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.