The Book of Michael

Butt Plug and BettySue

2012-02-12T16:12:00.000-08:00

Butt Plug is a fastidious little man with small white hands, a pot belly, and a fake smile. To say he’s uptight is an understatement. He can only be described as having a butt plug so far up his ass he can’t see straight. Hence, his name.

BettySue also has a fake smile. Occasionally she appears to have a heart, but it’s a tiny little heart that beats slowly (if at all). She’s always offending or pissing someone off.

Butt Plug and BettySue are cohorts, coconspirators in making people’s lives miserable. They work together and spend most of their day stroking each other’s ego and blaming everyone else for their stupidity.

I know Butt Plug and BettySue and have been forced to spend time with them. It’s been a lesson in life, a lesson in patience, and a lesson in foolery.

One night I was the last person to leave the office before Butt Plug. I waved good night being certain to conceal my middle finger that wanted so badly to thrust itself forward as the final gesture of my goodnight wave. Luckily I was able force my finger from going fully erect. It was hard.

Not ten minutes later my iPhone rang. When I saw Butt Plug’s name I almost didn’t pick it up, but I did.

His normally squeaky wimpy voice was in a high-pitched rage. I’m certain all the dogs in the neighborhood started howling.

Why the commotion? Butt Plug was in a fit because he was the last to leave the parking lot and had to slide the parking lot chain link gate closed. He screeched about his bad back and how it was too hard to pull the gate.

Bad back? Maybe if he loosened that butt plug he’d be a bit more pliable and would then be able to slide the gate closed.

I feigned concern, told him to leave the gate open, and hung up. Then I laughed all the way home.

The next day BettySue announced that if Butt Plug was staying later than everyone else someone would have to move his car out of the parking lot and park it in front of the building for him.

Did I ever move his car? No fucking way.

Tough Love Time for Evelyn

2012-02-02T14:03:00.000-08:00

My car remote has an alarm button. When I first got the car curiosity got the best of me and I pressed it and was jolted by its high pitched siren scream.

Evelyn (the name I’ve christened my car) surely has a strong powerful voice!

I love Evelyn but lately she’s been misbehaving.

When I get home from work I park her in my designated parking space in the garage beneath my building. She’s been sleeping in that spot since I bought her.

Lately, no sooner do I leave and get into my apartment she blares her alarm. The first time it happened I didn’t believe it was Evelyn. Then it happened a few minutes later. I ran into the hallway and clicked my remote to quiet her. A few minutes later it happened yet again.

Only in my garage does Evelyn do this. Wherever else we are she behaves beautifully.

The other night I was startled out of my sleep at 3:30 AM with Evelyn screaming. I’m sure the neighbors above the garage did not appreciate her outburst.

Why the misbehaving?

Maybe I haven’t been giving her the attention she yearns for, but I’ve working long hours, and she knows that. I thought she understood.

Maybe it’s because during my working hours she’s been stuck in a chain linked parking lot with other cars she thinks are inferior to her.

She loves going to the car wash and being soaped up and then sprayed and wiped. Afterwards she glistens in afterglow and purrs lovingly as we drive down the street.

Yesterday I took her for a wash, and then last night she did it again. This bad behavior’s got to stop!

We were planning a trip to Santa Barbara Sunday to visit wineries but it’s best I cancel. She’s not going anywhere, and I’m no longer going to blast her favorite Air Supply song - “Making Love Out of Nothing at All” - as we soar down the freeway.

It’s tough love time, Evelyn, tough love.

My Weekend Torment

2012-01-30T16:22:00.001-08:00

This weekend I experienced something I don’t want to ever experience again.

It was more painful than that bout of food poisoning I had when I ate bad crawfish.

It was more frightening than the time I got mugged a block south of Sunset Boulevard on Halloween weekend when I was heading to 7 Eleven to buy ice cream.

It was a major disruption in the world of Michael.

I was computer-less from Friday morning until late Sunday afternoon.

My hard drive needed to be replaced. It happened suddenly and I didn’t have time to prepare, to plan activities to keep my mind off of being unconnected. Sure I had my cell phone and could text and email, but it wasn’t the same without my MacBook. I needed that 13-inch screen glowing at me with gigabytes of information.

My fingers don’t feel that same tender caress they feel on my MacBook keyboard when I’m pecking away on my iPhone keyboard. Its just not the same. Never will be.

What the hell did we ever do before computers? I felt cut off from the world. I felt alienated, alone, and naked. It wasn’t fun.

Every morning when I get up I make the coffee and then sit at my computer to check email, read the news, do an online crossword puzzle, check my daily calendar, enjoy some Facebook social intercourse, and read celebrity news.

My Saturday and Sunday morning routine was disrupted. I tried reading an actual magazine but I read my magazines late at night before going to sleep so the rhythm of the day was out of whack and it wasn’t even mid-morning.

Sitting there at my empty desk I realized that maybe - just maybe - I’ve become somewhat Internet addicted.

Do they have twelve step programs for this? Instead of going to a meeting where you’re forced to reveal who you are does everyone log on to their computers for a computer generated meeting? Should I be concerned?

Egad.... I need to find some non-computer hobbies.

Tennis anyone?

Todd’s Tale of Woe

2012-01-26T16:09:00.001-08:00

Todd Remis has filed a lawsuit against a photography studio to recreate part of his wedding (from 2003) so that he can have those cherished moments he claims the photography studio neglected to document.

The only thing is he’s now divorced. He believes his ex-wife has moved to Latvia.

Something sounds fishy...

The marriage went bust yet he still wants the wedding recreated exactly as it was the day he promised ‘til death do us part. “I need to have the wedding recreated exactly as it was so that the remaining 15 percent of the wedding that was not shot can be shot" and the album and video completed "so we have memories of the wedding," Todd said during his July deposition, according to a transcript. "So we would need to recreate everything to complete that."

Do you think Todd has issues? No wonder his wife left him, and the country.

I think Todd’s a bitter groomzilla who’s trying recoup his life savings he wasted on what I assume was a mail order bride and the subsequent lavish wedding. He’s learning the hard way you can’t buy true love.

Maybe Todd was a real virgin his wedding day and the memory of the wedding and the wedding night sex is so clouded with “I finally got laid!” that he can’t see straight and remember it for what it really was: the beginning of the end with bad sex.

I imagine him lying alone in his twin bed in his small studio apartment nightly recreating the wedding night sex with his right hand. He seems like an uptight one position man.

Hey Todd, the wedding recreation is not gonna happen. Let it go. Get yourself some therapy (or a hooker). You need it.

An American Tradition

2012-01-15T22:36:00.000-08:00

I hate malls.

I know it’s un-American to not want to spend hours upon hours every weekend roaming from generic store to generic store with multiple excursions to the food court for some highly-processed American food, but I can’t help myself. I. Hate. Malls.

No matter what city you’re visiting there’s sure to be a mall to waste time in rather than seeing the actual city you’re visiting. Why go on vacation to visit a mall? People do. I don’t understand.

Are we defined by how many malls we can visit in our lifetime. When we die do they have a counter at the Pearly Gates telling us how many hours we’ve spent at the mall. If the number’s too low are we sent to hell for eternity or are we immediately reincarnated so we can right the wrong and spend more hours at the mall?

Why do malls all have the same stores? Is there something extra special about buying a Gap t-shirt in Minneapolis that’s different from buying the exact same Gap t-shirt in Miami? It’s just one more thing to throw in your luggage for the journey home.

Years ago I worked at a mall restaurant. The food was cheap and of the poorest quality. Oh but everyone loved the restaurant. It also had the highest rate of 911 calls for cardiac arrest. They actually weren’t cardiac arrests. They were msg attacks masquerading at cardiac arrests. The slimy owners of the restaurant would never say the food was soaked in msg. Without the msg there wouldn’t be any of that delicious mall flavor. I heard the restaurant’s no longer there. Maybe the owners ate their own food and succumbed to actual cardiac arrest.

The children play areas in malls scare me. They’re a pit of pink eye just waiting to attack your child. And no one’s going to tell me all those toys and rubber balls and play pens are properly cleaned every night. Germs. Germs. Germs.

 And yet people love malls. It’s an American tradition... and addiction.

Maybe I should start a tour company and feature “Mall Tours of America.” For a few thousand dollars you could be escorted onto an air conditioned bus and taken across America stopping at every mall there is. I’d offer discount coupons to the food courts and as a special treat you’d receive a special t-shirt from every mall you visit that says “Mall Tours of America” with the name of the mall emblazoned across the chest. Then when you return home you can roam your hometown mall proudly displaying the many malls you visited.

Who needs to see Niagara Falls or the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore when you can spend your vacation in a mall?

The Black Slippers

2012-01-02T20:53:00.001-08:00

My toes are always cold. In the middle of a summer heat wave I have cold toes. My elongated popsicle toes shiver when the sun goes down. They always need a pair of socks, and when socks are not enough they need a pair of slippers to keep them toasty warm. I can walk around naked for days but my toes are always properly socked.

You can starve me. You can water board me. You can force me listen to Wilson Phillips until my ears bleed. But you cannot force me to endure cold toes.

With the Los Angeles nights now cold and wintery (yes, cold and wintery) I need the socks and slippers now more then ever.

This afternoon I went to the shoe store and bought a new pair of slippers. Black slippers. On sale black slippers. Dockers brand black slippers. Originally $39.99 and on sale for $9.99.

When I caught a glimpse of them out of the corner of my eye and then saw the sale price my toes were immediately erect with joy, erect with anticipation, erect with erectness waiting to slip themselves into the warmth of the tight slipper opening. There’s nothing like the touch of a virgin pair of slippers wrapping themselves around your toes.

Aaah....

Tonight it’s a little wine, candles burning softly, an afghan wrapped around my toned body, a good book, and my toes snuggling nicely inside my new black slippers.
Life doesn’t get much better than this.

A Holiday Cookie Miracle

2012-01-01T21:30:00.000-08:00

I’m always thinking about food. I love to eat. I love to cook. I love to eat a lot. Thank goodness for the gym and my 21-speed bike because without them I’d be as huge as a two-car garage and have to be weighed on a Richter scale.

Oh food glorious food.

This past year I wrote an article called “A Tradition Continued” about my deceased mother and how we connected over food. Without her I would never have learned to cook, and I would never have learned to appreciate the power of a good recipe. Luckily that article has become a chapter in the book Chicken Soup for the Soul: Food and Love. At the end of my chapter is Mom’s recipe for her famous potato croquettes. Yum, yum, and yummy!

Speaking of food... Growing up in suburban Massachusetts, Wakefield to be exact, there was a bakery on Water Street, and if memory doesn’t fail me it was called Frank’s Bakery. The owners were Frank and Grace. They were Italian. They made incredible Italian bread along with incredible Italian pastries. Sadly that was years ago and the bakery is no longer there. Both Grace and Frank are deceased.

During the holidays I remember delicious chocolate cookies with chocolate icing. Oh they were special. I always looked forward to taking that first bite and having my taste buds come alive with that flavor, that holiday joy.

How can I describe them? They were chocolate and had a nutmeg flavor. I have searched the internet high and low and none of the recipes I’ve found come even close to what Grace and Frank made.

Every year during Christmas and New Year I get nostalgic for those chocolate iced chocolate cookies.

Maybe Grace and Frank’s next of kin reads my blog... and maybe just maybe the next of kin will have that recipe in an old recipe box... and maybe just maybe they would contact me and give me that recipe.

Now that would be a holiday cookie miracle.

Eye in the Vagina

2011-12-13T22:14:00.001-08:00

I love crazy medical emergency room stories. They might seem absolutely unbelievable when in fact they’re absolutely true.

This afternoon I came across a story of an ER doctor from the Detroit Medical Center who, when making her rounds, came a across a patient’s chart that read “Eye in the Vagina.” Eye. In. The. Vagina.

I know what an eye is. I know what a vagina is.

In my wildest imagination I’ve never thought about an eye in the vagina. And in all the porn I’ve watched I've never seen an eye in a vagina.

Questions suddenly arose. If there’s an eye in the vagina does it see what’s coming in and blink? Does the eye in the vagina ever get poked? How does one change contacts in an eye in the vagina? How does an eye in a vagina wear glasses? Would an eye in the vagina ever need to wear sun glasses? Does the eye in the vagina ever get pink eye? What does the eye do when the vagina has an orgasm? Does the intensity of the orgasm make the eye bloodshot, and if so, is there such thing as vagina Visine to get the red out?

My curiosity was piqued so I read on.

It seems the woman whose vagina was the center of attention did have an eye in her vagina. Her prosthetic eye. She placed it there for safety.... oh yes she did.

The woman was expecting to fight one of her neighbors and didn’t want to lose her eye so she took it out and slid it, along with her drivers license, into her vagina for safety. Why she didn’t just leave them in her trailer is anyone’s guess.
 
The only problem was when she wanted to remove her license and eye from her vagina she couldn’t get them out. Was it because her vagina was too tight? (Something tells me a woman who uses her vagina as a purse doesn’t have a too tight vagina.)

Maybe her eye didn’t want to leave the comfort of the vagina? Maybe the eye got a good look at her driver’s license photo and realized things were much prettier in the vagina than in the eye socket?

One thing’s for certain, I’ll never look at a prosthetic eye the same way again.

Dances With Corpses

2011-11-20T20:02:00.000-08:00

Sometimes while strolling the Internet I come across news items that appear to be truly unbelievable which turn out to actually be true.

Just the other day I read about the arrest of a forty-five year old historian in central Russia after police discovered 29 corpses of women, dressed as dolls, in his apartment. Dolls? I would assume they were more Malibu Barbie than Raggedy Ann or Cabbage Patch kid, but then again... maybe they were dolls of famous women through the ages such as Queen Isabella, Catherine II, or Ethel Merman.

I imagine the corpses dressed in beautiful evening gowns, seated around the dining room table with a feast of Russian inspired food served on the historian’s late mother’s finest china. I see candelabras burning scented red candles to keep the flesh stench from overpowering the historian’s nasal cavity. And the wine? Must be red. One never serves white wine when there’s a corpse in the room.

And after dinner I imagine the historian, dressed in the finest suit his meager income could buy, dancing with each of the corpses as the candles burned to their bases.

Moonlight serenade on the balcony.

The music. The romance. The necrophilia.

Aaah... just another night for a forty-five year old historian with nothing else to do on a Saturday night in central Russia.

Maybe someone should teach him how to play Solitaire.

The Mr. Coffee Coffeepot Dilemma

2011-11-13T20:07:00.000-08:00

In the production office where I work we have two Mr. Coffee coffeepots.

The expensive one has all the bells and whistles but it fails to keep the non-flavored coffee really hot. It’s lukewarm at best and I always have to slide my cup into the microwave for thirty seconds to give it the heat it needs. I want brewed coffee, not microwaved coffee, damn it.

In the second Mr. Coffee coffeepot, the cheap one, we brew flavored coffee. This coffeepot has no bells and whistles but it keeps the coffee nice and hot just how I like it.

Some mornings I prefer flavored coffee.

The problem is the second Mr. Coffee coffeepot spills when it pours. If you pour quickly you get a puddle. If you pour more slowly you get a mini-puddle. And if you pour as if you’re pouring honey you still spill drops.

I have poured from that coffeepot at all speeds - briskly, moderately briskly, slowly, extra slowly, and at a snail’s pace and still it spills. Because I have impeccable manners I always grab a napkin or paper towel to wipe up the mess I’ve created. It’s gentlemanly of me to do so, and I expect everyone else to do the same.

Who wants to come into a kitchen for a cup of coffee and see a puddle of coffee on the table with who-knows-what (our office has fleas) swimming the breast stroke or doing the doggie paddle in the brown colored liquid? Not me.

The other day I happened to be in the kitchen when a woman came in and helped herself to the flavored coffee. She pour briskly and created quite the puddle on the table. She calmly put the Mr. Coffee coffeepot back on the burner and sashayed out of the kitchen without wiping.

Oh, oh, oh I saw red. I wanted to grab her by her cheap hair extensions and drag her cottage cheese ass back to the puddle and stick her nose in it like you’d do a dog that’s peed on the floor. Bad woman! Bad woman! Bad woman!

Instead I kept my cool and did the gentlemanly thing. I wiped it up.

I’m not feeling too gentlemanly for this week... I’m feeling revenge.

For the Love of Fry Bread

2011-11-08T22:07:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning I awoke to the sound of rain against the windowpane. (I hate rain)

Sunday morning I wanted to stay in bed underneath the warmth of my covers. (I hate cold)

Sunday morning I wanted just a few more hours sleep. (I hate being overtired)

But Sunday morning had other plans for me... Fry bread and the Native American Marketplace at the Autry Museum in Los Angeles.

Oh fry bread oh fry bread how I love thee!

So I dragged my weary ass out of bed and put on layers of clothing and ventured into the cold and rainy morning for the love of fry bread.

The marketplace was full of Native American artisans selling their paintings, handmade jewelry, blankets, pottery, and sculptures. I stood in awe at everything that surrounded me. America the beautiful beats in the heart of Native Americans.

I talked with painters about inspiration. I chatted with a woman who creates the more glorious blankets and afghans. I bought myself a beautiful silver feather pendant created by the talented New Mexican silversmith Mark Calladitto.

I could have wandered and talked forever but “it” was in the air. So I followed “it” to Auntie’s Fry Bread truck and ordered myself fry bread topped with shredded beef and cabbage. I was dizzy with desire as I held the precious fry bread in my hand. It was almost too beautiful to eat.

I savored every bite, every morsel of that fry bread. I could’ve eaten more but I knew a second fry bread might fill my tummy too much and I didn’t want that overstuffed feeling where I’d regret having more than one.

One was enough. It keeps me hungry for the next time.

Fry bread and me. The perfect Sunday experience.

Hopscotch Jesus

2011-10-25T23:35:00.000-07:00

The other night I was wandering Sunset Boulevard and came across a square of sidewalk that said, “Jesus Loves You.”

Jesus loves me? Was this a prank or was Jesus amongst us with chalk in hand scrawling his love message for all the world to see?

I looked ahead and saw another “Jesus Loves You” square... and then another... and another... it was Hopscotch Jesus!

I suddenly had the urge to follow the Jesus squares to find out, to get a glimpse of this Jesus graffiti person. Would he still be bearded or did he finally shave? Would he be sporting a goatee, a mustache, a jazz patch, or no facial hair at all? Would he wearing the traditional Jesus robe of yore or sporting some Abercrombie & Fitch clothing with a backwards baseball cap?

I started to hop from one Jesus square to another. It seemed endless.

While I was hopping a wee little voice in my head kept whispering if I stepped on a crack I’d fall through and go straight to hell, to the flames of eternal heat and damnation. I had visions of horns and pitchforks and Tea Partiers.

I continued hopping.

The wee little voice continued whispering, telling me if I didn’t get to the end of the Jesus squares I’d be destined to purgatory. I had visions of a never ending mall in the middle of nowhere with generic stores and generic people carrying generic shopping bags full of generic merchandise with no exit. I felt a generic shiver.

So I hopped with all my might from one Jesus square to the next. It was exhausting and after what seemed like forever I came to end of the Jesus square.

There was no Jesus. There was no reward. It was a red light.

I said “fuck it” and went to the movies.

(true story)

The Not So Friendly Skies

2011-10-12T22:59:00.001-07:00

A rock star with his pants hanging low. Was his pee-pee hanging out? Was the crack of his hairy ass on full display?

A Lesbian couple sharing a tender kiss. Were their hands fondling each other’s breasts? Were they grunting that unmistakable “I’m gonna be coming any second” sound?

I asked myself those questions when I read that these people were recently asked to leave their flights. I was under the distinct impression that airline staff were on the lookout for terrorists, but I must be mistaken. Airline personnel now seem to be crowning themselves the moral and fashion police.

How does one equate low riding pants with being a terrorist? Maybe the airline personnel heard his stomach growling as he tried boarding the plane and assumed he’s be shooting killer farts upon takeoff.

How does one equate a tender kiss between consenting adults a threat? Maybe the airline personnel were afraid the kiss was really a killer kiss.

You know what makes me fearful of flying?

The plastic smiles of airline stewards and stewardesses when you ask for extra peanuts or more soda when you know damn well they don’t want to help you. Behind those smiles lurks evil.

The non-natural fabric of airline personnel uniforms. At high altitudes I fear it might self-ignite.

The germs that are nesting in the never washed airline pillows and blankets.

The outrageous prices we have to pay for seats that are abnormally narrow and truly uncomfortable.

The possibility that when I’m peeing in the plane’s bathroom the plane will hit turbulence and I’ll fall, bang my head unconscious, and be found in a puddle of piss with my johnson hanging out of my pants.

But most of all I fear that airline staff is getting away with judging and mistreating passengers all in the name of security.

The friendly skies have sadly become the not so friendly skies.

Do We Really Know Who We’re Playing With?

2011-09-26T22:28:00.000-07:00

Do you ever play Words With Friends on your smartphone?

I did once. It scared me.

A simple game of scrabble shouldn’t be scary, but not knowing with whom I was swapping tiles created an anxiety that hindered my wordplay. Instead of spelling clever words I found myself mentally stumbling and arranging tiles to say “soft,” "weak”, and “fear.”

I was paralyzed by anything more than a simple four letter word.

The reason for this mental mishap was I kept thinking about my opponent. Who was it? What did they look like? Were they a terrorist sending me secret messages that would somehow brainwash me into a dangerous international plot?

Was it a Mormon? A tea-party fanatic? A Scientologist?

Were these fanatics sending me subliminal messages through their choice of words? “Heretic.” “Polygamy.” “Born.” “Again.” “Burn.” “Hell.” “Heaven.” “Hate.”

Or maybe my opponent was Sarah Palin? What was she suggesting when her tiles misspelled “cocaine,” “swinger,” “sex,” “black,” “hung,” “slavery,” “whore,” and “mistress”?

Do we REALLY know who we’re playing with?

Those late night scrabble partners hiding behind a fake name could actually be Maury Povich, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, Vladimir Putin, Justin Beiber, Charlie Sheen, or even Nancy Grace. It’s all so frightening...

I think I’ll just go back to playing with myself.

Solitaire.

I've Finally Found the Career for Me

2011-09-11T20:13:00.000-07:00

I love art. I love to eat. Put the two together and I’m a captive audience with a wagging tongue...

Today I ventured over to the Forest Lawn Museum in Glendale to see “¡Adelante! Mexican American Artists: 1960s and Beyond,” a collection of paintings, drawings, sculpture, and photography.

As I roamed the exhibit I was impressed with the artists, many who helped shape the Chicano Art Movement and inspire a whole new generation of artists. It was a fascinating history lesson.

And then I saw “it.”

Hanging on the wall right before me was “La Virgen de Guadalupe #12” from artist Joe Bravo. It mesmerized me. I leaned forward to for a closer inspection. My mouth watered. I read the little card beside the painting and was astonished to learn that the canvas for the painting is an actual tortilla.

The artist explained, “ I use the Tortilla as a Canvas because it is an integral part of the Hispanic Culture and my heritage. For the subject matter of my tortilla paintings, I use imagery that is representative of Latinos, conveying their hopes, art, beliefs and history. As the tortilla has given us life, I give it new life by using it as an art medium."

Well... that got me to thinking. I’m part Italian and what better way for me to express my Italian artistic ability than to paint on an actual cannoli. I could paint the “Last Supper” across a cannoli shell. Jesus and the Apostles right there on a cannoli. How appropriate is that?

The last time I was texting with the Pope he told me in Catholic confidence that the dessert served at the real last supper was a tray of cannolis.

On my way home I picked up a dozen cannolis to begin my cannoli-art career.

How am I doing? It’s not as easy as I thought. I keep puncturing the cannoli with the paint brush, and not being one to waste food I eat the broken cannoli.

I’ve already eaten a dozen cannolis, but undaunted I will persevere. I’m know I’m on to something artistically delicious...

Vulgarity, Boobs, and an Upright Citizen

2011-09-01T22:43:00.001-07:00

Every day when I jump on my bike to pedal around the city I never know what I’m going to encounter. Some days are rather adventure-less while others are full of adventure.

Today was a bike pedaling day of adventure.

Whenever I pass other bicyclists I nod hello, say hello, or, if I’m feeling really chipper, blurt out “Hello fellow bicyclist!” The nod gets a nod in return. The hello gets a hello in return. The “Hello fellow bicyclist” gets a laugh and then a nod/hello. I consider it good bicycle behavior.

So I was quite dismayed today when I said hello to a fellow bicyclist and he boldly yelled “fuck you.” Loud. My initial reaction was to yell back “fuck you motherfucker,” but I didn’t. Instead I pedaled faster to get away from this unfriendly bicyclist. Maybe he was suffering from hemorrhoids.

Then about a mile later I turned the corner and saw a woman walking along the sidewalk. She was wearing sandals and jeans and no shirt. Naked from the waist up. Boobs that had seen better days, perky days, non-wrinkled days. What struck me most was not the way they hung like limp water balloons, but that there were no tan lines around her breasts. And she had quite the tan. She seemed totally happy with her naked boobies, so I just smiled and said hello. She quickly turned sidewards to say hello back and her boobs collided like cymbals. It wasn’t symphonic.

But that was not all...

About four miles later I was pedaling across a street and a pickup truck pulled out without looking and came within milliseconds of crushing me. Thank goodness I had on my helmut, and my jockstrap. I turned to the driver and sneered, and I might have even called him something not-so-nice. He continued his way and I continued my way. Three blocks later I came to a red light and suddenly the pickup truck was beside me.

I was prepared for a rumble. “I’m sorry” he yelled. He had turned around and followed me to apologize for almost hitting me (maybe even killing me). He admitted he wasn’t looking. What could I say? I said to not worry about it; neither of us got hurt. Then the light turned green. He went left and I went right.

All in a day’s bike ride.

Ruby Red

2011-08-29T22:30:00.001-07:00

I have wandering eyes. It’s virtually impossible for me to stop looking at everything and everyone around me. Sometimes people think I’m staring too long at them and they get a tad nervous; afraid of what’s lurking behind my look; afraid of what I might do.

If they only knew!

I’m usually creating a funny scenario about them, a character analysis of who I think they are. Sometimes tragic life-stories. Sometimes international adventure life-stories. Sometimes sexual kink stories that may or may not involve me.

The other day I was at a stoplight and my wandering eyes saw something dangling from the telephone wires above me. It was red. It glittered in the sunlight. It made me pull out my camera.

Hanging from the telephone wires above traffic was a pair of Ruby Red high-heeled shoes and a cut-out of a red trophy. I guffawed loudly. I’m sure it sounded like a major fart, but it really was a guffaw from my mouth.

How did they get there... and why?

Could they possibly be the “real” ruby shoes from “The Wizard of Oz”? Maybe Dorothy didn’t go back to Kansas after all? Maybe she lives in my neighborhood?

Maybe the ruby red shoes belong to a drag queen who was so proud she won the Ryan Seacrest hosted Drop-Dead Gorgeous Divinely Drag Gala contest at the Holiday Inn that she strung her shoes and trophy together with her support hose and tossed them over the telephone wire for all the world to see? Would her drag name be Dorothy Gale or Ruby Red or Barbara Bush?

What size could those shoes possibly be? 6? 7? 11 1/2?

I think the owner of the shoes has to be one fun gal who wears too much make up, has hair teased so high it looks like an erection, loves to cha-cha all night long, drinks way too many martinis, has a deep smoky voice and a bosom to match, loves torch songs and alibis, drives a huge red cadillac convertible, and thinks of herself as a D-I-V-A.

I was lost in my reverie and as the stoplight turned green I couldn’t help but thing there’s no place like home... there’s no place like home...

Peaceful Buddhists?

2011-08-26T20:51:00.001-07:00

Every day I ride my bike to the gym. Instead using the main streets I zigzag from street to street to avoid major traffic. This way I get to enjoy the scenery and not have to worry about being hit by a car and sent flying through someone’s windshield all because the driver was too busy texting to look where they were going.

So it was to my complete surprise to turn north up New Hampshire Avenue from Franklin Avenue and come across a house with large gold swastikas hung prominently on the many windows. I screeched my bicycle to a quick halt to get a second look.

A chill ran up my spine. I gasped. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. I was overcome with a sense of fear. Right before me on a nice little street in my favorite city were golden swastikas.

I then noticed a white sign on the front of the house. I couldn’t make out the writing so I gingerly ventured into the driveway to get a better look.

The sign said that the people who lived there were Buddhists and that the swastika is a Buddhist symbol.

Well Phew.... I was expecting them to be Mormons. Or the Palins.

The sign is tiny in comparison to the swastikas.

I pedaled home and immediately googled to find out the truth. And yes, the swastika was traditionally used in India by Buddhists and Hindus as a good luck sign.

Okay, okay.... I get it, but do the owners of the house really think that anyone driving by and seeing golden swastikas is going to immediately think “peaceful Buddhists”? I don’t think so.

The swastika brings back something dreadful; a horrible time in world history, so why are the homeowners doing this?

Maybe I’ll ring their doorbell next time I’m riding by and ask them.

Or maybe they’ll come to their senses and take them down.

The homeowners might think putting the swastikas up is good luck, but I think it’s gonna bring them lots of bad luck... and a lot of angry neighbors.

A Bowl of Pork Chops

2011-08-16T22:44:00.000-07:00

For the past ten weeks I was swimming in the deep end of the film production pool. It was long, long hours, high calorie fast food, too cold air conditioning, and bad coffee, but for some reason I enjoyed every minute of it. I relished it.

There were days I worked so many hours I was too tired to shift gears in my car and ended up driving all the way home in first gear.

One late, late night (okay, early morning) I took the wrong turn home and ended up in a neighborhood that wasn’t mine, and couldn’t figure out how I got there.

And yet another late, late late night (okay, early morning again) I was so busy answering emails at a stop light (on my iPhone of course) I forgot to move when the light turned green. I didn’t realize it until the car behind me started honking. By then the light had turned red. When the light turned green again the car zoomed passed me honking and cursing and waving its fist. I was too tired to properly respond. All I could do was muster a weak “fuck you” finger. My poor middle finger was too damn tired to flip him off fully erect.

Yawn, yawn, yawn... Sleep deprivation... it doesn’t do the body or mind any good.

During my time of tiredness and stress a friend sent me a postcard that said “Life is just a bowl of pork chops.” It made me laugh because it’s so true...

When it’s bad it can kill you, but when it’s good it’s a party in your mouth. Oh yes.

After a few days of rest and relaxation I’m happy to report I’m ready and roaring to go... and craving pork.

C’est Magnifique

2011-07-16T18:39:00.000-07:00

These days I’m into everything French.

French wine. French food. French’s mustard. French people. French kisses. French music.

And to celebrate my sudden French-ness I’ve rediscovered one of my most favorite videos. It’s from French Singer Julien Dore and the song is called “Les Limites.”

Dore is truly offbeat of the boulevard. I thought I was offbeat of the boulevard but after watching him I need to throw out the GPS and just wander - left turn, right turn, u-turn, any turn.

The punked out woman with the cock in her hand is beyond description. And when the cock gets feisty she strokes it enough to calm it without missing a beat. That’s a pro.

I wanna dance like Dore.

C’est magnifique!

He’s An Angel Now

2011-07-05T22:42:00.000-07:00

I’m always writing something witty and funny and I honestly believe the world needs a lot of my witty and my funny, but today I cannot be witty and funny.

I was truly saddened to read in the news that Christian Choate of Lake County, Indiana was never loved. In his short life of 13 years he was horrifically abused by his father (the man who gave him life) and his evil stepmother. This little boy was forced to live in a dog cage and was kept naked except for a diaper. He experienced regular beatings, emotional torture, and neglect.

The only thing he was allowed to have in his cage was a pencil and paper, and Christian wrote his feelings... and they are heart wrenching:

Christian often stated he was hungry or thirsty.

Christian wrote of why nobody liked him and how he just wanted to be liked by his family.

Christian stated that he wanted to die because nobody liked the way he "acted."

Christian wrote of how many times he had to steal food or use the bathroom in his place of confinement.

Christian often wondered when someone, anyone, was going to come check on him.

Christian wrote of how everybody else was outside playing but he was not.

What makes this story even sadder is that the Indiana Department of Child Services received complaints that something was wrong, but the reports filed by the case worker said the children in the house “appeared to be doing well.”

Christian’s no-good, rotten, evil father and equally rotten and evil stepmother deserve the death penalty for what they did to Christian. But before the death penalty takes place I think they need to spend 13 years each locked in a dog’s cage and treated the same way they treated Christian; beatings, torture and all. I’m certain after a very short time they’d be begging for death.

Let’s celebrate Christian today by thinking of him, waving up to the heavens and saying hello, and letting yourself shed a tear for his pain, and another tear knowing he’s finally safe.

Christian Choate is an angel now.

Verizon Customer Service Sucks

2011-06-26T21:40:00.001-07:00

Verizon customer service sucks, especially customer service rep Nicole Simmonds. She’s an idiot and a liar.

Is that harsh? It’s not if you spent over an hour trying to get some customer service from her.

On a whim last week I bought an iPhone and switched my service from Verizon to AT&T. I love my iPhone and in my apartment I get much better service with AT&T than I ever did with Verizon. With Verizon it was two bars or less (usually less), but with AT&T it’s three bars or more.

So the other night I called Verizon to find out my final payment, with all the intention of paying it right then and there. That was mistake #1.

Mistake #2 was getting Nicole Simmonds as my customer service rep. She could not understand anything I was asking and every time I asked her to explain she came up with a ludicrous answer. She kept telling me the bill I received (prior to ending my service) was sent to me after I cancelled my service, which it wasn’t.

It was like “who’s on first” except this wasn’t funny. I should’ve hung up but something snapped in me and I was determined to resolve it then, with her (Mistake #3).

Unfortunately the customer “service” deteriorated like an open wound that’s so infected with gangrene the only thing to do is to amputate. And yet I continued. Was I getting a perverse thrill with our oral interlude?

After over an hour of idiocy she called me a harassing customer. I called her a stupid lying bitch.

It was then I demanded to speak to a supervisor. She kept refusing and I said I wasn’t hanging up until I spoke to one. Lo and behold she finally connected me to supervisor Jose, who said they never divulge their last names when I asked for his.

Nicole Simmonds lied about her last name? Yes, he said. I then reiterated my customer service experience, and he conceded she lied, but defended her saying all she needs is more training. That poor idiot needs more than training...

Did I resolve my Verizon customer service issue? No. Jose defending her pissed me off so I hung up.

Take this as a warning... if you have to call Verizon and a squeaky little voice says “This is Nicole, how may I help you” immediately hang up.

All I can say is good bye Verizon and good riddance. I’m with AT&T now.

Because the Night... and Patti's Boob

2011-06-20T22:53:00.000-07:00

There are certain images that leave an indelible imprint in your mind.

Patti Smith grabbing her own boob on the cover of “Because the Night” did that to me. It mesmerized me then and it still mesmerizes me now.

I wanted to photograph myself grabbing my own crotch but was too damn shy to do it. Years later Michael Jackson made millions grabbing his crotch. (If I knew then what I know now...)

At the time I first saw Patti’s boob grabbing photo I was a sheltered kid living in suburbia where the only daring thing we saw was in the pages of National Geographic at the nearby suburban library.

But the nudies in National Geographic didn’t have the power of Patti’s boob. It unleashed my imagination. It tore to shreds my puritanical foundation. It broke free and spurted my creative juices. It made me think there was something more than suburbia.

There was a new world out there beckoning me, and it was all because of Patti’s boob.

Her version of “Because the Night” is pure raw power and lust. It’s truly one of my favorite songs ever which, surprisingly, she wrote with Bruce Springsteen. There have been cover versions but none of them compare to Patti. She is the High Priestess of Rock.

Bang, Bang, Bang

2011-06-12T19:50:00.000-07:00

The other day I went to the gym to continue in my quest to tone and tighten body parts that insist on defying gravity. After spending thirty minutes doing intense cardio I needed to go to the bathroom.

So there I was at the urinal whizzing - with my iPod entertaining me with the songs of Adele - when I heard a loud bang follow by another bang, and then immediately after that bang, bang, bang. I shook from head to toe but was steady enough not to miss my urinal aim. Then after a few seconds it happened again faster and louder.

I thought we were under terrorist attack.

I looked around waiting for others to react, but there was only one other person in the area and he was at the urinal beside me. I pulled my iPod from my ears and was just about to yell out when I heard it again.

Bang. Bang, bang. Bang, bang, bang.

Without Adele singing in my ear I was able to follow the trail of the sound and that’s when I realized the guy at the urinal beside me was farting. They were the loudest farts and he was not the least bit embarrassed or fazed by it.

He zipped up and left the locker room... without washing his hands. That man had bad farting habits, and even worse hand washing habits. I’ve made a mental note to remember his face and to avoid any machine he’s using.

 And then today I was walking down the street and in front of me, about ten feet, was an older man slowly walking. Just as I was about to pass him he started farting. Not once but fast and furious like a machine gun. My instinct had me jump out of the way and hurry past him. He looked at me and didn’t utter a word, while his chorus of farts continued.

Let’s be real. I fart. You fart. We all fart. But has it become trendy and fashionable to fart loud and proud and without remorse?

A self-deprecating giggle and an “excuse me” seemed appropriate, don’t you think?

When the Sun Shines...

2011-06-08T15:01:00.000-07:00

The other morning I was outside my apartment building waiting for a friend to come and pick me up. I was sitting on the retaining wall minding my own business when I happened to look to my left. Coming down the street was an older woman walking her dog.

She was carrying a plastic bag with dog poop in it, so I knew she was a conscientious dog owner.

But there was something peculiar as my eyes changed focus from the dangling poop bag... something that made me blink and question what I was seeing.

The sun was shining brightly and as she strolled towards me I could see right through her mid-calf length skirt. The sun’s reflection on the material made is see-through.

She wasn’t wearing any panties. Her sagging little ass was jiggling like Jello as she sashayed along with her dog. She had a happy face. Was she happy because she left her thong at home and was feeling the breeze tickling her nether region? Or was she completely oblivious to her fashion faux?

As she approached she entered a shady area and the see-through skirt was no longer. I wanted to say “Good morning middle-aged lady. Do you know the sun is making your skirt a see-through skirt and I can see your bare bouncing buttocks and your recently groomed temple of love?” but I didn’t.

We exchanged hellos and I commented how I was admiring her pooch. I might have intentionally mumbled cooch, but she petted her pet lovingly and thanked me, oblivious to my wordplay.

As she walked away I watched as she left the shade and entered the sun.

She had no tan line.

Sarah is Coming! Sarah is Coming!

2011-06-05T19:28:00.001-07:00

The Supreme Queen of Idiocy has struck again.

Oh yes, Sarah Palin recently visited the Paul Revere House in Boston and this is what she said when asked who Paul Revere was:

He who warned, uh, the British that they weren’t gonna be takin’ away our arms, uh, by ringing those bells, and um, makin' sure as he’s riding his horse through town to send those warning shots and bells that we were going to be sure and we were going to be free, and we were going to be armed.

In her delusional world she wants to be president. President of what? The Idiots Club?

Still she continues crisscrossing the highways and byways polluting our glorious country with her presence.

So please... when you smell her approaching your neighborhoods - it’s a rancid odor - jump on your scooters, pedal your bikes, mount your horses, rev your engines, and hurry through the streets warning everyone that “Sarah is coming! Sarah is coming!”

Smack the Teacher

2011-06-04T16:42:00.000-07:00

It was with a little bit of horror and little bit of envy that I read a headline this week about an eleven year old student who punched his teacher in the face breaking the teacher’s nose.

Without reading any further I sort of paused and reflected on times in my life when I wanted to smack the teacher in the face.

Years ago when I was assigned to substitute teach a high school history class the head of the department warned me one particular student was no good, nothing but trouble, and to send him to the principal’s office. I was shocked, and a little frightened not knowing what to expect.

When class started I zeroed in on the “trouble” student but a wee little voice inside my teacher’s soul said to give him a chance. I then preceded to start a discussion on the New Deal and lo and behold he was the only student actively participating in the discussion. He was a nice kid, a delight. I felt a teacher/student connection.

Not five minutes later the head of the department came in and kicked the kid out of the class. I protested but as a substitute teacher my protest fell on deaf ears.

I wanted to beat the shit of that department head. He was hateful and mean and he humiliated the student.

I often think of that student and wonder what happened to him. Maybe he became a historian.

And then I remembered my tenth grade English teacher - Ms Romano - who loathed me as much as I loathed her. On numerous occasions she told me I was an absolutely horrible writer. I thought she was an absolutely horrible human being in desperate need of a flea dip.

If I had listened to that bitch Ms Romano you wouldn’t be reading my beautiful words of wisdom here today. Instead I’d be frightened of putting pen to paper and not living my dream. Well fuck her wherever she is, and I hope she’s in a place with a lot of heat.

Sometimes teachers need to be smacked.

I didn’t bother reading the rest of the article.

Not Neighborly

2011-05-29T21:46:00.001-07:00

I’m a neighbor. I live in a building with 28 apartments. I’m not neighborly.

Don’t get me wrong, if one of my neighbors were in need of help (of the 911 kind) I’d be there in a jiffy to lend a hand, but other than that I have no desire to mingle with the other 27 apartment dwellers in my building.

I only know the names of about four people in my building. The others I just smile when I see them and nod a courteous hello and hurry on my way before they get into a chatty “My name is... what’s yours?” mood.

There are people who love to get overly friendly with their neighbors, to hang out together, to plan their weekends together, to become best buds, to walk in uninvited and help themselves to each other’s food and drink, to watch movies together, to sleep together, and to do whatever else intrusive neighbors do. Maybe they think they’re on an episode of “Friends.”

 That’s not me. Not at all.

I always thought Ross, Rachel, Monica, Joey, Chandler, and Phoebe were overbearing neighbors.

Last summer a few of the tenants in my building thought it’d be a swell idea to have a “building barbecue” in the courtyard. The organizers posted pretty computer generated invites on everyone’s door. “It’ll be fun!” “Bring something you’d like to grill!” “From 4 PM to...”

I conveniently scheduled a root canal at 4 PM that day.

And now that it’s Memorial Day, the official beginning of the barbecue season, I dread coming home and finding a cheery building barbecue invite on my door.

Maybe this year I’ll schedule a colonoscopy.

I can’t help it. I’m just not neighborly.

Mother Knows Best

2011-05-14T23:05:00.000-07:00

Some mothers are good mothers. Some mothers are not-so-good mothers. And some mothers are complete idiots.

Kerry is an idiot mother.

Who’s Kerry?

She’s the San Francisco mother of eight year old Britney, a cute little girl who participates in beauty pageants. Cute. Little Girl. Not a woman. A little girl.

But little Britney’s pre-pubescent head was full of worries of facial wrinkles, so mother Kerry suggested Botox injections. Yes, a grown woman and “mother” began injecting her eight year old daughter with Botox giving her five shots in three different locations of her face.

Well! Botox is certainly the answer to low self-esteem in children. Why didn’t anyone think of this earlier?

“Honey, you’re not pretty enough to be in a beauty pageant but with me injecting you regularly with miracle drug Botox you’ll suddenly be pretty enough to at least become third runner up, and if we inject you even more I can see first runner up in your future!”

I say hey Kerry why stop at a few Botox injections in the child’s face?

Botox those little girl lips so they’re nice and pouty and sexy for the pre-teen pageant judges. Everyone wants to see a child beauty contestant with lips so full they could french kiss a moose.

And don’t forget about the pre-pubescent ass. It needs more booty so bend your daughter over and inject some ass cheek miracle drug in those undefined ass cheeks so she looks booty-licious.

And what about a little booby action so she can fill out that bikini she wears in the swimsuit competition or the halter top gown she wears in the formalwear competition? Most eight year olds are flat chested, but you Kerry can have an eight year old daughter with a full bosom if you call Dr. Boobman and get your little Britney silicon implants asap. As she grows older and enters more and more pageants you can increase her boobie size to really entice those judges. A 42-D on a ten year old should really make her a winner.

Psychologically Britney is going to be so sane. She’ll be the envy of everyone. And to think self-worth in a syringe is all it took.

Oh Kerry, I think we need to vote you “Mother of the Year.”

Jelly Beans and Bird Poop

2011-04-24T21:06:00.000-07:00

We all love queens. She-queens. He-queens. And everything in between queens.

Oh joyous, crown wearing royalty you take my breath away.

And when a commoner is about to become un-common the whole world takes notice.

Last week I was amused to read that a British man was eating from a bag of jelly beans and as he reached down to grab a bean he noticed the image of Kate Middleton, the soon to be wife of Prince William, staring up at him with her doe-like eyes.
She’s a pretty lass and as an orange jelly bean she’s an even prettier lass. If it ends up on E-bay I might be tempted to place a bid.

Not to be outdone by a Brit with a bag of jelly beans I too have made not one, but two image discoveries this past week.

The other day I was coming out of work and noticed some birds had pooped on my windshield. As I positioned myself in the driver’s seat I was about to turn on the windshield wipers to wipe the poop away when I suddenly gasped. There right before in the middle of the bird poop was the face of J-Lo. Yes, Jenny from the block, the Selena actress, the new American Idol judge.

I quickly drove to the nearest windshield store and had my windshield carefully removed. It’s now up on E-bay waiting for bids to make me rich, rich, rich.

The following day I left work and as I approached my car with its new windshield I noticed that once again birds had pooped all over my windshield. I leaned over my windshield, took a deep breath, and with anticipation raging like a forthcoming orgasm I stared...

And there in the middle of the poop was the face of Sarah Palin. Sarah Palin? What kind of cruel joke was this? I immediately grabbed a hammer and smashed the friggin’ windshield.

Tomorrow I’m taking the bus to work.

Super Glued at the Superstore

2011-04-07T16:38:00.000-07:00

No one wakes up in the morning and thinks, “Gee, maybe today when I head over to Walmart I’ll get the urge for a bowel movement and when I sit on the toilet seat it’ll be covered in glue and my fat hairy ass will get stuck to it.”

Can you even imagine such a thing happening? Well it did happen on April 1st at the Elkton, Maryland Walmart Superstore.

Some prankster/asshole/toilet seat fetish freak went into the men’s room and doused the toilet seat with glue. And then a 48-year-old man went into the stall, dropped his drawers, and put his ass onto the seat.

“Help. I’m stuck and I can’t get up!”

The paramedics were able to remove the man from the stall, but were unable to free his ass from the toilet seat. So the man was brought to the hospital where the seat was successfully detached leaving his cheeks red and raw.

Okay, I want to know why the man, before he dropped his pants and sat, didn’t look at the toilet and see something sticky/wet/shiny on the seat? Wouldn’t you? I mean, public bathrooms can be pretty disgusting. If he placed the toilet seat protector paper on the seat wouldn’t he have seen the paper absorb the stickiness and know not to sit?

Maybe the poor guy was having severe abdominal cramps and didn’t have time to look. He just rushed into the stall, dropped his pants, sat, farted and grunted and let it all out, and only when it was over did he realize the sticky situation he was in.

What a humiliating experience!

That’s why I never go to Wal-Mart, and I never sit on public toilet seats.

And that’s why I always seem to have a constipated look when I’m in public.

The Spaghetti Tree

2011-04-05T20:26:00.000-07:00

All over the Internet the other day I kept reading about historic April Fool’s Day pranks that actually fooled folks. Some were outrageous and only the insanely gullible would ever believe such dribble. Some made me giggle. One in particular made me hungry.

In 1957 the BBC ran a segment about the coming of spring after a rather mild winter, and questioned what this meant for Swiss farmers. The answer they gave their attentive audience was an unusually large spaghetti crop. Well...

People contacted the BBC wanting to know how they could grow their own spaghetti tree. Oh yes they did! And the BBC promptly responded with “place a sprig of spaghetti in a tin of tomato sauce and hope for the best.”

I would love to harvest spaghetti trees.

During harvest time I’d lay in my hammock underneath my prized spaghetti trees swaying to the rhythm of the breeze holding a large porcelain bowl catching the spaghetti strands as they ripened and fell from the tree.

I’d then wander to my meatball tree... oh yes... I’d admire my prized balls... meat... turkey... soy... then I’d gently reach up and squeeze a branch (insert double cough here) until the balls fell into my porcelain bowl of spaghetti.

Then I’d head over to the marinara plant and pop the marinara blossoms until juicy marina squirted beautifully over my spaghetti and balls.

And as a final touch I’d visit the parmesan bushes that grow wild amongst the marinara plants. Shake, shake, shake the bush until the parmesan sprinkles lightly over the spaghetti, balls, and marinara.

And for dessert I’d sneak over to my neighbor’s house and steal a scrumptious connoli from their treasured connoli tree.

Mmm... mmm.... good.

I just planted a spaghetti spring in a tin of marinara.

The Barefoot Wish Crusher

2011-03-31T15:40:00.001-07:00

Oh Ina Garten oh Ina Garten there’s something rotten in your vegetable garden...

I’m really truly hoping the soft-spoken, soothing celebrity chef Ina Garten - the Barefoot Contessa - did not intentionally snub a sick child’s wish. Her “people” supposedly refused the Make-A-Wish foundation request not once but twice, and then when the news broke about their refusal they gave the “Unfortunately, as much as she would like to it’s absolutely impossible to grant every request she receives” response and suddenly the oil in the frying pan splattered everywhere.

Now I totally understand celebrities not being able to accommodate every request that is hurled upon them, but a sick child? Ooh, that’s bad karma... and bad PR.

Maybe Ina’s people never told her about the request, and she’s innocent? I sure hope so, but why hasn’t Ina shown up on all the talk shows begging for forgiveness?

Please, Ina, prove that you aren’t a burned crepe or moldy cheesecake, and that your compassion is as delicious as your Lamb Kabobs with Couscous.

I’m waiting.... all your fans are waiting... for you to stand on your tippy-toes and explain how this misunderstanding happened. If not, then...

I’m gonna toss my treasured Ina Garten cookbooks into the trash, ban you from my television, and never ever make another Barefoot Contessa recipe again. My dinner parties will suffer but sometimes we’ve got to do what we’ve got to do to do the right thing. Get it?

Do the right thing.

Don’t be the Barefoot Wish Crusher. Be the divine Barefoot Contessa who has a heart as big as an oversized eggplant and do something special for the child, and fire the staff member who refused the first request.

Gotta Get Down on Friday

2011-03-23T16:12:00.000-07:00

Sometimes viral videos are truly fun in that totally demented warped sense and were created to be just that. But sometimes they’re meant to be good and end of being so bad they’re deliciously addictive guilty pleasures.

And so it goes with Rebecca Black and her song “Friday.” Oh yes, it’s addictive. After one listen to the cheesy lyrics and simply derivative melody you’ll be bouncing around the house vacuuming and scrubbing the toilet to the rhythm of “It’s Friday, Friday, Gotta get down on Friday, Everybody’s looking forward to the weekend...”

That song gets under your skin like a bedbug. Hey, it won’t kill you though it might cause discomfort and a little rash. But isn’t that what a lot of pop songs do?

Making Love Out of Nothing At All
Tubthumping
I’m Gonna Be (500 Miles)
Achy Breaky Heart
Ice Ice Baby
Who Let The Dogs Out
Disco Duck
My Heart Will Go On

And the list goes on and on...

Sure, in public we say these songs are the equivalent of Ex-Lax, but in private we cherish these ditties and sing along full-voice pretending we are the ones who made them famous. Right? Don’t deny it. We all know it’s the truth.

Late at night when the world is fast asleep I like to get cozy with my computer and watch Youtube videos of cheesy pop songs. Some I have secretly added to my ipod to enjoy while pumping iron at the gym.

So I say congratulations to Rebecca Black for getting over 39 million Youtube hits. I might - just might - download it onto my ipod... “We - we - we so excited...”

My Secret Desire

2011-03-16T16:32:00.000-07:00

Besides being totally hep and happening and witty and charming and a lover of what I see in the mirror I’m also a great cook.

In the secret kitchen of my pumping heart lies a strong desire to be a Television Chef with my own Food Network Show.

I want to call my show EAT THIS!

And eat they will once my audience gets a glimpse of what I have to offer.

Not to push Martha or Ina or Lidia or Marianne or Mario aside, but I want to wedge myself between them and stand as stiff as a rolling pin and show them what I’ve got.

What would make my show stand apart from the others? Besides me, it would include drinking wine - lots of wine - while preparing the food. Yes, wine, to establish a soothing, fun atmosphere while chopping and sauteing and mixing. With a pinch of this, a pinch of that, and a great tasting Malbec it would definitely be unpredictable and unscripted fun. And with special guests like Charlie Sheen and Lindsay Lohan it could only get funner (duh!).

Lots of wine makes me giddy and outrageous. People like that about me, so why not share it with the world? Who knows, maybe I’ll even break into song and dance while the chicken roasts, the spinach wilts, or the lobsters boil.

So send an email to the Food Network and let them know you really want me to show you how to EAT THIS:

Olive Basil Cheese Spread

8 oz. cream cheese, softened
6 oz. feta cheese
3/4 oz. basil leaves, chopped
3 tablespoons olive oil
15 Kalamata olives, pitted and roughly chopped
1/4 tsp. black pepper

Combine the cream cheese, feta cheese, basil, oil and 1/4 teaspoon black
pepper in a bowl and mix until smooth. Fold in the olives and spoon into a serving bowl. Serve with crackers, bread, etc.

Bon appetite!

All Sorts of Crazy

2011-03-08T16:19:00.001-08:00

Instead of focusing on important stuff like rising gas prices, revolutions, plague, hatred, and war the media is obsessed with every bit of “wisdom” spewing forth from volcano mouth Charlie Sheen. And the shit he’s spewing is all sorts of crazy.

I was bangin' seven-gram rocks and finishing them because that's how I roll, because I have one speed, one gear.

I'm different. I have a different constitution, I have a different brain, I have a different heart. I got tiger blood, man. Dying's for fools, dying's for amateurs.

I'm tired of pretending I'm not special. I'm tired of pretending I'm not a total freaking rock star from Mars.

Uhh... Winning!

Why is the media so obsessed with a drug and alcohol and sex addict who obviously is in desperate need of mental help, and why do we sit glued to our televisions and our computer monitors watching him self-destruct before our very eyes?

We seem to get a perverse joy watching someone succeed and then slowly crumble and disintegrate. It makes great fodder for water cooler conversations, gossip rags, the news media, and blogging (oops!). It helps us feel better about ourselves, and our non-celebrity lives.

I don’t know Charlie, though I have known a few Charlies in my day and what they don’t need is the media encouraging them to speak out, act out, and totally freak out. They need an intervention, hospitalization, and recovery.

In less than a year, after the crazy has subsided, we’ll most likely be asking “Where’s Charlie?” and hopefully it’s not gonna be a R.I.P. kind of answer.

Brittany seems to have recovered (thank goodness), Lindsay’s still out of control, and Charlie’s well... uhh.... losing.

Bus Stop Banter

2011-03-03T15:31:00.000-08:00

Today I wasn’t in the mood to ride my bike to the gym (too chilly), nor was I in the mood to drive my car to the gym. I wanted an adventure so I decided to take the Hollywood Dash Bus to the gym and enjoy a journey through the side streets of Hollywood. It had been a long while since I took the Dash Bus and an even longer while since I ventured some of streets of the bus route.

Dressed in my best gym attire with baseball cap strategically placed to smooth my pillow hair I threw my gym bag over my shoulder and headed to the bus stop.

So far so good...

As the bus was approaching I reached into my pocket for the exact change. I asked the only other person waiting for the bus if the fare was still twenty-five cents. The frumpy middle-aged woman said it was thirty-five cents. Oh, I innocently said, it went up.

With that she stared me down and in a surly voice she growled, “Well do the math, it didn’t go down.”

Oh no she didn’t... oh yes she did.

At that moment the bus stopped in front of us and the doors flung open. My impulse was to trip that flat footed platypus of a woman and knock her to the ground and slap the shit out of her, but in a split second of clarity and restraint (and fear of prison) I didn’t.

Instead I put on my most cheery fake Hollywood voice and wished her a beautiful day.

Bitch.

A Frozen Foods Rumble

2011-02-28T16:16:00.000-08:00

The other day I went to the grocery store to use the bank machine. There seemed to be a rush on cash with a line of people waiting patiently to slide their bank cards into the machine and punch in their secret passwords for the monetary reward. I stood amongst them grasping my bank card anticipating pulling five twenty dollar bills from the tight slit of the machine.

I glanced to my right and noticed an older man (mid 60s), athletic and muscular, come in and reach for a shopping basket. As he leaned towards the basket a younger man (30s) came into the store walking quite fast (he wasn’t breaking any speed limit, but he appeared to be in a hurry) and he bumped into the older man. The older man wasn’t knocked to the floor. He was tapped, and certainly not hard enough to bruise his precious body.

The younger man instinctively reached out to hold the man to make sure he wasn’t gonna fall and apologized. The older man stood upright, erect, puffed up his chest, and yelled at the top of his lungs DON’T TOUCH ME and NO he wouldn’t accept the apology.

The young man flinched. Confused and not knowing what to do he apologized again and continued towards the frozen foods aisle. The older man dropped his basket and started to chase after the young man challenging him to a fight.

A fist fight amongst frozen vegetables was about to happen... and I was gonna have a bird’s eye view...

The young man sensed danger and quickly ran down another aisle leaving the older man with his fists up in the air with no one to punch. With all eyes on him the older man slowly dropped his fists but continued yelling profanities until no one cared to listen anymore.

Anti-climatic.

I was hoping too see a frozen foods rumble. Instead I entered my password into the bank machine, grabbed the cash, and left.

The next movies in my netflix queue are now Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky III, and Rocky IV.

Hello Hello Is Josie There?

2011-02-14T16:31:00.000-08:00

Over the past couple of days my serene world has been interrupted by wrong number calls to my cell phone. Each time the woman on the other end of the wireless connect is saying hello hello is Josie there? When I tell her she has the wrong number she apologizes and hangs up. But then she calls again hours later and we have the exact same conversation.

So who is this Josie gal and why does that Woman-caller want to talk to her?

All kinds of scenarios have invaded my imagination and have kept me thoroughly entertained.

I imagine Josie could be a drug dealer and the Woman-caller is looking to score some Acapulco gold, 4:20, purple haze, meth, vicodin, or some waffle dust. In a drugged daze the Woman-caller copied Josie’s number incorrectly from the bathroom stall wall.

I imagine this Josie gal could be a madam. The Woman-caller has fallen on economic hard times after losing her job at the local Walmart and has decided to join the world’s oldest profession. Men have always admired her double jointed hips, so why let the hips get old and rusty when they can earn some cash and help pay the mortgage. Unfortunately the Woman-caller lost Josie’s ad from the back of the porn magazine and is trying desperately to remember the number.

I imagine the Woman caller could be a potential stalker. Josie gave her a fake phone number after a one-night-stand of lesbian experimentation that wasn’t all that good. Luckily for Josie the tryst was at the Woman-caller’s apartment and not at Josie’s rent controlled apartment overlooking the ocean.

Could Josie be a dog owner whose ill mannered German Shepherd dog bit the Woman-caller when the Woman-caller was hiking in Griffith Park? The dog was illegally off the leash. There were wounds. There was blood. Aaah but Josie’s a selfish naughty dog owner and doesn’t want to take responsibility; hence, the wrong contact number.

As I travel through my day I find myself staring at the faces of woman who pass me by wondering if she’s Josie or she’s the Woman-caller. Sometimes I snarl at them all caught up in one of my scenarios. They look at me puzzled, and a couple times have flashed me the finger spewing a few choice words. I don’t care.

Imagination is fun.

I Went To The Post Office...

2011-02-04T14:17:00.000-08:00

This week I had a customer service experience that didn’t rile me enough to get my anger pumping and my voice a hollering, but it did reinforce the belief that customer service is dying and in desperate need of oxygen for its shriveled brain cells. So sad.

The other afternoon I went to the Post Office to mail two oversized envelopes. The total cost for both was a whopping $2.10. I handed the Postal Clerk $20.10 anticipating $18.00 in return. Simple transaction.

I foolishly expected a quick customer service experience, and bidding a fond farewell to my two oversized letters as they begin their journey to their final destination.

But there was a glitch. The Postal Clerk frowned when I handed him the money and asked me if I had anything smaller than a twenty dollar bill. I didn’t. He then told me to put it on a credit card. I told him no. He then repeated himself. Again I said no. He then huffed and puffed and once again said to put it on a credit card. I simply shook my head. He then whined about having to go in the back area to get change for the twenty. He stood on the other side of the bullet proof glass window not moving. I wasn’t going to change my mind, and he didn’t want to budge. Then after a huge sigh he disappeared mumbling how it would be easier for him if I put it on a credit card.

Such a whiny pissy postal person.

And then I waited and waited and waited some more and the line of customers behind me grew longer and longer. He finally moseyed from the back room and handed me $15.00. I explained the change was actually $18.00 and after he scrunched his pea brain Postal Clerk head and looked like he was lost in the world of simple mathematics he surrendered to his stupidity and gave me the correct change.

I wished him a good day and fled.

I’m now hoping my oversized envelopes don’t get “lost” in the postal system and never make it to where they need to be.

Splish Splash

2011-01-20T17:26:00.000-08:00

There’s something about someone slipping on a banana peel that makes us laugh uproariously. But these days the banana peel has been upstaged by the smartphone and the idiots who are so wrapped up texting they don’t watch where they’re going.

Cathy Cruz Marrero from Reading, Pennsylvania is a texting idiot. A recent viral video shows Marrero so wrapped up in typing a text that she fell face first into a fountain. Splish splash!

As millions of viewers watched the viral video I’m certain no one said, “Hey wait, isn’t that Cathy Cruz Marrero from Reading, Pennsylvania?” Aah, but a chance at fifteen minutes of fame brought Cathy Cruz Marrero into the spotlight on national television proclaiming how embarrassed she was at the incident. If she was so embarrassed why did she identify herself as the texting idiot?

But it gets better. Today she and her uber-smart lawyer James Polyak announced they want to hold the person(s) who shot the video and put it on the Internet responsible. They’re considering a lawsuit. This definitely has the makings for a movie of the week starring Tori Spelling and Edward James Olmos.

Marrero also had the audacity to tearfully complain that no one from the mall called to see if she was okay. Who cares?!?

And it gets even better. Marrero is currently facing charges for credit card fraud.

Hmmm, something smells fishy and I don’t mean the dead goldfish in the fountain. Maybe Marrero deliberately set the whole thing up so she could have the international attention she so desperately craves, sue the mall, and then retire with her winnings? Now that sounds probable.

What was she texting? She was texting someone from her church. Aah, the church connection. She wants us to believe she’s a God fearing woman... but in truth a soon to be God fearing felon. Praise Jesus!

Marrero should hook up with Balloon Boy’s father. They’d be a perfect pair made in fraud heaven. Amen.

My Middle Finger Wounded

2011-01-12T23:10:00.001-08:00

My middle finger on my left hand, my flipping the bird finger, is wounded. Yes, wounded and I really don’t understand how it happened.

I got on my bike to ride to the gym and noticed that my tires were a bit deflated. I immediately worried that the connoli weight I gained over the holidays was more serious than I thought, but then I checked the elastic waistband of my gym shorts and laughed at the absurdity of the thought. The pants fit me fine. (Yes they did, damn it.)

So off I ride and at the first gas station I see I pull in to inflate my tires. As a prepared bicyclist I always carry a tire pressure gauge gadget with me so I won’t blow too much air in the tires, sit on the bike and have the tires explode like a major fart beneath me.

As I let go of the air hose I glance at my left hand and notice something very strange. The top portion of my middle finger on my left was bent in an abnormal direction. It wasn’t painful, but painful to look at. My beautiful left hand was deformed. That friggin’ air hose hurt me and I didn’t even feel it.

I slowly pushed the tip to the left to straighten the finger but it immediately returned to the right. Because I felt no inner pain I decided it was a minor finger malfunction and continued to the gym where I sweated on the treadmill and pumped up the pecs. Through it all my finger bent abnormally, but I carefully kept it hidden from any inquiring eyes.

Once home I carefully washed my deformed finger and taped a wooden splint to it to return it to its middle finger glory. Until I’m healed...

Typing is now difficult.

Doing handstands is not possible.

 Intimate moments will now require my right hand to be the dominant hand.

Piano playing and violin playing will have to wait.

And worst of all... If I don’t heal properly my hand modeling career might be over.

Jesus In Cake

2011-01-07T16:09:00.001-08:00

Yesterday was January 6th, Dia des Reyes (“Kings Day”), and to celebrate I took a journey to East Los Angeles to mingle with my Latino brothers and sisters and enjoy some Rosca des Reyes (Kings Day cake). I wasn’t going to let Epiphany pass me by without partaking in a slice (or two or three) of cake with a nice cup of coffee. I love cake and any excuse to eat it is reason enough.

One of the traditions of Dia des Reyes is to place a baby Jesus in the Rosca des Reyes. The person who finds Jesus in their piece of cake is blessed.

Well glory hallelujah I found Jesus. Yes I did. I found a mohawk Jesus with a black eye in my piece of cake.

Of course I wasn’t paying attention to what I was putting in my mouth and I almost washed little Jesus down my esophagus with a gulp of coffee. What would’ve happen if baby Jesus got stuck in my throat? Would my friends have performed the Heimlich Maneuver so I could spit up Jesus and not choke to death?

Luckily that didn’t happened, but it could have happened. And if it did, do you think the sin of swallowing Jesus would’ve banned me from ever entering heaven? Would my name appear on a list of people tacked to the pearly gates with the headline “Do Not Admit these Jesus Swallowers!”?

Oh, oh, oh... A potential hellish crises was averted.

I’m so glad I didn’t choke on Jesus.

I am truly blessed.

For 2011 I’d Like...

2011-01-05T20:34:00.000-08:00

At midnight December 31st I was more than happy to kick 2010 in the ass and welcome with open arms 2011. And like everyone else I’ve made a wish list for the coming year:

I’d like to be able to pedal my bike to the very top of Griffith Park without dying of a massive heart attack.

I’d like to never have to read about or see another picture of that idiot Sarah Palin.

I’d like this to be the last year of that worn out, insignificant American Idol.

I’d like to cook Indian food and cook it well.

I’d like to find a phenomenal pizza joint in Los Angeles.

I’d like to play tennis more.

I’d like to participate in a live painting re-enactment (preferably one with a Roman theme where I get to wear a toga).

I’d like to have the courage to go up, up, and away in an air balloon.

I’d like to receive a message from my mother in a dream.

I’d like to have coffee and conversation with Melissa Manchester.

I’d like to feast on a big ‘ole plate of deep fried clams (with the bellies), and a side of deep fried onion rings at least once a month.

I’d like to look great in a Speedo again.

And most of all...

I’d like to spend one night as a go-go dancer in a cage suspended above a crowded dance floor swinging to 80s music.

A Gift for Baby Jesus

2010-12-28T16:09:00.000-08:00

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.

Heavenly Happiness

2010-12-18T22:06:00.000-08:00

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?

A Green Dream

2010-12-14T15:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Tickle The Nipple

2010-12-07T15:48:00.000-08:00

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....

Stop!

2010-11-30T22:45:00.001-08:00

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.

The Tidy Bowl Man

2010-11-28T21:45:00.000-08:00

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.

The Sunday Morning Call

2010-11-18T09:47:00.000-08:00

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.

130 Million

2010-11-04T19:35:00.001-07:00

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.

Cigarettes and Cell Phones

2010-10-29T09:57:00.001-07:00

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...

Painted Ponies

2010-10-24T20:44:00.000-07:00

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.

A Great Passenger

2010-10-23T23:23:00.001-07:00

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.

I’m Back...

2010-10-22T22:37:00.000-07:00

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...

Celebrity Squatters

2010-09-19T20:52:00.000-07:00

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.

Nighty Night...

2010-09-17T21:33:00.000-07:00

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...

Let Your Fingers Do The Walking...

2010-09-12T21:48:00.001-07:00

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.

Paris Needs a Timeout

2010-08-31T17:06:00.001-07:00

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.

The Silent Facebook Wars

2010-08-26T22:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Little Swimmers

2010-08-21T20:52:00.000-07:00

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.

A Black Cloud

2010-08-16T16:46:00.000-07:00

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.

Keep Off The Grass

2010-08-09T23:08:00.000-07:00

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.

Sheriff Joe and His Tiny...

2010-08-02T21:31:00.000-07:00

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.

MC Pope Benny

2010-07-27T20:45:00.001-07:00

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.

Funny Little Man

2010-07-21T22:03:00.001-07:00

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.

It Doesn’t Grow Back

2010-07-16T21:42:00.001-07:00

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.

Good Riddance, Lindsay

2010-07-07T21:01:00.001-07:00

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.

Self-Proclaimed King

2010-06-28T16:39:00.000-07:00

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.

31 Inches

2010-06-19T15:44:00.000-07:00

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.

Something Missing on the Metro

2010-06-15T22:09:00.001-07:00

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.

Sucker Punched In The...

2010-06-03T16:18:00.000-07:00

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.

A Royal Calamity

2010-05-26T15:58:00.000-07:00

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.

I Dreamed a Hat

2010-05-17T16:57:00.001-07:00

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.

Bathroom Girls

2010-05-07T15:48:00.000-07:00

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.

Green Green Green

2010-04-29T16:37:00.001-07:00

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.

Where's Tonya?

2010-04-27T22:06:00.001-07:00

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.

Double Fun Evelyn

2010-04-19T21:52:00.000-07:00

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?

What’s That Smell?

2010-04-04T21:16:00.000-07:00

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?

Ring Them Bells

2010-03-24T19:09:00.001-07:00

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.

4.4 @ 4:04

2010-03-16T22:22:00.001-07:00

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.

Pray for Jennie

2010-03-06T21:06:00.000-08:00

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.

Strip Mall Fun

2010-03-02T20:40:00.001-08:00

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?

The Big Dick

2010-02-22T22:34:00.001-08:00

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?

Love, Love, Love

2010-02-14T16:05:00.001-08:00

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...

Rats

2010-02-08T21:30:00.000-08:00

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.

Stepped Right In It

2010-02-02T22:13:00.000-08:00

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.

Oh Cinnamon

2010-01-25T21:46:00.000-08:00

Oh cinnamon oh cinnamon how I love thee.

On toast. On yogurt. In cookies. In coffee. With chocolate. With nuts. In ice cream. In tuna. I’ve even made cinnamon chicken (delicious!).

As far back as I can remember I’ve loved cinnamon and through the years, the highs and lows, cinnamon has always been there to keep me happy.

My love of Marcia Brady came and went but cinnamon remained.

My love of bell bottoms came and went but cinnamon remained.

My love of disco came and went and came and went again but cinnamon remained.

My love of afro perms in the mid 80s was just a sad, sad phase, but cinnamon stood by me proud to spice up my taste buds.

When spiced candles were all the rage I never strayed from the cinnamon scent.

Through the LA riots it was cinnamon raison cookies that kept me safe.

Whenever I have a nightmare a little cinnamon ice cream soothes the fear and lets me sleep like a lamb.

Cinnamon is my friend.

I even painted the walls in my humble abode a nice shade of cinnamon. Some friends have argued the color is rust or terra cotta, but the truth is it’s cinnamon, and those friends have never been invited back.

Just the other day someone sent me a link to a site that proclaimed the curative power of my beloved cinnamon when it’s combined with honey. I say yeah, yeah, yeah... together cinnamon and honey help us stand strong against heart disease, arthritis, hair loss, bladder infections, toothaches, colds, infertility, upset stomachs, gas, skin infections, fatigue, and bad breath.

Hmmm... maybe that’s why my heart beats strongly, my joints dance with great rhythm, my hair glows a shiny and healthy medium brown, I pee regularly, my teeth and gums can chew taffy with ease, I rarely sniffle, I’m hornier than hell, my stomach loves when I eat spicy foods, my farts are silent, my skin is supple and smooth, I only need six hours of sleep, and when I open my mouth it smells like a stick of cinnamon.

Oh yes, that’s what cinnamon has done for me.

So don’t just lay there on the couch feeling plump, tired, and gassy, jump on the cinnamon train and you too can be just like me.

Just Wondering...

2010-01-19T23:00:00.000-08:00

Okay, so I do this thing every time I read the newspaper. It’s kind of a weird thing, but something I want to share.

First thing in the morning after checking email I click over to my favorite Los Angeles news site and I read the breaking news, the entertainment news, the food section, the daily blogs, some op-eds, and then I mosey over to the obituaries.

Now there’s nothing wrong with reading the daily obits. It might sound morbid but it’s sometimes the only way to find out when someone you know has bit the big one, kissed the sky, overdosed, met the almighty maker, or whatever else you want to call taking a final breath and becoming cold stone dead.

But...

Do you ever scan the daily obits in hopes of seeing the name of someone who’s done you wrong, really wrong? And then being disappointed day in and day out when they don’t appear?

Please don’t think that I have this long list of people I yearn to see in the obits because I don’t. I’m not obsessed with seeing certain people dead, but there is one particular person who comes to mind every day. It just happened one morning, and since then it happens quite frequently. Even when I try not to look for their name I do.

I won’t name the name, and if you think it’s you you’re probably wrong, but then again... if you think it’s you then that means you’ve done me wrong and maybe I don’t even know it yet.

Anyway, I was just wondering...

It’s Her Time of the Season

2010-01-17T23:08:00.001-08:00

Mother Nature is having her period and I have to suffer.

Last week she was extremely happy with warm temperatures (high 70s), sunlight, and barely a breeze to blow my feathered hair.

This morning I woke up and could feel a restlessness when I looked outside. I sensed a mood swing coming. Oh no, it's that time of the season...

And sure enough Mother Nature sent in clouds and by mid-day she turned the temperature low; too low for my comfort level. By day’s end her bitchiness reared its ugly side with full clouds and rain.

And it looks like it’s going to last all week. Low temperatures (in the very low 60s) and inches of rain to dampen the mood and remind us that she is woman hear her roar.

There’ll be no bike riding this week.

There’ll be no shorts and t-shirt.

There’ll be no sunglasses.

There’ll be no nude hiking.

There will be umbrellas and scarves and rain coats and galoshes and rain hats and slippery roads and steamy windshields and angry drivers and flat hair and flooded gutters and the ping, ping, ping of raindrops against the window panes driving me fucking insane.

Damn that woman. Isn’t there a pill we can give her to alleviate these mood swings?

McNugget-Rage

2010-01-06T09:31:00.001-08:00

What is the attraction of a McDonald’s McNugget?
I’ve never driven past a McDonald’s and thought, “Hey, I should go get me some McNuggets.”

My saliva has never gone into overdrive yearning to wrap my tongue around a McNugget.

I don’t think I’ve ever eaten a McNugget.

Is deep fried battered processed chicken so mouth watering and addictive that you would go into a state of McNugget Rage if you didn’t get your order?

That seems to be what happened at a drive-thru window at a McDonald’s in Ohio. Melodi Dushane, 24 years old, punched through the drive-thru window when she was told there were no more McNuggets.

I wonder what’s the attraction for Melodi? Does she have an unnatural relationship with them? Does she race through stop lights to get home with her McNuggets so she can curl up on the couch and munch while watching Dr. Phil? Does McDonald’s put something in the batter called Mc-Ecstasy?

I’ve thought about my own secret cravings and wondered if I would experience Dunkin Donut Rage if I were told there weren’t any jelly filled donuts or chocolate crullers available? As the perspiration gathers on temples and my heart speeds up I can only laugh because that would never ever happen.
Dunkin Donuts would NEVER run out of donuts.

Here Comes The New Year

2009-12-29T22:02:00.000-08:00

Oh damn, it’s the end of the year when everyone’s gonna make new year resolutions we all know they’ll never keep. As the clock strikes midnight people will stumble tall and proud and loudly slur their new year intentions for everyone to hear.
For those who promise to do physical transformations I think we should do photos at the beginning of the year and then at the end of the year to document if they really do do what they say they will do. And next year the before and after photos can be their Holiday Greeting Card.

For those who promise behavior changes I think we should follow them with webcams throughout the year and record them in action, and then post their progress, or disgrace, all over the Internet.

I don’t know about you but I’m tired of hearing my friends say:

I’m gonna hit the gym at least three times a week.

I’m gonna finally lose the weight I gained over the holidays.

I’m gonna stop swearing.

I’m gonna be more tolerant to idiots.

I’m gonna stop being a whore.

I’m gonna only drink on the weekends.

I’m gonna give up eating junk food.

I’m gonna do monthly colonics.

I’m gonna have that tattoo removed.

I’m gonna learn how to swim.

Blah, blah, blah...

Last night I was lying in bed laughing about silly resolutions when I looked up into the mirror and thought, “Oh fuck, this holiday season I’ve gained another inch on my waist and my gym membership’s about to expire and oh hell, I can’t believe that idiot Sarah Palin has a best selling book and that Tiger Woods is a fucking whore hound, and oooh those vodka martinis Monday night were too damn good, and that KFC extra crispy chicken tonight made me gassy and constipated, and why did I ever get that mistletoe tattoo around my johnson, and now it’s way late and I’d better turn off the porn and try to get some sleep, and I hope I don’t have that nightmare tonight where I’m drowning in a sea of doom."

Happy New Year.

Ooh Ooh Aah Aah

2009-12-20T20:21:00.000-08:00

News stories of the “strange but true” never cease to amaze me. I get a total kick reading them, and sometimes they bring back a memory or two.

This past week I read with piqued interest about the married British couple who’s been issued a court-ordered ban on their noisy lovemaking sessions. Catherine Cartwright and her husband Steve are so loud when they succumb to the passions of the flesh that neighbors describe the noises as “murder” and “unnatural,” with the city council saying the noise registered 47 decibels. Wow.

Okay... either Steve has special talents that belong in the Guinness Book of World Records, or Catherine has an overly active and overly sensitive kitty cat, or they both love putting on a show.

I remember a few year ago having the same problem with neighbors who lived above me. They were like clockwork; every morning at 3:50 AM she would start moaning, actually gasping for air, and then her voice when get higher and higher and louder and louder. She was a chorus of “ooh, ooh, aah, aah” until she reached that moment of surrender with ear piercing glassing shattering noise. Not even the Tabernacle Choir could reach such high notes.

The first night I woke up thinking the fire alarm had gone off.

The second night I got... well... I... enjoyed the rhythm... Aaah.

The third night I was really tired and cursed their overactive loins.

The fourth night I was still tired from the night before and had had enough. When Marcy finally screeched her orgasmic shrill cry of freedom, and Johnny grunted and groaned and finished bouncing on top of her, I opened my bedroom window and applauded them; not once; not twice; but a standing ovation kind of applause.

Marcy laughed. Johnny grunted, “What the fuck, man?”

I slammed my window shut.

The next day in the hallway they avoided eye contact.

They moved shortly thereafter.

He's the Pimple on the Ass of Life

2009-12-16T21:21:00.001-08:00

Joe Lieberman: The Pimple on the Ass of Life.

Senate leaders need to strip him of his chairmanship and seniority, and the people of Connecticut need to make sure he never wins another election.

Murder I Thought...

2009-12-12T16:02:00.000-08:00

It’s the holiday season and during this time of forced gaiety we try our best to spread good will and good tidings to all. Sometimes it takes a few glasses of spiked eggnog to get us in that holiday mood and sometimes all the spiked eggnog in the world cannot remove the evil thoughts that lurk inside our otherwise sane minds when someone truly pisses us off.

This week I read with disbelief about the 98 year old woman who murdered her 100 year old Nursing Home roommate. The murderer used the plastic bag over the head technique to strangle, suffocate, and end her roommate’s life. Why did she do this? Something about a table at the foot of a bed blocking a direct path to the bathroom.

This got me thinking about some of the things that have really pissed me off... that made me think, momentarily, about inflicting serious and deadly pain. Luckily for the person bothering me that small wee little voice in the far corner of my mind shouted in the nick of time, “Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Don’t do it. Death is not the answer. You’re too cute for prison!”

Here are some of those situations that could’ve ended badly, but didn’t.

When the girl behind the counter at the coffee cafe chose the smallest scone for me when it was clearly the smallest on the tray.

When the Chinese restaurant sent white rice in my delivery order when I specifically asked for brown rice.

When that D-list bitch actress re-gifted me a gift she received from a goodie bag she got at a fundraising event I produced. (Merry Christmas!)

When my friend was so late picking me up that we missed seeing the previews and got in our seats just as the movie was beginning.

When the security guard at the airport threw out my new tube of toothpaste (cinnamon flavored!) because it was more than the allowed amount.

When the mailman put my mail in my neighbor’s mailbox and my neighbor opened my personal letter and saw the “photograph.”

When that old geezer with the pot belly at the gym didn’t wipe his smelly sweat from the Nautilus machine.

When the fat man in the red suit and white beard shouted the weakest most pathetic high-pitched “Ho, ho, ho.”

All I can say is, “Funny the people you meet when you don’t have a gun.”

Oh Jesus

2009-12-06T20:55:00.000-08:00

This week I read an interesting tidbit about a Massachusetts woman who had a divine revelation. No, a bright light didn’t shine before her and speak in a deep voice telling her the winning lottery numbers. What she did see was the image of Jesus on the bottom of her iron. She interpreted this as a sign that “life is going to be good.”

Here’s the photo of the iron with Jesus on the bottom looking rather rusty, but still divine: This has gotten me thinking about the time that I too saw the face of Jesus staring right out at me from the most unexpected place. It sent shivers through my body and has remained a life-changing moment in my life. Father O’Brien would be so happy to hear this.

It happened one morning not too long ago when I took a hike in the park and stopped by the small cafe for a coffee and scone, a blueberry almond oat scone to be exact. I was sipping the organic brew and enjoying the beauty of nature that surrounded me when a bee flew too close for comfort. I swatted it with all my might but the little buzzer flew away.

I then grabbed my half-eaten scone and that’s when I noticed something... something that seemed to be looking back at me... was it the bee I just tried killing... no, it wasn’t... was it something the baker accidentally baked into the scone?.... no, it wasn’t... it was something that had a power, an energy... it mesmerized me, pulling me to it... I leaned closer and closer into that blueberry almond oat scone...

I looked. I blinked. I looked again. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

There in the nooks and crannies of my chewed scone was the face of Jesus.

Aaah... I heard a choir of angels singing as sweet as a flock of pigeons.

I don’t know how long I sat there staring at Jesus in my scone, but it was a feeling I will never forget.

Then that goddamn bee came back and knocked my out of my Jesus trance. Buzz, buzz, buzz... I knocked that thing senseless. Dead.

Then I heard my stomach growl, and without thinking I grabbed the scone and ate Jesus. I swallowed him and washed him down with gulp of coffee.

I took this as a profound sign that next time I need to sit inside the cafe.

Alabama Here I Come

2009-11-27T22:32:00.000-08:00

Next week I’m off to northeast Alabama to do research for a film project I’ve been hired to write. I’ve never stepped foot on Alabama soil before and am quite excited to breathe the air, be in awe of the beauty of the Little River Canyon, and enjoy the southern charm.

Geographically the closest I’d ever been to Alabama is Pigeon Forge, Tennessee.

Did you know...

The state bird is the Yellowhammer.

The state tree is the Longleaf Pine.

The state flower is the Camellia.

The capital in Montgomery.

The oldest city is Mobile.

I could brag and say my high school geography teacher would be proud that I’ve retained this information, but seeing it’s been years since high school and Mr. Griffin was ancient back then, I am quite confident he’s probably dead, and if he were still alive he’d be too old to even care what I retained or not. (True confession: I got the info off of Wikipedia.)

In order to get into that Alabama spirit I’ve been listening to songs with “Alabama” in the title:

Alabama Song by The Doors.

My Home’s In Alabama by Alabama

Sweet Home Alabama by Lynyrd Skynyrd

Sweet Home Alabama where the skies are blue... Here I come...

Must Be Santa

2009-11-19T17:35:00.000-08:00

It’s that time of the year when everyone blows the dust of their Christmas CDs and plays those holiday ditties ad nauseam. How many lame versions of “White Christmas” do we have to endure before someone (me) screams, “I don’t want a white Christmas! I want it green. I want it hot. I wanna be sitting by the chlorinated pool in my holiday speedo sipping a pomegranate martini. I hate the cold and snow!”?

Maybe I’m the minority here, but the fantasy of a white Christmas is not the reality of a white Christmas. Believe me I’ve survived many a white Christmases with shoveling snow, shivering temperatures, chapped lips, and chattering teeth. It’s not pretty.

With the holidays quickly approaching I brace myself for the onslaught of media madness and merry and maudlin music, and to my pleasant surprise I’ve come across a new Christmas song; one that didn’t make me block my ears with a bah humbug groan. I actually loved it and laughed and felt a pang of holiday spirit coursing through my warm weather veins.

It’s Bob Dylan’s soon-to-be-classic “Must Be Santa” and it’s gonna be my favorite Christmas song this year. Here’s the video in all its Santa glory... betcha you’ll be singing and dancing along...

Is That a Baby or a Plant?

2009-11-18T16:21:00.000-08:00

Okay... Michael Jackson is dead, and I don’t like to laugh too loudly about the dead, but today when I saw the photograph of Gerard Butler dangling what looked like a baby from a balcony in London I couldn’t help but laugh my ass off.
The look on Gerard’s face is priceless.

(And yes, it was a plant.)

I think Michael would be so giddy over the spoof (and the publicity) that he’d immediately whip out his “little mikey” and pee in a cup for everyone to see. He liked to do that, you know.