday, December 14, 2010

A Green Dream

Yesterday I was riding my 21-speed bicycle home from the gym zig-zagging the side streets of Hollywood avoiding traffic when I saw something green lying in the gutter. No, it wasn’t the Grinch. It was much smaller. No, it wasn’t a dead Kermit the Frog, nor was it Kermit’s green penis. It was crinkled, papery and it seemed to be beckoning me.

I screeched my bicycle breaks and bent over and scooped it up in the palm of my hand. It was currency, money, a bill, worn, looking like it had been through a difficult life. I assumed it was a dollar bill and stuffed it into my pocket. Feeling the inner joy of being a dollar richer I pedaled home with renewed vigor.

Once home I prepared to shower and as I took off my pants I pulled the newfound dollar from my pocket.

Oooh... it wasn’t a dollar after all. it was a higher amount. I looked carefully, blinked repeatedly, and saw that it was a $1,000,000 bill.

For a brief - and I mean a very brief second - I allowed myself to believe it was real. I dissolved into the millionaire’s club. You know, the club where money is no issue, taxes are next to nil, and money’s power hangs like a halo around you.

I fantasized a new pair of expensive sneakers, a new bicycle to rival Pee Wee’s Big Adventure bicycle, a deluxe kitchen mixer, a fedora, a new car, a trip to England, a trip to Surabaya, a merry-go-round in the backyard of my new hacienda, and a crown of jewels to wear while I lounge on my thrown watching my big screen TV. Aaah...

Then I looked closer and saw there were tiny bugs crawling on the bill, and what looked like dirt (but could’ve been poop) clinging to the paper.

I threw the bill in the trash, tossed my gym shorts into the laundry, and immediately jumped into the shower and scrubbed my taut body clean.

For that brief second I was a millionaire lost in a green dream. Ooh it felt grand.

Tuesday, December 07, 2010

Tickle The Nipple

I love getting free swag at conventions. Most of its useless, but every once in a while you get something you can’t keep your hands off.

This past weekend I went to the LA Convention Center for the annual ShowBiz Expo. As I wandered up and down the aisles staring blankly at all the booths wondering why I wasted time coming a high-pitched female voice suddenly interrupted my inner lament.

Would you like a boob?

A boob?

Yes, a boob.

She thrust her hand towards me and handed me a boob. A semi-firm skin-tone boob with a prominent nipple.

What does a boob have to do with ShowBiz Expo? The booth giving away the boobs was a Beverly Hills plastic surgery company. Aah, suddenly I got the connection: sagging boobs don’t look good on film, but a surgically enhanced boob looks “nipples to the wind” perfect. Oh Hollywood.

The boob now sits prominently on my desk beside my 13” MacBook computer.

When I’m feeling the lack of creative juice I grab the boob and squeeze.

When I’m feeling melancholy I gently caress the boob.

When I’m frustrated I pinch the nipple until it hurts.

When I’m feeling naughty I slap the boob.

When I’m feeling playful I tickle the nipple.

Oooh... gotta go....

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Stop!

Tis the season to not take any bullshit from anyone. If someone gets in your way make them regret it. The adrenalin rush you’ll feel racing through your body will be worth the consequence, that is if you get caught. I mean who the hell needs peace and serenity when anger is so much more fun?

Just the other day in Los Angeles a crossing guard was holding up her “stop” sign to allow people to cross the street. The 59 year old woman was doing her job; doing it well; doing it proudly.

Then an SUV came along and didn’t want to heed her warning. Why should they? They had some place to go and didn’t want some 59 year old crossing guard near an elementary school telling them - in their mighty SUV - what to do.

So what did they do? They jumped out of their mighty SUV and beat up the crossing guard. They ripped her ID badge from around her neck and stole her “stop” sign. They jumped back into their mighty SUV and drove away.

27 year old Jose Hernandez and 20 year old Vanessa Del Pilar Martinez ganged up on a defenseless crossing guard.

Luckily witnesses memorized the mighty SUV’s license plate and the police were able to track them down and arrest them. They’re both being held in jail in lieu of $50,000 bail.

I can only imagine what could possess two absolute moronic idiots to do such a stupid, stupid thing. Were they on drugs? Were they angry because their credit cards were declined at the mall and took out their frustration on the crossing guard? Are they bullies who get a sexual rush out of beating up crossing guards?

I hope Santa fills their stockings with coal, the reindeer shit on their roof, and they spend months behind bars with cellmates named Big Bubba and Large Marge.

Ho, ho, ho.

Sunday, November 28, 2010

The Tidy Bowl Man

A few weeks ago my toilet wasn’t feeling well. The water kept running and wouldn’t shut off.

If I were the Tidy Bow Man in his motor boat cruising the lake of my toilet it would have seemed like a waterfall (not as powerful as Niagara) cascading down the side of the tank causing some rough waters. I worried the Tidy Bowl Man would be seasick, or worse, the waters would be too rough and capsize his little boat.

I immediately called the landlord and after a few attempts he finally diagnosed and supposedly fixed the problem. For a couple of weeks the waters were calm, and when I lifted the lid I could see the Tidy Bowl Man happily singing “Shiver Me Timbers” and other nifty nautical songs.

I did notice the water level wasn’t as high as it normally was, but I assumed it was because of the new part the landlord installed. My toilet was being green, saving water and helping save the environment. I wanted to call Al Gore and tell him I was doing my share.

Thinking I was being green wasn’t what was really happening. Oh no... my toilet tale is about to take a bad turn...

I flushed the other day and as the toilet did it’s thing I heard a high-pitched “oohing.” It wasn’t a happy “oohing.” It was desperate, scary “oohing.”

I looked in the toilet and there was no water. The tank had not refilled. The Tidy Bowl Man was no where to be found. I called out his name. I yelled “Shiver Me Timbers.” I banged SOS on the side of the tank.

The water never returned. Not a drop.

The Tidy Bowl Man was flushed to the sewers. Gone. All that was left was his little sailor hat that lay lonely against the dry white porcelain.

RIP Tidy Bowl Man.

I should sue the landlord for negligent toilet skills.

Thursday, November 18, 2010

The Sunday Morning Call

When I moved to California almost twenty years ago I moved west from my east coast roots which meant I entered a new time zone. There was now a three hour difference with me being three hours earlier than my family.

I remember my first week in Los Angeles. The sun. The great temperatures. Everything smelled new. It was all very exciting.

And then Sunday arrived.

I was nestled in my new bed lost in dreamtime when the phone rang jolting me out of my reverie. I glanced at the clock and it was 7:55 AM. Who would be calling me so damn early?

In my half-asleep hoarse voice I mumbled a curt, yet friendly, hello. On the other end were my parents all excited to hear about the my new adventures in the land of cacti, palm trees, and tofu. They had just come home from church, poured themselves a cup of coffee, and were relaxing around the kitchen table.

It never occurred to them that I might still be asleep.

I never had the heart to tell them it was way too early to call.

Over the years - almost twenty - I was able to gently move the Sunday morning calls from 7:55 to 8:05 to 8:15 etc. until this past year we arrived at 9:20 AM. Yes, every Sunday morning I received a call. It was our tradition. I learned to look forward to it and in my own routine began getting up a few minutes before the call, brewing some medium roast coffee, and anticipating the ring of the phone.

That call was the family connection, the lifeblood from which I came, a comfort, and a anchor when life got too hectic.

Sadly, last week the calls changed forever when my mother died after a brief illness. Of course I still have dad to talk to, but with mom gone the Sunday morning call will never be quite the same.

Thursday, November 04, 2010

130 Million

Thank goodness Jerry Brown was elected California’s new Governor. I will personally welcome with open arms.


As for his opponent Meg Whitman... egad, evil now has a face and it’s certainly not a pretty one.

Whitman spent over $130 million of her own money to buy our votes, but no one wanted to sell their soul to get the crap she was selling. This is a woman who didn’t vote for 28 years yet had the audacity to expect people to vote for her. What the hell was she thinking?

She obviously wasn’t thinking, but I have been thinking about what she could’ve done with $130 million to really benefit people (and in the process give her some desperately needed good karma).

She could’ve bought thousands of computers and donated them to schools.

She could’ve bought 130 million yo-yos because people love to get together and yo-yo.


She could’ve bought thousands of Olivia Newton-John’s Liv-Aid Devices to help women detect breast cancer.

She could’ve donated millions to buy food for the homeless, diapers for children, and vaccines for newborns.

She could’ve donated money to medical research.

She could've bought all of us gift certificates to Olive Garden.

She could’ve helped the victims of the latest earthquake, hurricane, or typhoon.

She could’ve bought herself a makeover; new hairstyle; new face; and a new heart.

It’s all coulda woulda shoulda... but she didn’t. Instead she pissed the money away on telling lies and caressing her big fat ugly ego.

Hopefully she’ll crawl back into her cave so we’ll never see or hear from her again.

Friday, October 29, 2010

Cigarettes and Cell Phones

The other day I was poking around the Internet and came across a blurb claiming cigarette addiction has been replaced by cell phone addiction. It made me stop and think and then my cell phone rang and I leaped across the room, knocking over a lamp, to answer it.

It was a wrong number. Some woman named Ethel was looking for a woman named Lucy. Damn.

Later that night my cell phone battery went dead. I foolishly had forgotten to charge it. Damn me. I quickly plugged it into the charger and watched the battery blink and blink and blink. I stood still watching the blinks until my dear cell phone regained its strength. I was forced to cancel dinner plans. Without a fully charged cell phone I wasn’t about to go anywhere.

With my happily charged cell phone I was finally able to relax. I crawled into bed knowing that anyone anywhere was now able to get a hold of me. That cell phone battery mishap took its toll on me both mentally and physically. I slept like a baby.

The next morning I was clear headed and able to ponder the cigarettes and cell phones comparison as I dunked my chocolate biscotti into my cup of freshly brewed Costa Rican coffee.

Cigarettes cause lung cancer, yet people cannot stop smoking. Cell Phones can cause brain cancer, yet people cannot stop using them.

Cigarette smokers have no concern for others when they’re blowing clouds of cancerous smoke in your air space. Cell phone uses have no concern for others when they’re talking loudly in public places about inane crap no one else wants to hear.
Cigarettes are expensive. Cell phone plans can be quite costly.

Cigarette smoking yellows your teeth. Cell phones held too tightly to your ear cause “flat ear” syndrome and red ear.

Cigarette addicts cannot go a minute without a lit cig hanging from their wrinkled lips. Cell phone addicts cannot go a minute without a cell phone held tightly against their ear drum.

Cigarette smokers are fanatics about their brand. Cell Phone users are fanatics about their brand and ringtone.

Oh damn...

Sunday, October 24, 2010

Painted Ponies

Los Angeles is full of little wonders and today I discovered one within a couple of miles from where I live. In my nineteen years living here I never knew it even existed until today.

Tucked away in Griffith Park is the Griffith Park Merry-Go-Round. It’s not just any merry-go-round. It’s got painted ponies. It’s got organ music. It’s got history.

Oh yes.

The Griffith Park Merry-Go-Round was built in 1926 and brought to Griffith Park in 1937. It’s got 68 horses and everyone of them is a jumper.

For a mere two dollars I was able to travel back in time to my childhood and re-experience the total awe of the painted ponies going up and down and up and down while the merry-go-round music played merrily.

My painted pony was quite gentle. No horse farting. No horse snorting. No throwing me. No horse smell.

Oh the freedom of riding my pony... grasping the reins with one hand and swinging my arm in the air yelling “Yippee kai yay!” I wish someone had taken my picture.

Okay, okay, okay... so it was a ceramic horse bolted to the ground, but for an ex-suburban now city boy like me it was four minutes in the wild, wild, wild west. I felt like a combination of John Wayne, Gene Autry, and the Three Amigos.

Next time I go I’m gonna wear my cowboy hat.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

A Great Passenger

Imagine this: You’re a 57 year old woman who owns a car. You live in the upscale Corona del Mar, CA suburb. You see a homeless person in the nearby park. You befriend the homeless person. You tell the homeless person she could sleep in your car.

How nice. How citizen of the year. How CNN Hero of you to do such a wonderful thing.

Then one night the homeless woman dies in your car. In your passenger seat. Dead. No pulse. No breath. No heartbeat. Dead.

You don’t call 911. You don’t drive into the woods late one night and dump the body. You don’t pull the body from your car and gently place it in a Hefty trash bag and toss it in the nearby dumpster. You leave the body in your passenger seat... for 10 months.

Rigor mortis. Decay. That once happy homeless face sags into a sunken sadness. Skeletal.

And you still don’t remove the body. Instead you pop open a box of Baking Soda and place it strategically in your car to help suck up the odor, and you cover the body with a blanket. Those California nights do get chilly and you don’t want a corpse catching a cold or worse, the flu.

That’s exactly what happened recently. Can you believe it?

The police discovered the dead passenger when they found the car illegally parked. The homeless woman had shriveled to skin and bone weighing barely 30 pounds. The 57 year old owner of the car said she was afraid when she discovered the body so she decided to do what she did. Nothing.

The big question is why...

I think the owner of the car saw a selfish opportunity and took it. She kept the body in her car so she could drive in the carpool lane during rush hour traffic.

Friday, October 22, 2010

I’m Back...

I have been so negligent with writing my precious thoughts in my blog.

I could say it’s because I’ve been wasting time in the hammock of laziness drinking pomegranate martinis and eating raw oysters, but I’d be lying.

I could say it’s because I’ve been on a whirlwind tour of the world dining with kings and queens and the occasional common folk, but that would be a boldface lie.

And I could say it’s because I was kidnapped by tea party terrorists and forced to listen repeatedly to Sarah Palin speeches until my ears bled, but everyone knows I’d kill myself before I’d subject myself to repeat listens of that bitch’s voice.

The truth is I’ve been wrapped up in life. Lots of life. I’ve been working on a film production and I’ve been busy with writing a couple of film projects. The sun would come up and before I knew it it was well past sundown, time to collapse into bed, only to do it all over again.

Because I was so busy I broke a rule I once promised myself I’d never do. While peeing at a urinal I answered my cell phone and conducted a business conversation without losing aim and wetting myself. It was a little tricky holding the cell phone with one hand and my “manhood” in the other, but I did it and I did it well. I don’t think the person I was talking to had a clue.

Of course I felt pangs of guilt. I did. But mixed with the guilt was a little pride that I did it flawlessly.

I promise not to do it again. Mother Nature and business calls shouldn’t mix.

I’m back everybody, I’m back...

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Celebrity Squatters

Randy and Evi Quaid have jumped off the diving board of sanity and have bellyflopped into the cesspool of celebrity ego-inspired crime.

Have they been smoking too much crystal meth?

Have they been snorting too much cocaine?

Last year they were caught skipping out of hotels without paying their bills. Now they’ve been arrested for squatting in a house they sold years ago.

Oh yes Randy Quaid, the awarding winning actor and unattractive brother of handsome Dennis Quaid, along with his equally unattractive wife Evi, the failed director/producer who’s sole film was ironically called “The Debtors,” have been arrested for being celebrity squatters and once again behaving badly.

Not only did they squat but they destroyed the house too. It’s been reported that they trashed the place, and a $7,000 mirror that hung over the fireplace was broken and replaced with a picture of Randy and Evi.

When they fornicate do they have better orgasms in places where they have no intention of paying rent?

For last year’s crimes they avoided jail time and received community service. This time they need to serve hard time.

I suggest Randy bunk with George Michael and Evi bunk with the soon-to-be-incarcerated-for-a-failed-drug-test Lindsay Lohan.

George can teach Randy to sing the high notes, and Lindsay can teach Evi... well, use your imagination.

Friday, September 17, 2010

Nighty Night...

The bedbug is making a major comeback in America, sort of like Sarah Palin and her tea party cohorts.

I have never met a bedbug and I hope I never will, but I have met a few cockroaches in my day (and some of those were in human form). Shall I name names? I could but I won’t. Not today.

Years ago I actually thought bedbugs were made-up creatures - like the bogeyman - to scare you into changing your bed linen weekly or to scare you into not eating in bed.

But bedbugs are real. They were once pretty much eradicated from the beds of America, but now they’ve crept back into the comfort of 400 count sheets as well as 180 count sheets and everything in between and above and below. They don’t prefer Sealy Posturepedic over Stearns and Foster. These bloodsucking creatures don’t discriminate.

It used to be assumed they only were in dirty homes with dirty people and dirty beds, or in flea bag no-tell motels that charge by the hour and come with complimentary penicillin. They're now in cities, and suburbs, and the rural areas too.

Be forewarned: If you’re having an affair on your spouse and you’re meeting your lover in a hotel or your lover’s bed before you strip to do the dirty deed be sure to flip over the mattress and check for bedbugs.

The last thing you want to do in bring home a bedbug. They’re like crabs. Their presence demands a lot of explaining.

Nighty night... don’t let the bed bugs bite...

Sunday, September 12, 2010

Let Your Fingers Do The Walking...

A couple of weeks ago I came home to find a stack of new telephone books propped up against my apartment door. They were tightly packed in a yellow plastic bag and when I listened clearly I could hear them softly screaming, “Don’t leave me out here. Bring me into your apartment and let me fulfill my telephone destiny. Let your fingers do the walking over my tender pages.”

I glanced down the hall and saw yellow bags at all the other apartment doors. They looked lonely, yearning, on the verge of suffocating. I gently picked up the bag, coddled it, and carried it inside.

As a child happily ensconced in suburbia I remember the joy that raced through my husky little body every year when the new town telephone book would arrive. I’d immediately look up my family name, counting the number of families who shared my name. Some years the number went up and other years it went down.
When I first moved to Los Angeles and received my first telephone book I almost broke my fingers looking up my name. Oh yes there were others with my last name, and unlike my suburban town where they were all my relatives, this time they were non-relatives.

I thought about setting out to meet them personally, but life got in the way, and I never did do it. Now I search them on facebook.

But I cannot get myself to throw out the telephone books.

Every year I rotate the new ones with the old ones and toss the old ones in the recycle bin. The new ones sit on the top shelf of my hall closet where they live out their destiny. Occasionally I take them down and flip through the pages. And when I do I can hear the pages sighing happily.

Sadly the ones left outside my neighbor’s doors aren’t treated kindly. My neighbors kick them aside until the building manager comes along and scoops them up and tosses them in the trash (not even the recycle bin).

Maybe next year I’ll go door to door and pick up all the orphaned telephone books and give them a proper home.

Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Paris Needs a Timeout

Oh Paris... Oh Paris...

And I’m not talking about the City of Light. I’m talking about the selfish, self-centered, not-that-pretty, wispy voiced, celebutard who thinks she shits gold pellets and pees crystal clean urine.

Let’s get the facts straight: It WAS her purse. It WAS her cocaine.

She needs a timeout. Prison. And most importantly she needs the world to stop feeding her overblown ego. Has she ever contributed anything worthwhile to society?

The dumb ass bitch craves media, along with cocaine and marihuana.

Obviously her last stint in the pokey wasn’t long enough and it didn’t teach her any kind of human lesson.

I do remember her media tour immediately following her incarceration where she cried and vowed to be a better person. If I also remember correctly she found Jesus while sitting on her cot in her non-designer prison garb while being forced to go without her fake fingernails, without makeup, without hair extensions, and without her twitter account. Well blah, blah, blah... it was all a crock of crap. The next time Jesus visits her he should slap her silly.

It’s time for Paris to learn once and for all that she is not above everybody else, and she needs to pay the price for her illegal activities. If a “commoner” gets caught with cocaine in her purse she’s convicted and incarcerated before she could utter in a fake irritating voice “ it wasn’t my purse.”

Paris... you need prison. And the prison matron needs a new kitty cat. And that kitty cat is you. Meow.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

The Silent Facebook Wars

Facebook can be wonderful. Facebook can be annoying. Facebook can sometimes gives me a perverse laugh.

It’s been wonderful collecting Facebook friends like I used to collect baseball cards. Some are treasured and valued and some I couldn’t care less about though I’m glad they’re there just in case they someday increase in value.

It’s annoying when a Facebook friend cannot stop posting stupid messages. Does anybody really care what you had for dinner or what you’re watching on TV or that you’ve just had a mind blowing bowel movement?

And then there’s the silent Facebook wars...

Oh yes, someone posts something and someone takes personal offense and ultimately un-friends that Facebook friend. And the un-friended friend doesn’t even realize they’ve been un-friended because they have so many friends on Facebook that one less Facebook friend isn’t even noticed. But the person who did the un-friending feels totally triumphant because they clicked that “delete friend” button like the were detonating a nuclear bomb. Pow! Un-friended!

Recently I noticed I’d been twice un-friended, and being in an investigative mood I decided to determine who had the audacity to un-friend me.

After careful examination I discovered the two fools who were stupid enough to partake in the silent Facebook war against me. Neither of them were Facebook friends I deemed wonderful; she was more a nuisance and he was a freaking fanatic.

It seems during Michael Jackson’s anniversary week I posted a simple wall post saying I didn’t think he was the king. She took offense and replied to my post saying Jackson was brilliant, a superstar, the King of Pop. Well one post lead to another and “pedophile” and “drug abuse” were mentioned. The bitch un-friended me.

I could say I was saddened to see her gone, but the truth is I was so friggin’ tired of reading her stupid posts about how she was trying to lose weight by sweating to the oldies at boot camp while her other posts raved about all the food she was cooking (enough to feed a third world country) and how she devoured all the cream sauces and brownies and cakes and pork chops.

And I could say I was saddened to see him gone, but he couldn’t stop posting how much he loved Michael Jackson and it kind of scared me. I think he must’ve partaken in a little too much “Jesus Juice” while he amused himself with a white glove. He obviously read my Michael Jackson post and got his boxer briefs in a tiny uproar.

To both of them I say beat it.

Saturday, August 21, 2010

Little Swimmers

Over the years I’ve sadly become quite immune to bad behavior, but once in a while I read about someone behaving badly which sends a jolt up my spine and I cannot help but wonder, “What the fuck were they thinking?"

And that was my reaction when I read the story of 31 year old Michael Kevin Lallana of Newport Beach, CA who ejaculated into a water bottle that was on his co-worker’s desk. He didn’t do it once. He did it twice in two different bottles to the same co-worker. Wow, his aim must be like an expert archer. The top of a water bottle is not that big...uhm, did his little willie get stuck or did it fit nicely in the opening or did he have to use a little KY to prevent plastic water bottle burn?

After drinking the sperm tainted water from both bottles the co-worker, a woman, had an aftertaste that lingered (didn’t she ever hear of mouthwash?)... and then she felt sick... and then she decided that the water wasn’t naturally fresh and sent it to a private lab to be tested.

Lallana’s little swimmers were identified via DNA testing and he was promptly arrested.

I’m happy to report she did not become pregnant.

Did Lallana think that because she’d ingested his sperm they were now dating?

Was it an act of hate or an act of lust or an act of unrequited love or is he just a pervert?

Is the crime considered rape?

Maybe water bottle companies will now be forced to have locked caps that only the person drinking has the code to open? It might be expensive, but it’d be sperm-preventive like a condom. Hey, that could be a new industry! Bottle Condoms Caps for the “I leave my open bottles of water all over the place without proper supervision” drinker.

As for Lallana I’m sure there must be websites or fetish clubs he could have joined devoted to people who like gulping sperm flavored water bottles. I’m curious to know what he was thinking as he shot his ejaculate into the bottle. Was he thinking he’s “the man”?

I’ve worked with people whom I’ve never thought that highly of nor have I loathed enough to jerk off in their water bottle. I guess I think too highly of my sperm, my little swimmers, my potential progeny to waste on co-workers. I save them for special occasions.

Monday, August 16, 2010

A Black Cloud

I was quite amused by Jet Blue’s Steven Slater’s dramatic “fuck you” to horrible customers and his slide to freedom... and unemployment. What a way to go! He’s a hero to all customer service workers, and to some customers too.

I’m certain the bitchy lady who hit him in the head with her luggage was the final straw of years of being abused by customers who cling mightily to the “the customer is always right no matter what” mantra. The truth is some customers can be the most ill mannered arrogant assholes.

Years ago I worked in this horrible mall restaurant called Jimmy’s On The Mall whose main ingredient was lots and lots of MSG. I nicknamed the place “MSG Palace.” There was always an ambulance being called for some old person thinking they were having a heart attack when they were actually having an allergic reaction to all that MSG.

One time a regular customer insisted the baked potato wasn’t hot enough. He rubbed the potato all over his face to prove to me that it wasn’t hot to his standard. He then insisted I rub the potato over my freshly washed cheeks and chin. I declined.

I microwaved that potato until it was so hot it would’ve blistered his wrinkled mean old lips and scorched his devil tongue.

Then there was the time a woman ordered a cordial and insisted it be served in a wine glass and filled to the brim. When the bartender refused she went ballistic. Can we say “alcoholic”?

Then there was the couple that ordered one cup of coffee and when I wasn’t looking would pass it back and forth, and then keep asking for refills. They ordered decaf and after I caught on to their game I gave them regular coffee. Pleasant dreams, cheap bitches.

Just the other day I was at my favorite outdoor cafe and there was a car blocking the driveway and a truck trying to get in the driveway. I yelled for whoever owned the car to move it so the truck could get by. The owner of the car - who happened to be the cafe’s dimwitted manager - was so pissed that I would even suggest she move her car she became aggressive towards me.

As our heated argument was winding down I told her she didn’t need to be so selfish and all she had to do was move her car. That only set her off again. She said I was character assassinating her. I almost fell over laughing in her face, which only pissed her off more.

Maybe she was trying to be all Jet Blue Steven Slater with me? Maybe she thought if he could be a hero she could too? It didn’t work. With everyone watching her crass behavior and laughing at her she looked like an absolute fool, a black cloud on a sunny day, a fucking total bitch.

It would’ve been nice if she quit. Maybe she will. Or maybe she’ll get fired. One can only hope.

It just goes to show that some customers are scum and some customer service reps are scum too. But not Steven Slater.

Monday, August 09, 2010

Keep Off The Grass

This past weekend’s road adventure brought me to the San Fernando Valley to the San Fernando Mission. It’s a beautiful mission and within its compound lies the Bob Hope Memorial Garden where Mr. Hope was entombed on July 22, 2005.

I stood in front of the tomb and wanted desperately to crack a joke, a Bob Hope joke, but I couldn’t remember any.

Beside him is the tomb for Delores Hope, though she’s not there yet.

While standing there I was overcome with this feeling that he, Bob, his tomb, looked lonely. I leaned down and whispered, “Hey Mr. Hope, don’t despair, the old girl’s pushing a hundred so it won’t be too long. I promise.”

As I backed up I wandered around the garden wondering if when I die will Los Angeles create a memorial garden for me. I tend to doubt it, and that’s okay because I really don’t want people walking through my memorial garden who never knew me personally and whispering idiotic things at me and about me. And let’s not even talk about the dogs and birds and insects and vermin that’d be pissing and shitting all over my eternal plot of land.

So there I was in the garden looking around when a security guard snapped his fingers at me. I ignored him. He snapped again. I ignored him again. He came towards me.

The security guard was on his cell phone having a conversation. Was it with Bob Hope? Was it with Delores Hope?

He approached and snapped his fingers again. I looked into his vacant eyes and asked him if he was snapping at me or was that part of his conversation. He pulled the phone away from his lopsided ear long enough to tell me that I couldn’t walk on the grass, and then he pointed at a little sign snuggled in the grass that indeed told me to keep off the grass.

Why have grass if you can’t walk on it? Isn't that what it’s there for?


This reminds me of a neighbor I had when I lived back in suburban Boston. His name is Tony M. and he is a total bastard, the meanest motherfucker the earth has ever seen. He was always yelling at the neighborhood kids who dared step foot on his grass.

Tony M. is way old and like Delores he’s nearing death, and all I can say is when he finally dies (and spends eternity in hell) I hope the people who buy his house have a dozen kids who roll all over lawn, tearing up every blade of precious grass.

I’ve decided I want to be cremated.

Monday, August 02, 2010

Sheriff Joe and His Tiny...

What makes someone full of hatred?

I’ve been reading about Maricopa County, Arizona Sheriff Joe Arpaio and his hateful ideas and hateful behavior and his hateful rants. His latest campaign against immigration is shameful. I think he needs to be water-boarded.

It’s exhausting to think that someone so old (he was born June 4, 1932) can be so horrible and dangerous.

I’ve thought about it and can only come to one conclusion as to why he’s the way he is. It’s because he has a tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny, tiny peen. Yup, a shriveled little penis that makes the seven dwarves look like they’re hung like an Arabian Horse.

His poor old wife must be so frustrated. Her g-spot is a virginal as her wedding night, and her cherry, after all these years, is only dented.

I bet you he probably drives a huge big ass car/truck/SUV.

I heard a Mexican drug cartel allegedly put out a one million dollar bounty on his head today. We can only hope.

Tuesday, July 27, 2010

MC Pope Benny

The media has been abuzz with photos of Pope Benedict XVI sporting a new urban look while sashaying around his summer residence. It’s daring. It’s so aughties. And with the ostentatious gold cross dangling around his papal neck he looks like he’s ready to break into rhyme.

What provoked this new look?

Well... I have friends at the Vatican who know the skinny on the secrets of the church, and it seems that Pope Benedict is recording a rap album under his new rapper moniker MC Pope Benny. His first CD is being released in October and will feature raps sung in Latin, Polish, English, and Pig Latin.

Songs include “Alter Boys Got the Shizzle,” “Nuns Undone,” “Frisky Father Faithful,” “When Jesus Calls I Come,” “I Am the Pope, Damn It,” “Holy Water Burns,” and a loving tribute to Mother Teresa called “Mother T Got Down.”

Word’s up that after Saturday confessionals the Pope and a group of self-flagellating priests sneak into the Vatican Dance Dungeon to spin the tunes and rehearse for a performance on Saturday Night Live. Leaks from the inner sanctum say that Pope Benny is getting quite good with his dance moves, and can now grab his crotch to the rhythm of the rhyme.

Why Saturday Night Live for his debut?

Well... My Vatican moles have confided that the Pope has been bitching about “that bitch” Betty White’s success and he wants a piece of her fame.

Hopefully we’ll be able to pre-order the CD on the Vatican website soon.

To be frank, I think the baseball cap should be placed backwards on the papal head for his publicity shots. I think it would go better with the Vatican muumuu and the oversized bling.

Wednesday, July 21, 2010

Funny Little Man

Watching TV is not one of my favorite pastimes. There are periods where my TV isn’t turned on for days at a time. It’s not that I don’t like TV. I think it’s a terrific form of entertainment, and there are shows - once I stumble upon them or are forced to watch them - that I end up really enjoying.

It’s just getting me to watch a show for the first time that’s difficult. I had never seen an episode of “Sex and the City” until it was in re-runs playing late night. I would never have been gleeked with “Glee” if it weren’t for a friend inviting me over for dinner and having the show on.

Those times I’ve been near death with the flu or a cold or a mental breakdown I’ve curled on the couch like a beached whale and in my near delirium watched TV. Did you know that “Law and Order: SVU” is on hours every day? You can pass out from a high fever at 10:00 AM and wake up at 4:00 PM and that show is still on.

After hearing raves from numerous people about “Modern Family” I decided it needed to be investigated.

From the first time I watched it I was totally hooked. I think it’s the best sitcom on TV. Why? It’s not just the topnotch writing, the incredible characters (and the actors and actresses who portray them), or the very funny story lines. It’s because of one actor in particular: Rico Rodriguez who plays little Manny Delgado.

Rodriguez is absolutely hysterical. In the show he’s something like 10 going on 30, precocious, and absolutely fearless in his thoughts. He’s the type of kid I wish I were growing up.

The show was recently nominated for a ton of Emmy Awards, but sadly Rico, aka Manny, was overlooked. Shame on the Academy! He deserved to be nominated. He’s a funny, funny, funny little man.

Maybe I should take the initiative and watch more TV, and not just after hearing about shows from friends or when I’m on death’s door.

Friday, July 16, 2010

It Doesn’t Grow Back

Teenage mother Bristol Palin and her baby daddy Levi Johnston have decided to get married and form a real family, a family with true Christian values.

And in the true Christian way they have decided to not have sex until their wedding night.

Does Bristol know that her little piece of virginity isn’t growing back for the wedding night no matter how many prayers are uttered from her non-virgin lips? Once it’s broken it doesn’t grow back, Bristol.

Will she wear white with a scarlet letter and a black hem?

I wonder if Levi really was her first.. or her second... or her third or fourth... or was the football team her first?

As for publicity whore Levi, he’s got the attention span of a gnat, the IQ of an idiot, and the ego of swollen penis. Does anybody really believe he’s gonna remain faithful?

Mother Sarah must be so proud. I bet she throws them a huge tea party to celebrate.

I give the marriage less than a year.

Wednesday, July 07, 2010

Good Riddance, Lindsay

All the Lindsay Lohan hoopla finally hit the fan yesterday with the judge sentencing her to 90 days jail followed by 90 days rehab.

It was a tense moment in my household wishing, hoping, praying to the God of Celebrity that the all-too-often drugged out, drunk, bitchy, semi-gay, semi-straight, sex addict, too-old-for-her-age train wreck would be granted a minor slap on the wrist and be allowed to continue her life as a true role model for the kids of today.

When the judge announced her ruling, well, a part of me just died.

How does the song go? Bye, bye Miss American Pie...

While Lindsay’s behind bars getting cozy with Big Bertha and Large Marge what are we - the public - going to do? What will all the media outlets do without her? Will they be forced to report actual news?

With her out of action will the drug dealers be forced to go on unemployment?

And then today it’s being shown that classy, lady-like Lindsay had “fuck you” painted on her coke encrusted fingernails as a special message to the judge.

If I were the judge I’d not allow her to serve in a Los Angeles jail. I’d send her to Guantanamo Bay.

Good riddance, Lindsay, you got exactly what your bad behavior deserves.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Self-Proclaimed King

Michael Jackson is dead. He’s been dead for a year.

I was not a MJ fan. From the first time I saw him years ago on television (when I was a mere tyke) I thought there was something seriously wrong with him. He was creepy to me. Little did I know the depth of how creepy he would eventually prove himself to be... drugs, frightening plastic surgeries, little boys, publicity stunts, sham marriages, and dangling a baby over a balcony to name a few of his “quirks.”

Yet people adored him. It’s the marketing team that surrounded him that should be adored. Without them he would never have seen the level of success he had. Go ahead and boo me, I don’t care. The only reason he was nicknamed the “King of Pop” is because he gave himself that dubious title.

I made the mistake of getting caught up in the “Thriller” hysteria for about two minutes and in that weak moment I bought the album. Two listens later and I packed it up and hurried to the used record store. The clerk just laughed at me saying it wasn’t worth the vinyl it was recorded on. The store was getting way too many people wanting to dump the album.

There are a couple of his songs I will concede I like, but surprisingly those are the songs he didn’t write.

When he died of a drug overdose, which I’m sorry to say was his own fault, people wanted to turn him into a mythical saint. They want to blame everyone for what went wrong with him, but they need to do what he should have done: look at the man in the mirror.

A woman I met emphatically told me that MJ was “love.” She stammered on and on and on about how Love = Michael Jackson. I forgot to ask her to define “love.”

I’m all for remembering the good when someone meets their final destination, but MJ’s remembrances are as creepy as the man/boy himself.

And don’t get me started on how certain people, especially his father, are out whoring MJ’s name with fake tears and fake concern with a jaundice eye aimed at money to be made. Shameful.

I just proclaimed myself the King of Blogs.

Saturday, June 19, 2010

31 Inches

Through the years I’ve grown my facial hair, shaved it off, grown it again, and shaved, shaved, shaved.

First there was the mustache in the early 80s which made me look like I just got off the boat from Italy. My Irish roots went totally underground and my Italian roots took complete control. Bonjourno!

It wasn’t long before I shaved my hairy lip.

After that I sported a goatee for quite a while. I liked it a lot, and so did a lot of people, but it did have its downside. It I were not paying attention when I ate inevitably something would drip, droop, or detach itself from my fork and stick to my chin hairs.

Sadly my chin hairs grew in various colors: medium brown (my real color), golden, dark brown, blonde, and some gray. There’s only so much you can cover up with an eyebrow pencil, and if I had a food mishap I would end up wiping away all the color along with the semi-chewed food. Not a pretty picture.

So yet again I shaved my hairy chin.

I’ve even sported a soul patch a few times, but that always seemed to overstay its welcome and I would resort to a cleanly shaven face.

What I’ve never done is let my mustache grow to enormous proportions so I could have mustache wings.

I recently came across an article about Larry McClure and his totally hip mustache wings. From tip to tip they measure some 31 inches. Wow.

How is he able to get into a crowded elevator without poking someone’s eye out?

If you spin him around like a whirling dervish does he take flight and fly?

How kinky are those mustache wings? Do they tickle his wife in her special places?

Does he ever pull his wings together under his chin and braid them into a chin ponytail?

Do his mustache wings sag when he’s sad, and perk up when he’s aroused?

Does he hang Christmas ornaments on them to be holiday festive?

Oh the possibilities are endless...

I think I’m gonna grow a mustache again.

Tuesday, June 15, 2010

Something Missing on the Metro

Sunday I took the Los Angeles Metro Train to Little Tokyo in pursuit of tea and food. Actually I didn’t have tea at all, but the friend I travelled the train with did (white tea to be exact ).

I’m a total coffee man. I don’t love tea. I rarely drink it, and when I do it’s usually fresh rosemary tea I brew to help fight poor circulation, fever, flatulence, memory, and menstrual cramps.

But I digress...

The Los Angeles Metro experience is a truly lovely time. The trains are pretty and clean. They arrive on schedule. They’re not overly crowded. The ride is smooth. But there was something missing...

Rats. Where were the rats?

I leaned over the tracks searching desperately for vermin. Nothing. I’m a rat voyeur and was totally disappointed there were no rats to come out and put on a show. I did my near-perfect rat call (not one rat answered!), and then resorted to visualizing a family of rats nestled in the walls of the platform making there way onto the tracks. Still nothing.

When I lived in Boston I used to love watching all the rats scurrying around the subway tracks looking for food or a quick rat lay, and then scattering when the trains pulled up to the platform. I used to howl when people would freak out (scream) as if the rats were gonna leap from the tracks and bite them in the neck.

And let’s not forget New York subway rats. Hell, those suckers are big ones. I remember one time being in a Times Square subway and watching a rat as big as a cat race across the platform a few feet from where I was standing. It was something to behold; a memory I’ll always treasure.

Maybe next Metro trip.

Thursday, June 03, 2010

Sucker Punched In The...

Just when I thought it was safe to not wear a jockstrap I read there’s a new trend called “Sack Tapping.”

A teen in Crosby, MN was “sack tapped” recently and ended up having to have one of his testicles amputated. His right one. His poor left one is now lonely for its mate.

So what is “Sack Tapping”? It’s punching someone in the groin, and it seems to be a growing trend amongst teens.

Dr. Scott Wheeler, a Minnesota Urologist, says he performs three to four testicle removals a year as a direct result of someone being sucker punched in the pouch.

The sack tappee gets sudden pain, and possible loss of a prized ball. What does the sack tapper get? A thrill? An imprint of a scrotum on their fist?

And who’s doing the tapping? Cheerleaders? Jocks? Sarah Palin?

All I know is that there’ll be no more free-ballin’ for me. I just went out and purchased a steel enforced jockstrap. It might be a tad uncomfortable, but its protecting my jewels from a painful punch in the pouch.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

A Royal Calamity

Oh the webs people weave...

This past week we learned that the happiest divorced couple in the world is gonna be happy no more. Fergie was caught in a sting operation selling access to her ex-husband Prince Andrew. Does she harbor such intense hateful feelings towards him that she would discard any sense of dignity for the almighty money? Did she actually think she’d never get caught?

Oh royalty oh royalty what has happened to thee?

First there was Diana and her bad behavior and now it’s Fergie. Are the men of Windsor that blind to money grubbing gold diggers?

For a mere pittance Fergie would promise you the opportunity to shake Andrew’s hand at a charity auction.

For a little more cash I believe Fergie would get your photo taken along side the Prince at a charity auction, and have it autographed personally by the Prince.

For a bit more cash I hear Fergie would allow you the opportunity to enjoy tea and crumpets with the Prince on a Thursday afternoon after he’s taken his afternoon nap.

For a sizable increase in a cash donation Fergie would sell you Andrew’s email address, and his password to the royal website where the royals share their inner most thoughts with each other.

For a whole lot of cash I’ve learned Fergie will get you a pair of Andrew’s unwashed Calvin Klein bikini briefs with a guarantee that DNA testing would prove the royal jewels sweated inside the designer pouch.

For a ton of cash I hear Fergie would not only give you the underwear but allow you to sneak into the royal palace and watch through a peep hole as the Prince showered, shaved, and... well, he is a man and he does have sexual needs.

Friends are saying Fergie’s fragile and desperate and in a very bad place. No shit. Her royal ass is gonna be thrown out of the royal family once and for all, and she deserves it. Shame on you, Fergie, shame on you.

Monday, May 17, 2010

I Dreamed a Hat

I’ve always loved hats. I think they give style and attitude. And for the past year whenever I’ve been in a store that sells hats I’ve tried them on searching for the perfect hat for my particular head.

I’ve tried on fedoras, berets, baseball caps, dunce hats, knitted hats, and anything resembling a hat.

I quickly learned it’s not easy finding the perfect hat.

Well that has all changed.

Last week I was having a recurring hat dream, and in that dream I was wearing a straw hat with a black felt rim. It was a hat that made me feel special. It was the perfect hat for my not-so-perfect head. Wherever I went in that hat in that dream people said, “Hey Michael, that’s a cool hat!”

This past Sunday after going for brunch a friend and I decided to hike the arroyo in Pasadena. As we hiked along there in the middle of the path was a hat on the ground. At first I thought I was hallucinating, a combination of too much coffee and french toast, but after blinking numerous times I realized my sanity was still in tact and there before was a hat, a straw hat with a black felt rim. It was the hat from my dream.


What joy. What bliss.

I slowly picked it up and caressed it carefully. There was no sign of wear, and no signs of bug infestation. It looked brand spanking new. I didn’t know what to do... put it on? I let my instincts take over and onto my head it went. I felt style. I felt attitude. I kept it on.

As I continued on my hike a little boy on his father’s shoulders hiked passed me. He looked at me and said, “That’s a cool hat.”

The prophecy has been fulfilled.

Friday, May 07, 2010

Bathroom Girls

Last week I went to the premiere screening of a small independent film. There was the requisite red carpet, though tiny and a bit worn, and a few paparazzi types snapping photos in hopes that some day - sooner rather than later - there’d be a scandal involving one of the unknown cast members (involving sex, drugs, and a government official) so the pics would be People or US Weekly or National Enquirer worthy.

Once in my seat I began wondering if the film would totally suck, be semi-sucky, or completely surprise me and not be sucky at all. To help pass the time I people watched giggling at the wannabes who were pretending to be enraptured with the people they were speaking to all the while looking over their shoulders in hopes that someone better would come along.

Fake smiles. Air kisses. Designer knockoffs.

Suddenly two women plopped down beside me. Their high energy was contagious. They were giddy, happy, and friendly. As it turns out they had parts in the film - their first motion picture - as Bathroom Girl #2 and Bathroom Girl #3. I asked about Bathroom Girl #1 and they didn’t remember there being a Bathroom Girl #1. Hmmm, maybe the actress they hired as Bathroom Girl #1 was shitty and they had to flush her I thought.

The movie started and whenever there was a bathroom scene both girls would breath heavily, anticipating... and then the scene would pass and they were nowhere to be seen.

When the film ended (thankfully) I could hear the disappointment in their breathing. Even though I thought the film was pretty sucky I did have a pang of sympathy for the Bathroom Girls.

At the after party they excitedly told me the director assured them their scene was going to be part of the DVD extras.

Oh the joys of pursuing an acting career.

Thursday, April 29, 2010

Green Green Green

Kermit the Frog is green. Grass is green. Broccoli is green. So is asparagus, mold, money, and the sheets I have on my bed.

Green is on the minds of everyone these days, and rightfully so. I much prefer green over that dreadful brown or black or beige or grey or neon blue.

People too are green... with envy. Oh yes, believe me.

These past few weeks I was working long, long hours and didn’t have time to get to the gym. That all ended last week when the project I was working on finished production, and along with the job ending so did the craft food table, the catering, and all the junk food to keep the carbs wrapped around my waist like a pitbull on a rampage.

This week I’ve been diligently heading to the gym to tone up. And yesterday while I was hanging from the pole doing my pull ups I noticed people were watching me. Ooh, it felt good.

And then as I was doing crunches I saw other people stealing glances. Ooh, I must be looking tight I thought.

And it happened again as I was doing push ups. Wow, my butt must be really looking good.

Then as I was strolling across the gym - full of confidence and adding a swagger to my strut - I saw even more people checking me out. My ego was swollen. I was convinced everyone was green with envy for my toned body.

When I got to the locker room one of the gym trainers approached. I braced myself for the compliment every kid who grew up husky awaits...

“Where did you get that thing?”

What? The trainer was pointing to the dangling thing in front of me. My smooth beautiful 9 1/2 inches of steel... my new green Steelworks water bottle. Oh that.

Deflated and defeated, I told him he could order it online, blah, blah, blah...

As I was leaving the gym I looked in the mirror and saw that fat husky teen with the baby fat that just won’t melt away no matter how many miles I run on that stupid treadmill.

Damn, I need a new gym.

Tuesday, April 27, 2010

Where's Tonya?

This morning I was minding my own business walking down the street when a sign posted on a telephone pole caught my attention. I stopped and read it, and read it again.
If you cannot read the writing it says:

MISSING
MY IMAGINARY FRIEND TONYA
[Picture taken 2 years ago] Last seen September
3rd. Frequents discount sushi bars and video game
arcades. If you see her, tell her Maria is sorry about the
ice cream and to come home.


I immediately set out to find Tonya. I could feel the pain that must be piercing Maria’s heart knowing her imaginary friend was lost somewhere in the neighborhood.

I roamed the streets silently screaming “Tonya, Tonya, Tonya!”

She didn’t pop out of the bushes. She didn’t come running across the street when the walk sign blinked “walk.” She didn’t step off the bus after an excursion to the arcade and discount sushi bar. No. Tanya was nowhere to be found.

Was she dragged away by a rabid coyote? Was she abducted by aliens?

Tired and despondent I wandered home. There were tears in my eyes and an ache in my heart.

I stumbled up the stairs to my second floor apartment and when I opened the door there was Tonya with my imaginary friend Barry enjoying chocolate chip pecan ice cream and giggling happily. What joy! What bliss!

It was clear to see that Barry was totally enamored - dare I say in love - with the beautiful Tonya. I knew instantly that Maria didn’t deserve an imaginary friend as special as Tonya.

Tonya danced for us and showed us how she’s double jointed, and when she sang she sang eloquently in tongue.

Her voice is melodic. Her bending mesmerizing.

We’re a happy family now.

Monday, April 19, 2010

Double Fun Evelyn

Okay, sometimes I admit my taste in pop culture has lapsed into schmaltz and embarrassment.

There was that unfortunate time in the 80s when I permed my hair and sang full voice to Michael Bolton songs.

And then in the 90s it didn’t get much better. Gone was the perm and shoulder pads but my inner schmaltz blossomed like a pimple on a chin. The macarena anyone? How about that achey breaky heart?

As the new millennium dawned I woke up and rejected my inner geek and transformed myself. I can now proudly stand totally vertical and announce that I am cool, hip, happening, and even cooler (and on a dark cloudy day quite sexy).

How do I maintain this way? I listen to people and absorb all that they’re saying and explore it on my own.

From across the ocean and the land of royalty, Big Ben, and fish and chips I have come to rely on Owen to be one of the barometers of what I should be listening to. He’s got eclectic taste and has introduced me to a variety of incredible music.

This time it's the brilliance of Evelyn Evelyn.

I love the name Evelyn. It’s a complicated name full of contradiction, silly rhythm, and a tinge of naughty, naughty.

You must watch this video. I am mesmerized, strangely aroused, and swollen with joy every time I click “play.”

So without any further babbling I present Evelyn Evelyn singing the ultra hip “Have You Seen My Sister Evelyn?”



Don’t you wish you were an Evelyn?

Sunday, April 04, 2010

What’s That Smell?

A couple of weeks ago I made my yearly trip to Indian Wells, CA for the Paribas Tennis Finals, and like every year it was a terrific time.

Here are some pics as we drove into Palm Springs:
I just love the desert.

We first watched the Women’s final and the champion was Jelena Jankovic and then Ivan Ljubicic took the Men’s title. Great matches. Great sportsmanship. Great speed on those serves! If I could only play that well.

Afterwards we ventured to Palm Springs for dinner at a posh restaurant (very 60s swinging decor) and that’s where the “incident” happened. Oh yes, an incident.

After drinking lots of water at the tournament I had to pee so badly that I politely excused myself from the table and hurried into the Mens Room. I tossed my backpack on the counter by the sink and rushed to the urinal. Phew, I made it in time.

As I was peeing I smelled something. It wasn’t a pleasant smell. I thought to myself, “Asparagus?” No, that wasn’t it.

I continued peeing and the smell kept getting stronger, and it was getting more intense, like burning rubber. I glanced behind me to the stalls and they were empty. Hmm I thought, what could it be? Did someone not flush? Was there a sudden plumbing failure and the toilets were overflowing?

I quickly looked down at my feet and nope, no sewage rising like an incoming tide.

Finally I finished peeing, and the smell was even worse.

After zipping and adjusting myself I turned to the sink and that’s when I saw it. Fire. Flames about four inches high were coming from my backpack. I quickly ran to the sink and with a firefighter’s skill I turned on the water and splashed the inferno and blew at the same time. The flames died. The smell remained.

What caused the fire? In my quest to get to the urinal I tossed my backpack onto a lit candle.

Can you imagine what would’ve happened if I had to #2 and went into a stall?

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Ring Them Bells

I love bells.

I love hearing bells ring.

Not doorbells because that means someone’s on the other side of my door, usually uninvited, and they want to sell me something, convert me to their cultish religion, or have me sign a petition.

Not cowbells because, well, that means cows are close by and I don’t run in the same circles as cows (I’m city, not country), though I do love cows for their leather for my shoes and belts and pants and whips, and occasionally for their meat.

Not those prissy handbells that snitty folk use to summon the help. I use an intercom instead, and if the help doesn’t hear me I just yell, and then immediately fire the help.

Certainly not sleigh bells because that means cold weather, snow, and some fat man in a red suite yelling “Ho, ho, ho” and me looking around and not seeing any ho.

What I’m talking about are the hefty bells hanging from the bell towers.


Recently I visited the mission in San Luis Obispo and was in awe of the bells. They are just beautiful.

A good bell’s ding dong-ing is like the voice of God.

So ring them bells and ring them loud and ring them often.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

4.4 @ 4:04

When Mother Nature decides to fart she doesn’t care what time of the night it is, nor does she care how powerful her fart is. She just lets loose and we suffer the consequences.

Early this morning I suddenly jolted out of my dream sleep. At first I thought I was coming out of a “special” dream but I felt no inclination for a cigarette or to cuddle myself. This was different; something more powerful had overtaken me.

My mirror rattled. My bed felt like a cheap motel vibration. The force seemed to sweep across the room with a swiftness that lasted mere seconds but left an impression.

I glanced towards my Panasonic RG CD500 alarm clock with 20 radio station memory and saw that it was 4:04 AM.

There was sudden calmness and that’s when I realized what I just experienced was an earthquake. Sure enough it was and it registered a 4.4 on the Richter Scale.

Doesn’t it seem like there’s been a lot of earthquake activity lately? With everyone pulling oil and everything else out of the earth what fills the void? Does that void give Mother Nature severe gas and her only way to relieve herself is to shake, rattle, and roll until she feels better? I’m a bit concerned, and perplexed that no one else seems to raise my pertinent questions.

I felt the earth move last night and not in the way I normally like it.

Saturday, March 06, 2010

Pray for Jennie

I’ve a dilemma.

I adore my friend Jennie. All my friends adore Jennie. She’s full of spunk. She’s funny, funny, funny. She’s got more energy than people half her age. She wiggles wildly when she dances. She cackles when she laughs. She loves watching “Modern Family.”

I dare say that on the “amazing scale” she ranks quite high.

But there’s a problem, a bizarre alien synapse in her brain that’s blocking reason.

She likes Sarah Palin. Yup, that Sarah Palin.

It’s shocking that I would actually know and adore someone who thinks of Sarah Palin as something more than a freak sideshow of American politics, an absolute idiot, a death panel liar, a pathetic excuse for a human being, and a symbol of everything you don’t want your sons and daughters to become.

Jennie and I were recently at a party and as the conversation turned to politics there was the usual Sarah Palin bashing. Let’s face it Sarah’s a bulls eye for a good joke. Some of what was said cannot be printed here (and you know I don’t mind saying anything), but damn it was funny.

And there was Jennie suddenly quiet, and not gulping her lemon liqueur, but sipping it demurely, and avoiding eye contact and conversation.

Everyone gave each other “the look” and we slowly turned to Jennie... and then she blurted it out. “I like Sarah.” Jaws dropped and hearts were immediately broken.

We thought she had an aneurism and were ready to call 911, but she assured us she was okay.

How? Why?

Jennie really couldn’t explain why she liked silly Sarah. She tried, but all she could do was mutter incoherently and mispronounce words... just like Sarah.

We seriously considered never ever inviting her to another party, but then we decided Jennie’s worth saving. We believe she’s going through a phase, a bold misstep in judgement as a result of too much Fox News, and too much hairspray.

Please pray for Jennie. We adore her too much to let her succumb to the Palin disease.

Next party we plan an intervention and an exorcism.

Tuesday, March 02, 2010

Strip Mall Fun

I have never been to a Chuck E. Cheese’s. I’ve seen them as I’ve driven past strip malls in towns I’m only too happy to drive through without stopping. There’s something about the place that scares me the way clowns scare me, and there’s something about the place that intrigues me like rats intrigue me.

Just once I’d like to load up the mini van with a dozen rent-a-kids and venture to the nearest strip mall for the full Chuck E. Cheese’s experience. I want to play the arcade games. I want to taste the healthy menu items such as processed pizza, chemical hot dogs, and hormone induced chicken wings. I want pink eye.

Oh yes I want a complete Chuck E. Cheese’s adventure, and that would not be complete without some parent on parent action.

I’ve recently read that it’s a popular place for parents to pick fights with each other, to tear at each other like a bunch of wild animals. It’s like an evil Disneyworld for parents to act like the kids they’re raising, not the happiest kids on earth but the meanest kids on earth where they don’t stop until the police come and there’s a mugshot taken.

Years from now after the children have undergone years of therapy (or gotten out of Juvenile Hall) they can open the family photo album and reminisce fondly about the day Mommy and Daddy got arrested at Chuck E. Cheese’s.

By the way, does anyone else think the mouse mascot resembles a rat strung out on crystal meth?

Monday, February 22, 2010

The Big Dick

The big dick himself - Dick Cheney - was admitted to the hospital with heart and chest pains. I was quite surprised... not that he was in the hospital but that he actually has a heart. Who would’ve guessed?

I’ve never heard of anyone ever mentioning he had a heart? It must be really tiny, shriveled, flaccid, fluttering infrequently in the dark of night when he’s sleeping in his coffin giving him enough blood flow for little spurts of life.

Maybe Sarah Palin will go visit and give him a sponge bath?

Sunday, February 14, 2010

Love, Love, Love

It’s Saint Valentine’s Day... the day created so the color red would have its own special day and not have to share it with the color green.

The day greeting card companies and florists and chocolate companies could reap profits by raping our wallets. But you know what they say... you can’t rape the willing.

Oh yes Saint Valentine’s Day. The day that love is truly in the air, in our breath, in our hearts, and in our loins.

Love, love, love. Oh I get giddy just thinking about it.

How many couples will become engaged today?

How many of those engagements will lead to the Bridal March? How many will lead to bitter divorce?

How many women will hate the size, the shape, or the quality of their engagement ring? How many will make the love of her life return it for a better one?

How many men will be yelled at and berated and humiliated by their special love for not making the day special enough?

How many unwanted pregnancies will there be because of Saint Valentine’s Day 2010?

Just wondering...

Monday, February 08, 2010

Rats

Yesterday I was at a Coffee Shop in Larchmont Village enjoying a cup of Java and a blueberry scone when I couldn’t help but overhear the conversation of the man and woman sitting behind my.

Because my friend had run off to the bathroom to heed the call of Mother Nature I wasn’t occupied with my own conversation and was able to maneuver myself on my chair for a prime listening position.

The man was complaining to the woman about the rats that have taken up residence in their house and how the owner of the house is not doing anything about it.

Before I go any further I must admit that rats fascinate me. I hate them. I think they’re disgusting creatures and carry the plague, but when Discovery or Animal Planet has a show about rats I bring out the ice-cream, wrap myself in my afghan, curl up on the couch, and watch with rapt attention.

Usually that night I have a recurring nightmare that my car breaks down on the streets of suburbia in the middle of the night and when I open the hood to check the engine I’m attacked by hundreds of rats. I run and I run and I run and when I’m too exhausted to run any more I collapse on the suburban pavement. Just as the rats leap all over me gnawing at my weakened body I wake up. I then have to sleep with the light on. And still I cannot not watch shows about rats.

When I’m out late at night and see a rat crawling in a dumpster or scurrying across the street looking for garbage I stop and watch, mesmerized. I guess you could call me a rat voyeur.

Okay, so this guy then talks about the rat he killed, whining about how he knows rats are disgusting but he now considers himself a murderer, a rat killer. After that he rambled on and on about how baby rats don’t know they’re disgusting and shouldn’t be punished and he feels terrible he might have killed their mother. He was dead serious and on the verge of tears. I was on the verge of laughter. The woman did her best to calm him down but he was too emotionally distraught.

I think that poor schmuck has watched “Ratatouille” way too many times.

I might be a rat voyeur but if one invaded my house, my personal space, I would kill it instantly without remorse.

Tuesday, February 02, 2010

Stepped Right In It

This morning as I was heading into Griffith Park for a hike and a scone I slid on something mushy. The traction of my new Nikes didn’t seem to work and I had to quickly twist and turn to maintain my erectness.

If I weren’t so damn in shape and agile I probably would’ve fallen and broken my coccyx or hip or my tibia or my fibula or crushed my testicles.

After catching my breath and surveying the area to make sure no one saw me, or was pointing at me laughing derisively, I looked down and there oozing on the side of my Nike was a pile of dog shit with leaves and pine needles attached. Not coyote shit (that would be considered good luck in The Book of Michael), but medium to large dog shit.

Perfumed shit it wasn’t.

Truth be told I’m a dog lover (I can do without cats), and the reason I don’t have a dog is because I don’t want to have to carry a supply of plastic bags every time I walk the dog so I can scoop up the shit. No matter how good you look, carrying a bag of dog shit in one hand and a leash in the other doesn’t invite social intercourse. I mean how do you shake hands hello?

What happens if as you scoop up the shit there’s a hole in the bag? Smelly fingers for the rest of the walk? I don’t think so.

I looked around at the various dogs in the area trying to determine which dog had the “I just shit and I feel good” grin on its face. I narrowed it down to a mongrel looking dog and a Saint Bernard. I squinted my eyes and growled at them. Their tails stopped wagging the shit wag. They got the message and quickly dragged their inconsiderate owners away.

Next time I won’t be so kind. I’ll follow them home and shit on their carpet.