I was watching TV and saw that a terrorist had been arrested in Brazil. There was a lot of talk on whether or not this would help the Republicans in the mid-terms, and I felt I needed a weekend away from the country before Election Day on Tuesday. Out of the corner of one of the shots of the Iranian guy being arrested, I saw my old Norwegian companion, Mads. Rio seemed like as good a place as any to take a weekend off.
When I made it into the city, it didn't take long to follow the trail of booze, women, and Scandanavia to where Mads was keeping himself. He invited me to join him and the women he was with for a night of fun at their hotel room, and of course I obliged. As I snorted the third line of coke off the barely legal Barzilian girls ass, I wondered what I was doing there. Did I come back for this?
At that point the Mayor McCheese burst into our room wieldeing a .44 magnum. Before he could shoot he was tackled by ESPN football analyst Mike Golic. He and fellow analyst Mark Schlereth carried the mayor out, then Mike Greenberg came in and threw some hundreds on the floor. I looked at Mads, and we laughed.
We spent the day drinking coffee and mooching off German tourists as they shot golf balls from their veranda at street urchins below. The grapes were fantastic. I thought I could stay there forever...
I was reminded of when I first met Mads. I was at a bar near North Station, and had spotted a group of German tourists, much like the ones we were with at that moment. I figured they'd be ripe to mooch off of, and a cocky, young Norwegian Harvard ornithology PhD candidate had the same idea. We decided there were enough of them to go around, but were shut out when Tommy Lee Jones stepped in and cockblocked us.
"You're with me, Krauts" was all he said, and they joined him, leaving Mads and me holding the bag. We got to talking and hit it off. He was intrigued by how I ran the city, and I was fascinated by his Norwegianess. We were a match made in Newbury Street.
I thought maybe he was thinking of that too as we sat in that suite, smoking Parliaments and eating Persian caviar (I don't know where he got it all). But I knew right away that he wasn't when he said:
"Do you think I'd make a great Sean Hannity? I mean it can't be that hard, just say whatever people think a conservative would say, and publish books saying the same thing."
"What's the draw?"
"What?"
"What's the draw? I could see if it was a get rich quick scheme. But you have money, so why else would you do it? You could also right sclock sentimentality books like Mitch Albom does that are best sellers, but again, why? I'd need a little more intellectual stimulation."
"Like Laguna Beach?"
"Exactly."
He wasn't being facetious, Mads gets Laguna like I get Laguna, like most people don't get Laguna. And that's why no matter how far we are apart, we'll always be close.
He saw me off at the airport on Monday. We had a good weekend, but we knew it would end. As I sat on that plane and watched it taxi down the tarmac, I thought about making it stop and running back. But then I realized I'd be arrested and probably charged as a threat to Homeland Security. And maybe that was for the best. We took off and I watched the city grow smaller and smaller.
I looked up at the TV in front of me, and saw Brandi trying to wax intellectual about some variety show she was doing with David Hasselhoff. That's when I heard:
"She's got the IQ of a raisin."
It was Tommy Lee Jones.
"And yes," he said. "I'm still a little experimental."
Monday, April 30, 2007
I Don't Vote
I get asked all the time: "are you voting for Patrick or Healey?" To which I always reply: "I don't vote." Now before you hit me with your lectures on the people who died for our right to vote and the people who die in other places so they can vote too, just hear me out. I fully appreciate my right to vote and wish I could, but I just can't do it, and I'll tell you why.
In 1988 I was very excited to vote. Not only was this my first election that I was legal for, but we had a local boy, Michael Dukakis (sp?) running for president. So I went to my local voting place, signed in, and went to a booth.
That's when it happened. In my booth Fee Waybill of The Tubes, wearing only a red, white, and blue headband and matching speedo, was with a man in a bunny costume waving a flag and wearing a humongous strap-on dildo. Fee was stroking the dildo saying "ohhhh she's a beauty all right." Of course, I fainted and woke up in the hospital. The fall impacted my brain in such a way that I lost some of my sense of taste for the following two years, and have only recently fully gotten it back.
In 1992 I thought I was ready to get back on that horse, but man was I wrong. I can't get within 20 feet of a voting booth before I have a panic attack at best. So yes, I don't vote, and may never vote again.
In 1988 I was very excited to vote. Not only was this my first election that I was legal for, but we had a local boy, Michael Dukakis (sp?) running for president. So I went to my local voting place, signed in, and went to a booth.
That's when it happened. In my booth Fee Waybill of The Tubes, wearing only a red, white, and blue headband and matching speedo, was with a man in a bunny costume waving a flag and wearing a humongous strap-on dildo. Fee was stroking the dildo saying "ohhhh she's a beauty all right." Of course, I fainted and woke up in the hospital. The fall impacted my brain in such a way that I lost some of my sense of taste for the following two years, and have only recently fully gotten it back.
In 1992 I thought I was ready to get back on that horse, but man was I wrong. I can't get within 20 feet of a voting booth before I have a panic attack at best. So yes, I don't vote, and may never vote again.
Mads: Prelude to a Reunion
Rio is an amazing city for a Norwegian with an unlimited bank account. I did kind of want to be back in America before the midterm elections: I'm a huge Tucker Carlson fan; but when you're sitting at a table with three barely clothed barely legal women ready to do anything you ask, well, listening to an analysis on how many poll points the Macaca gaff cost Allen in Virginia has little to no sway over me.
That's when I saw a man I thought I'd never see again: my Boston Friend.
"Well, you look like you're doing pretty well for yourself."
"I am, I am. Why don't you take a seat?" He did. "What brings you to Rio?"
"I saw you on the news with your terrorist friend. I wanted to kill a weekend outside the country before Election Day. I figured Rio's a good as anywhere."
"No doubt, no doubt... well, you wanna take the girls back to my hotel room and do some coke off their asses?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
That's when I saw a man I thought I'd never see again: my Boston Friend.
"Well, you look like you're doing pretty well for yourself."
"I am, I am. Why don't you take a seat?" He did. "What brings you to Rio?"
"I saw you on the news with your terrorist friend. I wanted to kill a weekend outside the country before Election Day. I figured Rio's a good as anywhere."
"No doubt, no doubt... well, you wanna take the girls back to my hotel room and do some coke off their asses?"
"I thought you'd never ask."
Mads: The Phat Nickel: Expedition V
We weren't out of the woods yet. The natives were totally stoked that I'd dealt with the Predators (the Iranian was no help), and wanted to make me their Bird King. It sounded like fun, but I missed the city, any city, and we needed to get back. Some ranchers clearing out rain forest to raise cattle for McDonald's were in the area to shoot at some natives and scare them off the property, and we hitched a ride back with them into town, where we took a bus to Rio.
After a night of boozing, women, and coke, two CIA agents confronted us in our hotel room. Apparently there was a mix up, and we were sent to the wrong place. Gary Busey was supposed to go confront the Predators and he ended up scouting for birds. I accepted their apology, and that was that.
At the airport I was seeing Abdul Karim the Iranian off. He was almost on the plane, when he stopped and ran to me.
"Take me with you Mads... there are so many things left for us to do together."
Before I could respond, security tackled him. His Middle Eastern complexion and name coupled with his unusual behavior led to his arrest on terrorism charges. I thought about leaving his sorry ass there, but I had nothing better to do, and a fully tax deductable stay in Rio didn't sound like such a bad idea.
After a night of boozing, women, and coke, two CIA agents confronted us in our hotel room. Apparently there was a mix up, and we were sent to the wrong place. Gary Busey was supposed to go confront the Predators and he ended up scouting for birds. I accepted their apology, and that was that.
At the airport I was seeing Abdul Karim the Iranian off. He was almost on the plane, when he stopped and ran to me.
"Take me with you Mads... there are so many things left for us to do together."
Before I could respond, security tackled him. His Middle Eastern complexion and name coupled with his unusual behavior led to his arrest on terrorism charges. I thought about leaving his sorry ass there, but I had nothing better to do, and a fully tax deductable stay in Rio didn't sound like such a bad idea.
Mads: Expedition IV
Two down, one to go. The Persian was starting to lose it from the fear, so I knew I needed to do something fast. The third one was doing the same call the second one did, with the Fall Out Boy. It was eerie. I was about to tell the Iranian to chill, when we were both startled when the net trap was set off.
It didn't hold the Predator, just annoyed him a bit. He slashed through it and landed on the ground, causing his cloaking device to momentarily malfunction. I aimed my bow and arrow, but he threw his spear at me, and I barely dodged it. He went nuts, and shot his missles randomly all over the place. I lifted one of the Persian's knives form him and crawled over to the the epicenter of the missles cautiously.
When I was right next to him, I could hear his feet trampling the ground. I listened for him to step once more, and slashed out, severing his achilles tendon. He collapsed, crushing his missle thingy. His cloaking device brokedown, and he appeard in front of us. He took off his mask.
"Sorry buddy, but I'm contractually obligated to say this: you're one ugly motherfucker!"
He laughed, then pushed some buttons on his arm. He went back to the Fall Out Boy.
"Come on you dirty Iranian, run!"
We barely made it away from him before he blew up that huge section of forest. We had survived, but now we needed to find our way home. I put my arm around the Iranian.
"Abdul Karim, I think this might be the start of a beautiful friendship."
It didn't hold the Predator, just annoyed him a bit. He slashed through it and landed on the ground, causing his cloaking device to momentarily malfunction. I aimed my bow and arrow, but he threw his spear at me, and I barely dodged it. He went nuts, and shot his missles randomly all over the place. I lifted one of the Persian's knives form him and crawled over to the the epicenter of the missles cautiously.
When I was right next to him, I could hear his feet trampling the ground. I listened for him to step once more, and slashed out, severing his achilles tendon. He collapsed, crushing his missle thingy. His cloaking device brokedown, and he appeard in front of us. He took off his mask.
"Sorry buddy, but I'm contractually obligated to say this: you're one ugly motherfucker!"
He laughed, then pushed some buttons on his arm. He went back to the Fall Out Boy.
"Come on you dirty Iranian, run!"
We barely made it away from him before he blew up that huge section of forest. We had survived, but now we needed to find our way home. I put my arm around the Iranian.
"Abdul Karim, I think this might be the start of a beautiful friendship."
Mads: Expedition III
The Iranian and I knew we didn't have much time left under the cover of the Degree anti-persperant. We decided to set up a bunch of booby traps and bows and arrows with the trees around us. I had too much to live for to let a couple of Predators take it away from me. I painted a Norwegian flag on my face out of a sense of patriotism. Night was falling when we heard it, the warped twisted voice:
We're goin' down down in and early round, and sugah we're going down swingin'
"Arrggghh!" the Iranian said. "He's taunting us with Fall Out Boy."
"Be strong man. That's just karma kicking us in our asses."
A disc flew past my head and embedded itself in the tree behind me. It was obvious, he was shooting for the origin of my sound. That's when I pulled an old Ornithologist's trick: I threw a bird call. The yellow breasted titmouse to be exact. He took the bait, and sent a missle about thirty degrees away from me. I shot an arrow where the missle seemed to come from, and rolled behind another tree. A figure revealed itself where I shot, and I saw the Predator fall dead with an arrow through it's forehead. I put a finger up and brought it down like I was ticking off a checkmark.
"Count it."
We're goin' down down in and early round, and sugah we're going down swingin'
"Arrggghh!" the Iranian said. "He's taunting us with Fall Out Boy."
"Be strong man. That's just karma kicking us in our asses."
A disc flew past my head and embedded itself in the tree behind me. It was obvious, he was shooting for the origin of my sound. That's when I pulled an old Ornithologist's trick: I threw a bird call. The yellow breasted titmouse to be exact. He took the bait, and sent a missle about thirty degrees away from me. I shot an arrow where the missle seemed to come from, and rolled behind another tree. A figure revealed itself where I shot, and I saw the Predator fall dead with an arrow through it's forehead. I put a finger up and brought it down like I was ticking off a checkmark.
"Count it."
Mads: Expedition II
After dispatching of the one Predators, I made my way back to the camp. I was listening to "The Ghost of You" by My Chemical Romance in my iPod. I know, not the best music, but I stole it from one of my students and didn't have time to put some great Adult Contempo on it before we shipped off.
The other three Marines were dead as well, and the Iranian was dressed as Sinbad, not the comedian, but the Persian folk hero.
"What's the matter with you, are you some kind of damned idiot?" I said.
We camped out and had a lunch of Caspian Caviar and SPAM while we watched an episode of the OC on the iPod. I'm not a big fan of the OC, mostly because it's a bad rip off of 90210 w/out Steve Sanders.
Don't get the wrong impression: we were as worried as anyone would be knowing two Predators were out there looking to do us in. Between us we only had the Iranian's curved knives, and he needed both of them to complete his outfit. On the other hand, I had about fifty miniature Degree anti-persperants that I'd grabbed from the student union before I left, and by covering our body in that, we were as invisible to the Predators as they were to us.
Degree may be a good defense against Predators, but it ain't shit against bears, and we had one with a hankerin' for Persian Caviar only two feet away. The Iranian stood at the ready with his knives.
"You'll never beat him one on one, dude."
"Well what do you suggest, you lazy Norwegian? He's not a helpless seal."
This was no time for racial slurs, and even though I had plenty of Iranian jokes up my sleeve, I tabled them for a better time. The bear was a more pressing concern. I looked through the iPod until I found "Dance Dance" by Fall Out Boy. Luckily bears have superior hearing to us feeble humans, otherwise I'd've been screwed because we only hand headphones, and no speakers. But the headphones sufficed, and by the end of the first chorus, the bear ran away in pain.
"What did you do, you Norwegian voodoo master?"
I put the head phones up to his ear. Dance Dance...
"Yeah, that makes sense."
The other three Marines were dead as well, and the Iranian was dressed as Sinbad, not the comedian, but the Persian folk hero.
"What's the matter with you, are you some kind of damned idiot?" I said.
We camped out and had a lunch of Caspian Caviar and SPAM while we watched an episode of the OC on the iPod. I'm not a big fan of the OC, mostly because it's a bad rip off of 90210 w/out Steve Sanders.
Don't get the wrong impression: we were as worried as anyone would be knowing two Predators were out there looking to do us in. Between us we only had the Iranian's curved knives, and he needed both of them to complete his outfit. On the other hand, I had about fifty miniature Degree anti-persperants that I'd grabbed from the student union before I left, and by covering our body in that, we were as invisible to the Predators as they were to us.
Degree may be a good defense against Predators, but it ain't shit against bears, and we had one with a hankerin' for Persian Caviar only two feet away. The Iranian stood at the ready with his knives.
"You'll never beat him one on one, dude."
"Well what do you suggest, you lazy Norwegian? He's not a helpless seal."
This was no time for racial slurs, and even though I had plenty of Iranian jokes up my sleeve, I tabled them for a better time. The bear was a more pressing concern. I looked through the iPod until I found "Dance Dance" by Fall Out Boy. Luckily bears have superior hearing to us feeble humans, otherwise I'd've been screwed because we only hand headphones, and no speakers. But the headphones sufficed, and by the end of the first chorus, the bear ran away in pain.
"What did you do, you Norwegian voodoo master?"
I put the head phones up to his ear. Dance Dance...
"Yeah, that makes sense."
Mads: Expedition
I received a call from the US government saying they wanted my services to help them classify some new species of bird down in the Brazilian rain forest. Seeing as how I'd tired of being a university professor, I decided to go.
The trip was a disaster from the start. I was one of two scientists, the other being an Iranian ex-pat zoologist living in LA named Abdul Karim, who left much of his professional equipment behind in order to carry more Persian caviar. He was extremely pissed one night when he caught me getting into it.
We were escourted into the woods by four Marines, considered the best at what they did, which was escourting scientists into dangerous rain forests.
I should've thought something was up when on the third morning of the expedition, we found one of Marines hanging upside-down from a tree, dead. But I didn't, and we trudged on.
Two days later I was shaving, and noticed three dots on my face in a triangular formation. I tried popping them, only to find the dots on my fingers. They were from a laser sight. Everything was still, as I pondered my next move. Based on the angle of the dots, he had to be right on top of me in the tree above. That's when I heard a scarlet ibis move near the tree, and the dots suddenly left my face. I dove to the other side of the tree, just out of the way of some kind of missle, which exploded on the ground where I'd been standing.
I saw some distortion in the tree that leaped down and landed in front of me. Without thinking, I jumped on its back, and got it in a rear naked choke. Its cloaking then disabled, and suddenly this humanoid shape appeared under me in my hold. It was a Predator.
But even being a Predator, it knew the score: I had that choke in deep, and the only way he was getting out would be to tap out or go to sleep, and surprisingly he took the former. When I felt the hand tap three times on my arm, I let go.
Our troubles were just beginning, though. That Predator was nice enough to warn me that two others were still out there, and they'd be looking for me, especially once they heard I'd bested him. I thanked him, and went to find the others.
The trip was a disaster from the start. I was one of two scientists, the other being an Iranian ex-pat zoologist living in LA named Abdul Karim, who left much of his professional equipment behind in order to carry more Persian caviar. He was extremely pissed one night when he caught me getting into it.
We were escourted into the woods by four Marines, considered the best at what they did, which was escourting scientists into dangerous rain forests.
I should've thought something was up when on the third morning of the expedition, we found one of Marines hanging upside-down from a tree, dead. But I didn't, and we trudged on.
Two days later I was shaving, and noticed three dots on my face in a triangular formation. I tried popping them, only to find the dots on my fingers. They were from a laser sight. Everything was still, as I pondered my next move. Based on the angle of the dots, he had to be right on top of me in the tree above. That's when I heard a scarlet ibis move near the tree, and the dots suddenly left my face. I dove to the other side of the tree, just out of the way of some kind of missle, which exploded on the ground where I'd been standing.
I saw some distortion in the tree that leaped down and landed in front of me. Without thinking, I jumped on its back, and got it in a rear naked choke. Its cloaking then disabled, and suddenly this humanoid shape appeared under me in my hold. It was a Predator.
But even being a Predator, it knew the score: I had that choke in deep, and the only way he was getting out would be to tap out or go to sleep, and surprisingly he took the former. When I felt the hand tap three times on my arm, I let go.
Our troubles were just beginning, though. That Predator was nice enough to warn me that two others were still out there, and they'd be looking for me, especially once they heard I'd bested him. I thanked him, and went to find the others.
The Lord of the Rings
I was hanging out with Gwen, the Cappie, and some of her friends at a cafe the other day. They were playing some game where they each got to be comic book characters and rolled dice to see what they did. I actually considered playing, but they said I couldn't be Batman... I guess he's not from the same company as Captain America and Spiderman.
I took a seat near them and read my book, The Wapshot Chronicle by John Cheever. From time to time, I would look to see who the patrons were at the cafe's front counter. That's when I saw him: the Lord of the Rings.
Yes, you guessed it, Bill Russell, the greatest basketball player ever. Eleven championships. He single handedly made Boston sports matter. I was in awe, but I had to talk to him.
"Bill Russell, I'm sorry to bother you, but it's not everyday one sees the greatest basketball player ever in a Boston cafe."
"I thank you for that..." He looked me over "Hey, aren't you that guy that hangs out with Mads?"
"Um... yeah, why?"
"Man, I love that dude. Where's he been? I haven't seen him around in a while."
"I don't know..."
I took a seat near them and read my book, The Wapshot Chronicle by John Cheever. From time to time, I would look to see who the patrons were at the cafe's front counter. That's when I saw him: the Lord of the Rings.
Yes, you guessed it, Bill Russell, the greatest basketball player ever. Eleven championships. He single handedly made Boston sports matter. I was in awe, but I had to talk to him.
"Bill Russell, I'm sorry to bother you, but it's not everyday one sees the greatest basketball player ever in a Boston cafe."
"I thank you for that..." He looked me over "Hey, aren't you that guy that hangs out with Mads?"
"Um... yeah, why?"
"Man, I love that dude. Where's he been? I haven't seen him around in a while."
"I don't know..."
Cave Men
I woke up at 3am in a daze after a night of coke and Chivas Regal. I focused my eyes on the TV in front of me. The show was a roundtable discussion on the Geico cave men commercials.
"So, is it your contention that the Geico advertisers feel that Neanderthals were killed of by cro-magnon, as opposed to assimilated."
"Yes, and I feel that is the correct assertion."
"Are you crazy? You're telling me that Neanderthal and Cro-magnon were so disperate that interbreeding was impossible."
"I am saying that very thing, and I believe the Geico commercials do a great disservice to their own contention by joking that Neanderthal could not only possibly have lived to modern day, but are also thriving."
I had a headache. I turned to Richard Belzer, who somehow had made it into my house.
"Dude, get the hell out of here."
"So, is it your contention that the Geico advertisers feel that Neanderthals were killed of by cro-magnon, as opposed to assimilated."
"Yes, and I feel that is the correct assertion."
"Are you crazy? You're telling me that Neanderthal and Cro-magnon were so disperate that interbreeding was impossible."
"I am saying that very thing, and I believe the Geico commercials do a great disservice to their own contention by joking that Neanderthal could not only possibly have lived to modern day, but are also thriving."
I had a headache. I turned to Richard Belzer, who somehow had made it into my house.
"Dude, get the hell out of here."
Charity Soccer Event
My buddy Anthony LaPaglia was having a charity soccer event in Boston a couple weeks ago, and he invited me to attend. My personal biographer, Matty the Mainer, was also in the city that weekend for more blog material. I figured I'd take him along, because he couldn't get into too much trouble sitting on the sidelines. Was I wrong.
One team was short a player, so they sent Matty in as a striker. I knew things would be bad, when he made a move into the box, then fell over the moment he felt David Caruso touch his leg. He first rolled around in apparent fake pain. Then he jumped up and yelled at the ref, Mandy Patinkin, for not only not giving him a penalty, but for not carding Caruso.
Later he berated Jon Cryer for not "finding him in space", which made zero sense to Cryer or anyone else there. When I did find him near the goal mouth, he shot a laser at the guy from CSI with the funny hair, who was their keeper. He was only two yards from the net, and he gave the goalie a Spaulding tattoo on the lower left side of his abdomen. The ball went in, and Matty stood over the guy talking trash.
The last straw came when Poppy Montgomery was trying to take the ball from him on defense. He was shielding her with his back while he looked for his opening. Poppy stuck her foot in, trying to make a play, and Matty hauled off and elbowed her, opening a sizeable gash in her forehead. LaPags was pissed, and I had to grab Matty by the arm and run.
He apologized later, saying that when the competitive juices start flowing, it's hard to turn them off. In that moment, he reminded me of a Norwegian I used to know, so instead of scolding him, I took him out for a beer.
One team was short a player, so they sent Matty in as a striker. I knew things would be bad, when he made a move into the box, then fell over the moment he felt David Caruso touch his leg. He first rolled around in apparent fake pain. Then he jumped up and yelled at the ref, Mandy Patinkin, for not only not giving him a penalty, but for not carding Caruso.
Later he berated Jon Cryer for not "finding him in space", which made zero sense to Cryer or anyone else there. When I did find him near the goal mouth, he shot a laser at the guy from CSI with the funny hair, who was their keeper. He was only two yards from the net, and he gave the goalie a Spaulding tattoo on the lower left side of his abdomen. The ball went in, and Matty stood over the guy talking trash.
The last straw came when Poppy Montgomery was trying to take the ball from him on defense. He was shielding her with his back while he looked for his opening. Poppy stuck her foot in, trying to make a play, and Matty hauled off and elbowed her, opening a sizeable gash in her forehead. LaPags was pissed, and I had to grab Matty by the arm and run.
He apologized later, saying that when the competitive juices start flowing, it's hard to turn them off. In that moment, he reminded me of a Norwegian I used to know, so instead of scolding him, I took him out for a beer.
Mads: The Mercury Girl
I couldn't help noticing that Pageant Girl looked slightly like the amazing woman from the Mercury commercials. I decided my best move would be to dress her up in some of the outfits the Mercury girl wears, and have her re-enact the ads. It didn't go so well.
Pageant Girl is anything but a thespian. Not only that, but I figured since she was so good at appearing in local ads after she became Miss Whatever, she'd be old hat at selling Mercury Milans. No dice. She had trouble reading the cue cards or memorizing simple lines. She lacked the ability to make the subtle faces the real Mercury Girl does, the kind of faces that drive a man wild.
The local Ford/Lincoln/Mercury dealership loved the idea of making Pageant Girl like the Mercury Girl, and he paid me handsomely to film the spots, but I was despondent. The charm was lost for me.
Car commercials rank right below beer, car insurance, and fast food commercials as the worst things humanity has ever conceived. They're pure evil. Whether it's the Cheverolet ads that use images of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King jr., and Ground Zero to sell cars; or Dodge's self indulgent concept that their shitty vehicles that have a "hemi" in them are somehow better than any Subaru or Toyota on the market; or those horrible Ford commercials lauding the "Bold Moves" that their drivers do everyday, even though the moves are only the kinds of things people who have never committed a "Bold Move" would consider bold, and are things that have nothing to do with being a Ford owner; car ads are simply molten masses of depravity, and the Mercury ads are an oasis in that desert of atrocity on humanity.
And I thought I could recreate that oasis for my own world of depravity, and I was wrong... dead wrong. It was time for an agonizing reappraisal of the situation.
Pageant Girl is anything but a thespian. Not only that, but I figured since she was so good at appearing in local ads after she became Miss Whatever, she'd be old hat at selling Mercury Milans. No dice. She had trouble reading the cue cards or memorizing simple lines. She lacked the ability to make the subtle faces the real Mercury Girl does, the kind of faces that drive a man wild.
The local Ford/Lincoln/Mercury dealership loved the idea of making Pageant Girl like the Mercury Girl, and he paid me handsomely to film the spots, but I was despondent. The charm was lost for me.
Car commercials rank right below beer, car insurance, and fast food commercials as the worst things humanity has ever conceived. They're pure evil. Whether it's the Cheverolet ads that use images of Rosa Parks, Martin Luther King jr., and Ground Zero to sell cars; or Dodge's self indulgent concept that their shitty vehicles that have a "hemi" in them are somehow better than any Subaru or Toyota on the market; or those horrible Ford commercials lauding the "Bold Moves" that their drivers do everyday, even though the moves are only the kinds of things people who have never committed a "Bold Move" would consider bold, and are things that have nothing to do with being a Ford owner; car ads are simply molten masses of depravity, and the Mercury ads are an oasis in that desert of atrocity on humanity.
And I thought I could recreate that oasis for my own world of depravity, and I was wrong... dead wrong. It was time for an agonizing reappraisal of the situation.
The Mercury Girl
I was having lunch with Trajan the other day, when he made an astute observation about our waitress:
"Doesn't she look kind of like the Mercury Girl?"
"Yeah, a little. Man, I love that Mercury Girl."
"Oh, me too. My wife gets annoyed whenever I see her on TV. But her commercials are like the only ones that don't make me think humanity is a lost cause."
"Yeah, I kind of agree. She's not in your face. She doesn't sully sacred American images like Cheverolet does. And she even dresses a little off, showing that she's not perfect, but could use a little improvement, like us all."
"Yeah, she's like a little slice of hope in a 'baa-daa-baa-baa-baa... I'm lovin' it' kind of world."
"Oh, I know, for every Man Law commercial that makes me want to watch soccer, because I know there won't be any commercials, the Mercury Girl gives me the strength to not only get through Fox telling me how great the next Prison Break will be, but also how badly Joe Buck is butchering the play-by-play of the World Series, and how much Fox is wasting the talents of Tim McCarver by having him watch Dave Duncan and the Cardinals dugout watch Duncan's son hit a homerun thirteen times."
"Well, I don't know about all that, but I do know that she reminds me that America is still a great country, no matter how many times it's been bought and sold."
"No doubt, Tra, no doubt.
"Doesn't she look kind of like the Mercury Girl?"
"Yeah, a little. Man, I love that Mercury Girl."
"Oh, me too. My wife gets annoyed whenever I see her on TV. But her commercials are like the only ones that don't make me think humanity is a lost cause."
"Yeah, I kind of agree. She's not in your face. She doesn't sully sacred American images like Cheverolet does. And she even dresses a little off, showing that she's not perfect, but could use a little improvement, like us all."
"Yeah, she's like a little slice of hope in a 'baa-daa-baa-baa-baa... I'm lovin' it' kind of world."
"Oh, I know, for every Man Law commercial that makes me want to watch soccer, because I know there won't be any commercials, the Mercury Girl gives me the strength to not only get through Fox telling me how great the next Prison Break will be, but also how badly Joe Buck is butchering the play-by-play of the World Series, and how much Fox is wasting the talents of Tim McCarver by having him watch Dave Duncan and the Cardinals dugout watch Duncan's son hit a homerun thirteen times."
"Well, I don't know about all that, but I do know that she reminds me that America is still a great country, no matter how many times it's been bought and sold."
"No doubt, Tra, no doubt.
Woman Bowler
I met a girl at the book store the other day. I was looking for John Cheever's The Wapshot Chronicle (I know, can you believe I haven't read that!), and she was looking for something to read on her long plane ride.
"Oh, where are you going?"
"Las Vegas. I have a bowling tournament. I'm a professional, you know?"
"Really? How does that pay?"
"Not well. I also work as a teller at the Citizens over on Beacon."
"That must be an advantage, though, because you probably don't have as much trouble cashing those big checks."
She thought that was funny. We made a date for when she got back. It didn't work out well, though. We went bowling, and she was kind of annoyed that I purposefully played badly to try and score a 69. To me a 69 when bowling is a mark more hallowed than a 300. I guess I could understand. If she didn't take my work seriously, whatever that is, I might be a little put out too. On the other hand, her "sport" is something that people get better at the more drunk they become. How can anyone take that seriously?
"Oh, where are you going?"
"Las Vegas. I have a bowling tournament. I'm a professional, you know?"
"Really? How does that pay?"
"Not well. I also work as a teller at the Citizens over on Beacon."
"That must be an advantage, though, because you probably don't have as much trouble cashing those big checks."
She thought that was funny. We made a date for when she got back. It didn't work out well, though. We went bowling, and she was kind of annoyed that I purposefully played badly to try and score a 69. To me a 69 when bowling is a mark more hallowed than a 300. I guess I could understand. If she didn't take my work seriously, whatever that is, I might be a little put out too. On the other hand, her "sport" is something that people get better at the more drunk they become. How can anyone take that seriously?
My Trip to Disney World
Yes, that's right, I've been to Disney World. It's not necessarily the greatest thing I've ever done. I was afraid the whole time. It was the Sixth Reich, the kind of fun only a Facist would dream up. There was a sense that had I stepped out of line, I would be intestinated. And no, I didn't have Christopher Lambert there to save me.
Perhaps my problem was that I was closing in on thirty when I went. Maybe I was too old to enjoy the innocence... no, there is only Evil in that Magic Kingdom. And Epcot, with it's little countries... it reminded me of stories I heard of Japanese doctors taking prisoners of war and cutting them open and displaying them by nationality. I went to the disected abomination of Mexico and ate a tortilla soup for $32.
Disney World is one of the few places I know where Mads was unable to be Mads. The moment he smoked a cigarette in the wrong place two people with things in their ears took him by the arms. He fought back, only to have them set up a perimeter and swarm him. To this day he won't discuss the horror he endured in the Disney Detention Center.
The best way to sum up Disney World is in a Lifetime movie called The Colony, which starred John Ritter before he died. In it, a man is invited to live in a perfect gated community... only to find out it's Evil. In one scene, Ritter's dog had its vocal chords removed for barking too much at night. If there is a better metaphor for the eyesore on humanity that is Disney World, I don't know what it is...
Perhaps my problem was that I was closing in on thirty when I went. Maybe I was too old to enjoy the innocence... no, there is only Evil in that Magic Kingdom. And Epcot, with it's little countries... it reminded me of stories I heard of Japanese doctors taking prisoners of war and cutting them open and displaying them by nationality. I went to the disected abomination of Mexico and ate a tortilla soup for $32.
Disney World is one of the few places I know where Mads was unable to be Mads. The moment he smoked a cigarette in the wrong place two people with things in their ears took him by the arms. He fought back, only to have them set up a perimeter and swarm him. To this day he won't discuss the horror he endured in the Disney Detention Center.
The best way to sum up Disney World is in a Lifetime movie called The Colony, which starred John Ritter before he died. In it, a man is invited to live in a perfect gated community... only to find out it's Evil. In one scene, Ritter's dog had its vocal chords removed for barking too much at night. If there is a better metaphor for the eyesore on humanity that is Disney World, I don't know what it is...
Queen Victoria
I found some more of my great-great grandfather Cumberland Billingsworth's diaries, these from an earlier period.
July 15, 1856
Accompanied father and mother to jolly old England. The boat voyage was long and excrutiating, and there were not enough loose women for me to pass the time with. I could not have felt better when we finally arrived at our destination so I could run out and satisfy some of these carnal urges. My father, though, insisted on us meeting with the Queen and settling into our rooms at the palace. Perhaps I could find myself a room alone for a few minutes...
In looking for that room, I saw an exquisitely beautiful woman. Her name was Victoria too, and she was the Queen's first daughter. Though not even 16, she had extreme poise and intelligence, far beyond the whores I am forced to suffer at the University. I immediately struck up a conversation.
July 16, 1856
God help me for what I have done... I let my urges get the best of me, and she seemed a willing partner. Now my family and I are back on a ship bound now for France, our vacation ruined. My father, understandably upset, has suggested we make the best of things, and avoid any imperial entanglements in the next nation we visit. For her part, the Queen was quite reasonable in her treatment of us. I believe she was more afraid that the story should get out then exacting any kind of punishment on us.
July 17, 1856
What a night spent in Paris. I don't know that I have ever alleviated so much frustration at one time. When I returned to our room this morning, my father smiled and said "Now that you're through with that, I expect that we will be allowed to continue with our vacation." I saluted him and cried "Aye, aye, captain!"
Aye, aye, indeed.
July 15, 1856
Accompanied father and mother to jolly old England. The boat voyage was long and excrutiating, and there were not enough loose women for me to pass the time with. I could not have felt better when we finally arrived at our destination so I could run out and satisfy some of these carnal urges. My father, though, insisted on us meeting with the Queen and settling into our rooms at the palace. Perhaps I could find myself a room alone for a few minutes...
In looking for that room, I saw an exquisitely beautiful woman. Her name was Victoria too, and she was the Queen's first daughter. Though not even 16, she had extreme poise and intelligence, far beyond the whores I am forced to suffer at the University. I immediately struck up a conversation.
July 16, 1856
God help me for what I have done... I let my urges get the best of me, and she seemed a willing partner. Now my family and I are back on a ship bound now for France, our vacation ruined. My father, understandably upset, has suggested we make the best of things, and avoid any imperial entanglements in the next nation we visit. For her part, the Queen was quite reasonable in her treatment of us. I believe she was more afraid that the story should get out then exacting any kind of punishment on us.
July 17, 1856
What a night spent in Paris. I don't know that I have ever alleviated so much frustration at one time. When I returned to our room this morning, my father smiled and said "Now that you're through with that, I expect that we will be allowed to continue with our vacation." I saluted him and cried "Aye, aye, captain!"
Aye, aye, indeed.
We Can Win This
I had another get-together with Hubert Humphrey a couple days ago. We met at an almost empty bar at 11 in the morning. The only other person there was a large bald man who was looking through about a month's worth of mail. "What About Love", by Heart was playing on the juke box.
"Whataya think of this Foley thing, huh?"
"It's crazy Hube, it's crazy."
"The time is ripe for me. The Republicans are imploding, and the Democrats still have no one able to win an election. I'm the best option this country has right now."
"And that ain't sayin' much."
"What?"
"Sorry, I was just singing along to Heart. So what did you bring me down here for?"
"I'm thinking of making my first public appearence. What do you think?"
"Something not too conspicuous. Maybe a Bruins game. They play Calgary at the Garden Thursday, you want in?"
"Yeah, I'm a huge Jerome Iginla fan. All right, set it up."
"You got it, fucker. Hey, me and a couple a' guys are watching both of the Dream a Little Dreams tonight. You want in?"
"Corey Feldman? Hell yeah!"
"Whataya think of this Foley thing, huh?"
"It's crazy Hube, it's crazy."
"The time is ripe for me. The Republicans are imploding, and the Democrats still have no one able to win an election. I'm the best option this country has right now."
"And that ain't sayin' much."
"What?"
"Sorry, I was just singing along to Heart. So what did you bring me down here for?"
"I'm thinking of making my first public appearence. What do you think?"
"Something not too conspicuous. Maybe a Bruins game. They play Calgary at the Garden Thursday, you want in?"
"Yeah, I'm a huge Jerome Iginla fan. All right, set it up."
"You got it, fucker. Hey, me and a couple a' guys are watching both of the Dream a Little Dreams tonight. You want in?"
"Corey Feldman? Hell yeah!"
The Santa Clause vs. The Columbus Day Blowout
I saw a commercial for the third Santa Clause movie, and the announcer referred to it as the "Greatest Holiday Trilogy ever". Now at first glance, that just sounds like an overly self indulgent euphemism for what we in the Biz call a cash grab. I mean there'd be no Santa Clause two or three if one didn't make any amount of money. And we all know that just one Elf, or Grinch that Stole Christmas is worth ten different Santa Clauses.
Just the same, I wondered if there might actually be a holiday trilogy that actually was better than the Santa Clauses. That's when I remembered the Columbus Day Blow Out trilogy. They're your run-of-the-mill guys at a camp big party series, probably second to Porky's or Ski School in overall enjoyment, but they do in a pinch.
The first film, entitled simply Columbus Day Blow Out, was about two guys, Freddie and Jack, who are bequeathed their grandfather's Vermont cabin, and they decided to throw a huge party there over the long Columbus Day weekend. Jack meets Laura, daughter of the local canoe shop owner. She stonewalls his initial advances, only to eventually relent in a long scene of love making. Freddie somehow comes across the brokendown bus of the Boston football team's cheerleading squad (they invented a team that wasn't the Patriots). Let's just say hilarity ensues.
In part two, A Roman Columbus Holiday, a mysterious woman joins Freddie and Jack, who we eventually find out is the runaway princess of the fictitious kingdom of Muglonia. At the same time an evil land developer is trying to steal the camp to make a bunch of high priced resorts. They try to raise money with a party, only to have to pay for all the repairs to the camp, only to have the princess offer to pay with her kingdom's money collected through inflated taxes from the peasantry.
Finally, in part three, The Long, Hot Columbus Weekend, all bets are off. The guys are grown up, and they've passed the torch to their two younger cousins, Vance and Koy. The hijinx are amazing, with my favorite scene, the lesbian bikers playing monopoly with some exiles from a nearby band camp, being one of my all time favs in any movie. At the end, Freddie and Jack return for one last madcap romp of the lake.
If you get the opportunity, I would buy the new special edition boxed set which includes a four disc, a behind the scenes of the making of the greatest holiday trilogy ever.
Just the same, I wondered if there might actually be a holiday trilogy that actually was better than the Santa Clauses. That's when I remembered the Columbus Day Blow Out trilogy. They're your run-of-the-mill guys at a camp big party series, probably second to Porky's or Ski School in overall enjoyment, but they do in a pinch.
The first film, entitled simply Columbus Day Blow Out, was about two guys, Freddie and Jack, who are bequeathed their grandfather's Vermont cabin, and they decided to throw a huge party there over the long Columbus Day weekend. Jack meets Laura, daughter of the local canoe shop owner. She stonewalls his initial advances, only to eventually relent in a long scene of love making. Freddie somehow comes across the brokendown bus of the Boston football team's cheerleading squad (they invented a team that wasn't the Patriots). Let's just say hilarity ensues.
In part two, A Roman Columbus Holiday, a mysterious woman joins Freddie and Jack, who we eventually find out is the runaway princess of the fictitious kingdom of Muglonia. At the same time an evil land developer is trying to steal the camp to make a bunch of high priced resorts. They try to raise money with a party, only to have to pay for all the repairs to the camp, only to have the princess offer to pay with her kingdom's money collected through inflated taxes from the peasantry.
Finally, in part three, The Long, Hot Columbus Weekend, all bets are off. The guys are grown up, and they've passed the torch to their two younger cousins, Vance and Koy. The hijinx are amazing, with my favorite scene, the lesbian bikers playing monopoly with some exiles from a nearby band camp, being one of my all time favs in any movie. At the end, Freddie and Jack return for one last madcap romp of the lake.
If you get the opportunity, I would buy the new special edition boxed set which includes a four disc, a behind the scenes of the making of the greatest holiday trilogy ever.
The Kangaroo
So I have this party a few weeks ago, and a bunch of people show up, and like self-respecting Americans, they leave when the party's over. Well this kangaroo that came with a friend of mine doesn't leave. I come home and find him sitting on my couch, with potato chips all over his stomach, watching a Real World/Road Rules Challenge Marathon. I tell him he needs to leave, and he gives me this scowl and a brushing motion with his arm, like he's an Indian guy that can't speak English, and I'm some young guy or woman he's looking down on. At that point I've had it. And apparently so has Jean Claude Van Damme.
He kicked down my door, which kind of annoyed me, and then stood in front of the kangaroo in a fighting stance.
"Okey, kengeroo, you keeled meh femelee. Now yoo mest pey."
This techno music that one might find in a gay underwear store started playing from God knows where, and the kangaroo stood up, ready to go. It was a nasty knock down drag 'em out brawl, and they destroyed my apartment. The kangaroo threw Van Damme through my glass coffee table, Van Damme kicked the kangaroo through my bedroom wall... it was scary. I did like any self-respecting American would do: I called the cops.
But they said they couldn't help me. It was clearly stated in the law that the police could not interfere until after the final battle scene, where they would come in and pick up the pieces either during the final credits, or as Van Damme walked off into the sunset with his vigilante mission complete. So I had to watch as my apartment was ruined until finally Van Damme kicked the kangaroo out my window to his death on the roof of a cop car down below. Then he had the nerve to expect me to treat him like a hero. Asshole.
He kicked down my door, which kind of annoyed me, and then stood in front of the kangaroo in a fighting stance.
"Okey, kengeroo, you keeled meh femelee. Now yoo mest pey."
This techno music that one might find in a gay underwear store started playing from God knows where, and the kangaroo stood up, ready to go. It was a nasty knock down drag 'em out brawl, and they destroyed my apartment. The kangaroo threw Van Damme through my glass coffee table, Van Damme kicked the kangaroo through my bedroom wall... it was scary. I did like any self-respecting American would do: I called the cops.
But they said they couldn't help me. It was clearly stated in the law that the police could not interfere until after the final battle scene, where they would come in and pick up the pieces either during the final credits, or as Van Damme walked off into the sunset with his vigilante mission complete. So I had to watch as my apartment was ruined until finally Van Damme kicked the kangaroo out my window to his death on the roof of a cop car down below. Then he had the nerve to expect me to treat him like a hero. Asshole.
Mads: The O'Reilly Factor
I was called by the producers of The O'Reilly Factor to debate with Paul McCartney about seal beatings. I was asked if I could come to the studio in New York, because O'Reilly wanted me to be the sympathetic one. I had no problem with it.
O'Reilly is a much bigger man than I expected, and he has a rather firm handshake. I could see where it would be a problem if we weren't on the same side: I mean this was the Lion's Den, and the lion was vicious.
"So what do you think your strategy is?" He said.
"I'll mock him, make fun of the seriousness with which he takes it because he's got nothing better to do. Then I'll bring in the people who make their living off those furs."
"I like it."
So we start the show, and of course there's a huge advantage to being in the studio. I can talk when I want, O'Reilly and I can look like old chums, and he never cuts my mic off. O'Reilly started with McCartney talking, but only gave him like a minute before he turned it over to me.
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. McCartney, I've hard all that before from you PETA people, that's why I've called in an expert, Mads Olafssen, a Nobel Prize winner from Norway. First, how are you doing?"
"I'm great Bill. Just fantastic."
"Good to hear it. Now why don't you cut through some of the myths associated with seal hunting."
"I'd be glad to Bill. I mean, Mr. McCartney makes it sound like we kidnap seals, keep them tied up in a hotel over several nights, and burn them with cigarettes and make them watch Roseanne... and I'm talking the later run episodes when she won the lottery and the writing sucked."
He laughed. McCartney wanted to respond, but I cut him off.
"I want to issue you a challenge right now, Mr. Beetle. Why don't you take some of that money you have and give it to the poor people who need those furs to feed their family."
"But..."
"How about it, Mr. McCartney. You wanna save the seals, you gonna help the people whose livelihood you're stealing?"
"But..."
"You know, that's why you PETA people make me sick. You all want to save these animals and you never think about the poor people who's lives you're ruining. Whether its a guy in Norway trying to make a buck, or a poor farmer trying to put his kids through school, or a guy at a paper mill that wants to buy a house for his kids, all you rich celebrities do is spit on them. You're saying: 'I don't care, it's trendier to save this seal than it is to let some starving guy make a living and feed his kids.'"
Bill was on a roll, so I just lit a cigarette and smiled. It was so much fun being on his side.
"But..."
"But nothing, Mr. McCartney. You said yourself you didn't care about them when you refused to compensate the people whose lives you're ruining. Okay, Mr McCartney, I'll give you the last word."
"Well, I just wanted to say that there are many other ways..."
"That's all the time we have. I want to thank my guests: Mads Olafssen, Nobel Laureate; and Paul McCartney, founding member of the Beetles. Next on the No Spin Zone..."
I put a finger up and brought it down like I was drawing a checkmark.
"Count it."
O'Reilly is a much bigger man than I expected, and he has a rather firm handshake. I could see where it would be a problem if we weren't on the same side: I mean this was the Lion's Den, and the lion was vicious.
"So what do you think your strategy is?" He said.
"I'll mock him, make fun of the seriousness with which he takes it because he's got nothing better to do. Then I'll bring in the people who make their living off those furs."
"I like it."
So we start the show, and of course there's a huge advantage to being in the studio. I can talk when I want, O'Reilly and I can look like old chums, and he never cuts my mic off. O'Reilly started with McCartney talking, but only gave him like a minute before he turned it over to me.
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. McCartney, I've hard all that before from you PETA people, that's why I've called in an expert, Mads Olafssen, a Nobel Prize winner from Norway. First, how are you doing?"
"I'm great Bill. Just fantastic."
"Good to hear it. Now why don't you cut through some of the myths associated with seal hunting."
"I'd be glad to Bill. I mean, Mr. McCartney makes it sound like we kidnap seals, keep them tied up in a hotel over several nights, and burn them with cigarettes and make them watch Roseanne... and I'm talking the later run episodes when she won the lottery and the writing sucked."
He laughed. McCartney wanted to respond, but I cut him off.
"I want to issue you a challenge right now, Mr. Beetle. Why don't you take some of that money you have and give it to the poor people who need those furs to feed their family."
"But..."
"How about it, Mr. McCartney. You wanna save the seals, you gonna help the people whose livelihood you're stealing?"
"But..."
"You know, that's why you PETA people make me sick. You all want to save these animals and you never think about the poor people who's lives you're ruining. Whether its a guy in Norway trying to make a buck, or a poor farmer trying to put his kids through school, or a guy at a paper mill that wants to buy a house for his kids, all you rich celebrities do is spit on them. You're saying: 'I don't care, it's trendier to save this seal than it is to let some starving guy make a living and feed his kids.'"
Bill was on a roll, so I just lit a cigarette and smiled. It was so much fun being on his side.
"But..."
"But nothing, Mr. McCartney. You said yourself you didn't care about them when you refused to compensate the people whose lives you're ruining. Okay, Mr McCartney, I'll give you the last word."
"Well, I just wanted to say that there are many other ways..."
"That's all the time we have. I want to thank my guests: Mads Olafssen, Nobel Laureate; and Paul McCartney, founding member of the Beetles. Next on the No Spin Zone..."
I put a finger up and brought it down like I was drawing a checkmark.
"Count it."
Sunday, April 29, 2007
Cheerleading
I never actually was a cheerleader... okay, maybe I was for a little while. I was an olympic caliber gymnast, so it was only a matter of time before I was asked join, and there was a really hot chick who just broke up with her boyfriend that I thought I might have an "in" with. Boy was I wrong.
No matter how charismatic one is, it doesn't change the overall femininity of flipping around and doing cheers. Even if I never acutally said them, and seldom smiled, I was still a cheerleader, and that chick eventually dated a starting wide receiver for our football team.
I had one more chance when we went away for some big meet. I thought if I could get her alone with the whole sleepover thing, maybe I could work some magic. Unfortunately I had to bunk with this guy, that I hadn't noticed due to my infatuation with that chick, had a huge crush on me. With the lights out, I felt an odd pressence in bed with me. There was like a snake crawling up my leg. I tensed up, fearing I'd be bit, when I heard:
"It's okay, it's just me. Just relax, and I'll make everything better."
Needless to say I was out of there with the quickness. I hitchiked 262 miles back home in my pajama pants and a white T-shirt. Our squad lost without my unique combination of acrobatics and ability to lift girls up. That chick also called me that Sunday night and asked what I was doing that week. She thought it was hot that I was so reckless, and that I wasn't officially a cheerleader anymore. Go figure.
No matter how charismatic one is, it doesn't change the overall femininity of flipping around and doing cheers. Even if I never acutally said them, and seldom smiled, I was still a cheerleader, and that chick eventually dated a starting wide receiver for our football team.
I had one more chance when we went away for some big meet. I thought if I could get her alone with the whole sleepover thing, maybe I could work some magic. Unfortunately I had to bunk with this guy, that I hadn't noticed due to my infatuation with that chick, had a huge crush on me. With the lights out, I felt an odd pressence in bed with me. There was like a snake crawling up my leg. I tensed up, fearing I'd be bit, when I heard:
"It's okay, it's just me. Just relax, and I'll make everything better."
Needless to say I was out of there with the quickness. I hitchiked 262 miles back home in my pajama pants and a white T-shirt. Our squad lost without my unique combination of acrobatics and ability to lift girls up. That chick also called me that Sunday night and asked what I was doing that week. She thought it was hot that I was so reckless, and that I wasn't officially a cheerleader anymore. Go figure.
The Joker Intern Scandal
With all this talk about the Foley page scandal, I thought back to one that I remember being particularly appalling: the Joker Intern Scandal. On the show back in the 60s, they thought it would be funny if a kid was hired to work as the Joker's intern. Here's a few of the more disturbing exchanges:
Intern shows up with a messy stack of papers.
"Here's my report, sir..."
"Whoa, looks like you got yourself quite a boner there kid."
Joker tells kid about plot to get Batman.
"Oh, boy, you're going to have a time with a gay old man."
[Editors note: I believe the actual statement was: You're going to have a gay old time, my man.]
Batman lectures the kid after.
"Maybe next time you'll work for commissioner Gordon."
"He already asked me. I probably won't have the boner I had with the Joker."
Yeah, it was disgusting. I have it on tape somewhere.
Intern shows up with a messy stack of papers.
"Here's my report, sir..."
"Whoa, looks like you got yourself quite a boner there kid."
Joker tells kid about plot to get Batman.
"Oh, boy, you're going to have a time with a gay old man."
[Editors note: I believe the actual statement was: You're going to have a gay old time, my man.]
Batman lectures the kid after.
"Maybe next time you'll work for commissioner Gordon."
"He already asked me. I probably won't have the boner I had with the Joker."
Yeah, it was disgusting. I have it on tape somewhere.
Two Chicks Makin' Out!
I was sitting on the Green Line the other day, headed toward North Station to grab some food in the North End. There were two chicks getting it on across from me. That's right: Hot Lesbian Action.
Both of the women were big. I don't mean fat, I mean stout. One had a legit buzzcut, and the other had a flat-topped mullet. The mullet one also had a big tattoo of an octopus on her left arm. These were real lesbians, not the prissy co-eds making out for attention on Girls Gone Wild. Some of my fellow riders were grossed out, but a Japanese man with a digital video camera was filming every juicy minute of it. Rock on ladies, and rock on Japanese guy. You are all living the American dream!
Both of the women were big. I don't mean fat, I mean stout. One had a legit buzzcut, and the other had a flat-topped mullet. The mullet one also had a big tattoo of an octopus on her left arm. These were real lesbians, not the prissy co-eds making out for attention on Girls Gone Wild. Some of my fellow riders were grossed out, but a Japanese man with a digital video camera was filming every juicy minute of it. Rock on ladies, and rock on Japanese guy. You are all living the American dream!
The FF Error Card
When we were kids, one of the greatest baseball cards was the Billy Ripkin Fuck Face Error card. Billy Ripkin was a weak hitting infielder for the Baltimore Orioles back when his brother Cal was one of the greatest players in the game. Someone had written "Fuck Face" on his bat, and it was in the picture taken of his card. It was the only thing he was ever famous for, other than his brother. It was like the Holy Grail of sports memorabilia.
I accompanied Gwen, the Cappie, to a little shop that specializes in both comics and sports collectables. While she was looking for key Captain America issues she needed, I perused the card collection. When I saw it, I almost passed out. The Fuck Face Error card in all it's glory. The old man running the place couldn't see it, and I bet all the kids coming in wouldn't know to look. I got it for $.15, an absolute steal. I've never been so happy in my life.
The fucker wouldn't sell on Ebay, though. No one believed it was the real deal, and everyone thought I just photoshopped it. It became the dreaded albatross around my neck: too precious to discard, yet too worthless to sell. It was Billy Ripkin's revenge.
I accompanied Gwen, the Cappie, to a little shop that specializes in both comics and sports collectables. While she was looking for key Captain America issues she needed, I perused the card collection. When I saw it, I almost passed out. The Fuck Face Error card in all it's glory. The old man running the place couldn't see it, and I bet all the kids coming in wouldn't know to look. I got it for $.15, an absolute steal. I've never been so happy in my life.
The fucker wouldn't sell on Ebay, though. No one believed it was the real deal, and everyone thought I just photoshopped it. It became the dreaded albatross around my neck: too precious to discard, yet too worthless to sell. It was Billy Ripkin's revenge.
Coffee is for Closers Only
Do you think I'm fucking with you? I am not fucking with you.
Gwen, the Cappie, wanted me to take her for a nice night out, and I was kind of itching to go to the theatre as well, so I took her to Glengarry Glen Ross: The Musical at the Wang Center.
Of couse, the classic profanity laden motivational speech was present in its entirety, only in the musical it was followed by Blake singing a song about Brass Balls. He was dancing all over the desks, doing splits and twirls, as the other workers watched in amazement. I looked over to Alec Baldwin, who just happened to be sitting next to us in the balcony.
"Do you think you could've pulled that off?"
"I'm pissed they didn't ask me to reprise the role."
Gwen, the Cappie, wanted me to take her for a nice night out, and I was kind of itching to go to the theatre as well, so I took her to Glengarry Glen Ross: The Musical at the Wang Center.
Of couse, the classic profanity laden motivational speech was present in its entirety, only in the musical it was followed by Blake singing a song about Brass Balls. He was dancing all over the desks, doing splits and twirls, as the other workers watched in amazement. I looked over to Alec Baldwin, who just happened to be sitting next to us in the balcony.
"Do you think you could've pulled that off?"
"I'm pissed they didn't ask me to reprise the role."
My Two Dads
Years ago, like in 1982, I came up with a show where two men who slept with a woman within days of each other, adopt the girl that was spawned from that union after the woman dies. Neither man knows who the real father is, so they agree to act as if both is. I thought I had pure gold.
But no one wanted it. It was too cliche. My having one dad be a Type A personality and the other a Type B made them think it was too Odd Couple. I was heart broken.
Then I found My Two Dads on TV one day. Paul Reiser was the Type A guy, and Greg Evigan the Type B. They even had Teen Star Chad Allen as the girl's love interest (who apparently is now gay, go figure). I was pissed at first. They stole my idea. But then I realized that at least I had the satisfaction of knowing my show had made it. The big time baby.
At the end of the show, though, I saw my name in the credits. How could they be giving me credit, but no money? I called the producer, and he informed me that they had been sending me royalty checks, but none of them had been cashed. They thought it a little odd, and were kind of annoyed at how the uncashed checks were messing with their book keeping, but they were legally obligated to send them.
I thought about it for a second. I was twelve when I pitched that idea. Of course, they were sent to my mom's house in Brockton. I had cut off all ties with my mom because she was drunken whore that ran an adult video and sex toy establishment. Maybe it was time to re-establish ties.
No, it wasn't. When I got there, mom was in a bathrobe with curlers in her hair, completely drunk at 8:30 in the morning. There were two half-naked younger men sleeping in her living room, one on the floor, and one on the couch. I asked her if I had any mail, and she went into her room returning with a beaten up shoe box from Bloomingdale's. I looked inside, and there were my checks, along with class reunion invites, wedding notices, and tons of Val-Pak coupons.
"I guess I'll be leaving Mom..."
"I guess you will, Son. I guess you will."
The moment I got home I filled out an order on the US Post Office's website to have any of my mail sent to my mom's address forwarded to mine. I opened one of the royalty checks. It was for $52. I guess My Two Dads wasn't as successful as I'd hoped.
But no one wanted it. It was too cliche. My having one dad be a Type A personality and the other a Type B made them think it was too Odd Couple. I was heart broken.
Then I found My Two Dads on TV one day. Paul Reiser was the Type A guy, and Greg Evigan the Type B. They even had Teen Star Chad Allen as the girl's love interest (who apparently is now gay, go figure). I was pissed at first. They stole my idea. But then I realized that at least I had the satisfaction of knowing my show had made it. The big time baby.
At the end of the show, though, I saw my name in the credits. How could they be giving me credit, but no money? I called the producer, and he informed me that they had been sending me royalty checks, but none of them had been cashed. They thought it a little odd, and were kind of annoyed at how the uncashed checks were messing with their book keeping, but they were legally obligated to send them.
I thought about it for a second. I was twelve when I pitched that idea. Of course, they were sent to my mom's house in Brockton. I had cut off all ties with my mom because she was drunken whore that ran an adult video and sex toy establishment. Maybe it was time to re-establish ties.
No, it wasn't. When I got there, mom was in a bathrobe with curlers in her hair, completely drunk at 8:30 in the morning. There were two half-naked younger men sleeping in her living room, one on the floor, and one on the couch. I asked her if I had any mail, and she went into her room returning with a beaten up shoe box from Bloomingdale's. I looked inside, and there were my checks, along with class reunion invites, wedding notices, and tons of Val-Pak coupons.
"I guess I'll be leaving Mom..."
"I guess you will, Son. I guess you will."
The moment I got home I filled out an order on the US Post Office's website to have any of my mail sent to my mom's address forwarded to mine. I opened one of the royalty checks. It was for $52. I guess My Two Dads wasn't as successful as I'd hoped.
Coery Feldman?
Like I usually do, I ditched the campus for a week or so, this time heading out to Chi Town. It was fun. I did Springer, checked out a Cubs game, and had some deep dish pizza. It was like Ferris Bueller all over again.
I then took in a little of the night life. I was surprised how easy it was for me to get into every club. The problem was, no one would let me drink. They kept saying they didn't want me to fall off the wagon. I was getting pissed, until:
"Dude, do you still talk to Corey Haim?"
"Sure, all the time, why?"
"Man, you two were great in Dream a Little Dream 2."
"We were?"
"Oh man, I just can't believe I'm talking to The Corey Feldman."
"Me either."
I've always been told by my Boston friend that I look like the famed child actor. Now, due to my looks, I was caught in a classic Catch-22. On the one hand, I'd probably be tossed from these exclusive clubs if I came clean. On the other, as long as I was Corey Feldman, it would look bad if I did any drugs.
I chose the former, and found myself in a hotel room with two hookers doing coke off a room service platter. The cops came, and I jumped out the back window, into the pool. I was lucky it was only a second story room, making it an easy drop for an olympic diver like me. I barely made it to the airport and the Hertz booth, where I rented a car and escaped home. That Monday I was called into the Dean's office. He threw a copy of the National Inquirer on his desk. It had a picture of me running from the cops, soaking wet from the hotel pool. The headline read: "Feldman off the Wagon? Shocking photos inside."
I then took in a little of the night life. I was surprised how easy it was for me to get into every club. The problem was, no one would let me drink. They kept saying they didn't want me to fall off the wagon. I was getting pissed, until:
"Dude, do you still talk to Corey Haim?"
"Sure, all the time, why?"
"Man, you two were great in Dream a Little Dream 2."
"We were?"
"Oh man, I just can't believe I'm talking to The Corey Feldman."
"Me either."
I've always been told by my Boston friend that I look like the famed child actor. Now, due to my looks, I was caught in a classic Catch-22. On the one hand, I'd probably be tossed from these exclusive clubs if I came clean. On the other, as long as I was Corey Feldman, it would look bad if I did any drugs.
I chose the former, and found myself in a hotel room with two hookers doing coke off a room service platter. The cops came, and I jumped out the back window, into the pool. I was lucky it was only a second story room, making it an easy drop for an olympic diver like me. I barely made it to the airport and the Hertz booth, where I rented a car and escaped home. That Monday I was called into the Dean's office. He threw a copy of the National Inquirer on his desk. It had a picture of me running from the cops, soaking wet from the hotel pool. The headline read: "Feldman off the Wagon? Shocking photos inside."
Macho Man
Bob Tuesday the Betting Man was in town a little while ago. The man gambles on everything, but a lot of his wagers are more like challenges. I bet you can't do such and such better than me... shit like that.
That's what happened this time. We went out to eat, and after a some talking, he finally came out with it:
"I bet you can't make a better short video set to the Village People's 'Macho Man' than I can."
I assumed he already had a video idea in mind, that's why he'd pick an obscure challenge like that. What he didn't know was that I believe anything is funny when set to 'Macho Man', and it would just take a little ingenuity on my part to win this.
"Who's judging?"
"A panel of film and comedy experts. We got Richard Roeper, Martin Lawrence, and Screech."
"Okay, and what's the wager?"
"Fifty G's."
"All right, I got you baby."
First, I found two male volunteers. Second, I rented a zebra suit and a bear suit for them to wear. Finally, I got me a camera and took them to the mall. I taped them conversing with other patrons, shopping for clothes and power tools, and had them order food. I edited it down so that it fit with the song. I was all set.
Luckily Bob Tuesday the Betting Man had some over done idea of using clips of Arnold Schwarzenegger working out and doing Japanese commercials. I won easily. You've got be to be really good to beat a zebra and a bear shopping at the mall set to 'Macho Man'. Leave the Schwarzenegger jokes to a pro like Conan. I don't make the rules, Bobby baby, I just follow them.
That's what happened this time. We went out to eat, and after a some talking, he finally came out with it:
"I bet you can't make a better short video set to the Village People's 'Macho Man' than I can."
I assumed he already had a video idea in mind, that's why he'd pick an obscure challenge like that. What he didn't know was that I believe anything is funny when set to 'Macho Man', and it would just take a little ingenuity on my part to win this.
"Who's judging?"
"A panel of film and comedy experts. We got Richard Roeper, Martin Lawrence, and Screech."
"Okay, and what's the wager?"
"Fifty G's."
"All right, I got you baby."
First, I found two male volunteers. Second, I rented a zebra suit and a bear suit for them to wear. Finally, I got me a camera and took them to the mall. I taped them conversing with other patrons, shopping for clothes and power tools, and had them order food. I edited it down so that it fit with the song. I was all set.
Luckily Bob Tuesday the Betting Man had some over done idea of using clips of Arnold Schwarzenegger working out and doing Japanese commercials. I won easily. You've got be to be really good to beat a zebra and a bear shopping at the mall set to 'Macho Man'. Leave the Schwarzenegger jokes to a pro like Conan. I don't make the rules, Bobby baby, I just follow them.
Fred Nutter
As a young boy, we used to visit my grandmother in Falmouth, ME. It was a beautiful place in the summer, and none of us could wait to go there. But it wasn't just Maine's scenic coastline that I was anticipating. I wanted nothing more than to watch the Channel 6 news; especially Fred Nutter, the station's editorial director.
That's right, I idolized Fred Nutter. His deep, gravelly, monotone voice captivated me as he spoke about local issues in Maine that made absolutely no sense to me. I both loved and dreaded his classic "That's our opinion, we welcome yours", because while it may have been the one phrase that was quintessentially Nutter, it also meant that my time with Nutter was officially over.
I was vacationing in Bar Harbor recently, and was excited to see that not only was Nutter still with us, but he was still editorializing. (It was also weird that Channel 2 in Bangor was the same as Channel 6 in Portland. Those Mainers.) At first I felt bad that Nutter hadn't made the big time in Boston or New York, or even Des Moines, for Christ's sake. But then I thought about it, and knew that that would be un-Nutterlike. He'd never sacrifice his integrity as an editorialist for the bright lights of the big city. He is a real man.
It was always my dream to be Fred Nutter. I thought about the way I was living my life, and thought about what a failure I was. I had to remind myself that we weren't all born with the talent of a Nutter. It's like the boy who grows up wishing to be Mickey Mantle, and one day he wakes up, and he's thirty. He can't feel his life's a failure because he didn't play baseball in the major leagues. I, too, couldn't feel like my life was a failure because I didn't become a professional editorialist, like my idol, Fred Nutter.
That's right, I idolized Fred Nutter. His deep, gravelly, monotone voice captivated me as he spoke about local issues in Maine that made absolutely no sense to me. I both loved and dreaded his classic "That's our opinion, we welcome yours", because while it may have been the one phrase that was quintessentially Nutter, it also meant that my time with Nutter was officially over.
I was vacationing in Bar Harbor recently, and was excited to see that not only was Nutter still with us, but he was still editorializing. (It was also weird that Channel 2 in Bangor was the same as Channel 6 in Portland. Those Mainers.) At first I felt bad that Nutter hadn't made the big time in Boston or New York, or even Des Moines, for Christ's sake. But then I thought about it, and knew that that would be un-Nutterlike. He'd never sacrifice his integrity as an editorialist for the bright lights of the big city. He is a real man.
It was always my dream to be Fred Nutter. I thought about the way I was living my life, and thought about what a failure I was. I had to remind myself that we weren't all born with the talent of a Nutter. It's like the boy who grows up wishing to be Mickey Mantle, and one day he wakes up, and he's thirty. He can't feel his life's a failure because he didn't play baseball in the major leagues. I, too, couldn't feel like my life was a failure because I didn't become a professional editorialist, like my idol, Fred Nutter.
Thanks Roge
So, Blind Date was in Boston, and my good buddy Roger Lodge talked me into doing an episode. So I do, and he hooks me up with this fairly hot young co-ed. All right, I thought, I can fuck with this.
She told me she was an English major at BU, which put my mind at ease, because I thought with how she looked, she might be a stripper. I was wrong.
"So what do you do for work?"
"I work in Adult Films."
"You do Gentlemen's Cinema? What do you do, like craft services?"
"No, I'm an actress."
"Really...? That's great."
So I stuck it out, and in the post date wrap-up, they were kind of disappointed in the few words I had to say about the date:
"Thank, Roge. I owe you big for this."
He told me after that it took six takes to properly do his bumper into the next segment, because he was laughing so hard. You're a good guy, Roger. A real class act...
She told me she was an English major at BU, which put my mind at ease, because I thought with how she looked, she might be a stripper. I was wrong.
"So what do you do for work?"
"I work in Adult Films."
"You do Gentlemen's Cinema? What do you do, like craft services?"
"No, I'm an actress."
"Really...? That's great."
So I stuck it out, and in the post date wrap-up, they were kind of disappointed in the few words I had to say about the date:
"Thank, Roge. I owe you big for this."
He told me after that it took six takes to properly do his bumper into the next segment, because he was laughing so hard. You're a good guy, Roger. A real class act...
Made
That's right, I was a Made coach. MTV called me for a boy who goes to Pinkerton Academy in New Hampshire. He wrote them because he wanted to be more "GQ". I found out later they really wanted Mads, but they had outdated mailing information and didn't know he was in Oklahoma. He recommended me. Thanks Mads.
So I let it be known I wouldn't be leaving Boston, and they agreed to get him back and forth to my apartment after he got out of school.
He was a geeky kid named Jordan, and I knew I had my work cut out for me. The first thing he asked was how to get chicks. He had a crush on some girl at school that was way out of his league.
"People say it's charisma women look for in a guy, but I can see you don't have any. The next best thing is for people to think people they respect like you. Sure, we'll give you the perfunctory makeover, but it'll take more than that to get you chicks. You need to look like a Very Important Person."
We did do the makeover: bleached his tips, got him into some better clothes; you know, the works. I then set the plan in motion. I told him to invite the girl he wanted down to Boston for coffee. Make it look like you go down there a lot, big city kind of guy. The girl, who originally wanted nothing to do with him, of course wouldn't pass up a chance to go on TV. Once they made it to the cafe, I took the plan into Phase 2. I started with Will Farrell.
"Hey Jordan, what's going on?"
"Um... nothing much. How're you doing?"
"Just chilling. Hey, when're we gonna get together and work on that script? I got a producer and director lined up to take the project."
She was like putty in his untrained hands after that. I then sent Anne Hathaway, from all those princess movies, in.
"Hey Jordan, long time no see. You look like you're doing... well."
I couldn't say for sure, but Jordan was getting a piece that night. I was proud of him... somewhat. I was actually more proud of me. What can I say? I'm just that good. Forget all those cheerleading coaches.
So I let it be known I wouldn't be leaving Boston, and they agreed to get him back and forth to my apartment after he got out of school.
He was a geeky kid named Jordan, and I knew I had my work cut out for me. The first thing he asked was how to get chicks. He had a crush on some girl at school that was way out of his league.
"People say it's charisma women look for in a guy, but I can see you don't have any. The next best thing is for people to think people they respect like you. Sure, we'll give you the perfunctory makeover, but it'll take more than that to get you chicks. You need to look like a Very Important Person."
We did do the makeover: bleached his tips, got him into some better clothes; you know, the works. I then set the plan in motion. I told him to invite the girl he wanted down to Boston for coffee. Make it look like you go down there a lot, big city kind of guy. The girl, who originally wanted nothing to do with him, of course wouldn't pass up a chance to go on TV. Once they made it to the cafe, I took the plan into Phase 2. I started with Will Farrell.
"Hey Jordan, what's going on?"
"Um... nothing much. How're you doing?"
"Just chilling. Hey, when're we gonna get together and work on that script? I got a producer and director lined up to take the project."
She was like putty in his untrained hands after that. I then sent Anne Hathaway, from all those princess movies, in.
"Hey Jordan, long time no see. You look like you're doing... well."
I couldn't say for sure, but Jordan was getting a piece that night. I was proud of him... somewhat. I was actually more proud of me. What can I say? I'm just that good. Forget all those cheerleading coaches.
First Dude
If there's one thing I do, it's make lemons out of lemonade... um... whatever, I'm resourceful. I can turn a bad night into a good one with the quickness.
I was on a date with a real dim bulb, and she was killing me. She said she never eats at Chinese at restaurants. I made the mistake of asking why.
"Didn't you hear about that girl who got herpes from some fried rice?"
"What?"
"Yeah, she ate this fried rice, and three days later she had herpes. They checked it and found semen from three different people."
"I know the story. It's an Urban Legend. I'm just shocked anyone would believe that kind of crap to be true."
"What? No, my friend read about it in the Herald."
"No she didn't, it's an Urban Legend. First, no one gets sores from herpes three days after contracting it. Second, she'd have tasted the semen and not eaten the rice. Third, the virus wouldn't have survived either the cooking process or the sitting out process. Finally, who are these people doing DNA tests on fried rice? Why would they suspect the fried rice if she had herpes?"
"Well, it said the boyfriend didn't have it."
"The fucking boyfriend didn't exist! Listen, I'm outro, and you're a moron."
I threw a couple hundred bucks on the table to cover our meal, and went to the bar. There was a man in a black suit wearing sunglasses and some kind of an earpiece. He looked at the bartender, who nodded at him, I guess saying I could stay. That's when I saw them.
"Hey, what's up? I'm Barbara, and this is my sister Jenna."
We hit it off and they invited me back to their hotel room. I was now an official supporter of the Bush Administration. There will be no cutting and running, as I was now staying the course... if you know what I mean... if you're picking up what I'm putting down... if you're seeing the future from my tea leaves... if we're reading from the same piece of music... if Tiger can stay because we now know Jan's allergic to the flea powder... yeah...
I was on a date with a real dim bulb, and she was killing me. She said she never eats at Chinese at restaurants. I made the mistake of asking why.
"Didn't you hear about that girl who got herpes from some fried rice?"
"What?"
"Yeah, she ate this fried rice, and three days later she had herpes. They checked it and found semen from three different people."
"I know the story. It's an Urban Legend. I'm just shocked anyone would believe that kind of crap to be true."
"What? No, my friend read about it in the Herald."
"No she didn't, it's an Urban Legend. First, no one gets sores from herpes three days after contracting it. Second, she'd have tasted the semen and not eaten the rice. Third, the virus wouldn't have survived either the cooking process or the sitting out process. Finally, who are these people doing DNA tests on fried rice? Why would they suspect the fried rice if she had herpes?"
"Well, it said the boyfriend didn't have it."
"The fucking boyfriend didn't exist! Listen, I'm outro, and you're a moron."
I threw a couple hundred bucks on the table to cover our meal, and went to the bar. There was a man in a black suit wearing sunglasses and some kind of an earpiece. He looked at the bartender, who nodded at him, I guess saying I could stay. That's when I saw them.
"Hey, what's up? I'm Barbara, and this is my sister Jenna."
We hit it off and they invited me back to their hotel room. I was now an official supporter of the Bush Administration. There will be no cutting and running, as I was now staying the course... if you know what I mean... if you're picking up what I'm putting down... if you're seeing the future from my tea leaves... if we're reading from the same piece of music... if Tiger can stay because we now know Jan's allergic to the flea powder... yeah...
LaShonda
My psychiatrist suggested I write this as a way to get over a traumatic incident:
LaShonda
LaShonda I apologize
As I see tears drop from your eyes
I know what I did was wrong
Spitting on a love so strong
I can't believe it's over
What we had was rarer than a four leaf clover
But my smile turns to frown
As Jerry calls your brother down
In a second he is there
Almost flying through the air
I am tackled, I feel the pain
I try to fight back, but all in vain
Steve finally steps in, and I'm OK
Only to listen to what the audience has to say
I didn't know then, but now I know
To never go on the Jerry Springer Show
I'm sorry LaShonda, I'm sorry
LaShonda
LaShonda I apologize
As I see tears drop from your eyes
I know what I did was wrong
Spitting on a love so strong
I can't believe it's over
What we had was rarer than a four leaf clover
But my smile turns to frown
As Jerry calls your brother down
In a second he is there
Almost flying through the air
I am tackled, I feel the pain
I try to fight back, but all in vain
Steve finally steps in, and I'm OK
Only to listen to what the audience has to say
I didn't know then, but now I know
To never go on the Jerry Springer Show
I'm sorry LaShonda, I'm sorry
The Bulgarian Cocktail
The Footballer was in town last weekend. He was scouting a striker playing for the Boston Bulldogs that a team in Bulgaria was interested in.
"How is Bulgaria this time of year?"
"It's hot. You should come back there with me for a little holiday."
"Yeah, I'm not doing anything."
We left Monday and got in late the same day. I offered to take him out for dinner as a thank you, and he asked if his friends could come. I said sure, thinking it'd only be one or two. He brought twelve, and they all ordered the most expensive things on the menu. I was pissed, until I saw the bill.
"$5?"
"What did you expect to pay?" The Footballer said.
"A lot more. Should I give him a dollar tip? That's 20%"
"I don't know. Don't you think it's a bit showy to tip that much?"
On Wednesday we watched Drogba net a hat trick against SK Sofia in Champion's League play. After we went out for drinks.
"I want you to try the Bulgarian Cocktail."
Sure, I'll try anything once. The waiter brought it out, and it was this black liquid with a thick white smoke blowing off the top of it. It looked like someone put dry ice in it. It tasted like Purple Kool-Aid with extra sugar in it.. Oh Yeah! I downed it and called for another one.
"You better go easy on those."
He was right. The moment I sipped the second one, I woke up to find myself in a tub full of ice. In one hand was a phone, and the other had written on it "Call 911 if you want to live!" 911? Do they even have that in Bulgaria? I checked my kidneys. Both there. So I got out of the tub and went into the living room where everyone was laughing.
"Sorry, man," the Footballer said. "Just a little joke we like to play on Americans."
"How is Bulgaria this time of year?"
"It's hot. You should come back there with me for a little holiday."
"Yeah, I'm not doing anything."
We left Monday and got in late the same day. I offered to take him out for dinner as a thank you, and he asked if his friends could come. I said sure, thinking it'd only be one or two. He brought twelve, and they all ordered the most expensive things on the menu. I was pissed, until I saw the bill.
"$5?"
"What did you expect to pay?" The Footballer said.
"A lot more. Should I give him a dollar tip? That's 20%"
"I don't know. Don't you think it's a bit showy to tip that much?"
On Wednesday we watched Drogba net a hat trick against SK Sofia in Champion's League play. After we went out for drinks.
"I want you to try the Bulgarian Cocktail."
Sure, I'll try anything once. The waiter brought it out, and it was this black liquid with a thick white smoke blowing off the top of it. It looked like someone put dry ice in it. It tasted like Purple Kool-Aid with extra sugar in it.. Oh Yeah! I downed it and called for another one.
"You better go easy on those."
He was right. The moment I sipped the second one, I woke up to find myself in a tub full of ice. In one hand was a phone, and the other had written on it "Call 911 if you want to live!" 911? Do they even have that in Bulgaria? I checked my kidneys. Both there. So I got out of the tub and went into the living room where everyone was laughing.
"Sorry, man," the Footballer said. "Just a little joke we like to play on Americans."
Mads: Intermural Soccer Team
Norwegian's have a rich soccer history, starting with Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, and ending with Ole Gunnar Solskjaer. With that being said, when I heard about the university's intermural soccer tournament, I knew I needed a team. I contacted the Footballer, who was in Bulgaria at the time, and he sent me eleven players that I immediately got enrolled in classes.
My job as team manager suited me well. I prowled the sidelines, smoking, drinking, and yelling at the refs, who were just student volunteers. I was barred for one match when I ran onto the pitch and stole the ball after one of my players was cut down with no call. It took them 20 minutes to get the ball back.
After we completed our clean sweep of the tournament, I grabbed the cheap little trophy we won, and blew it apart with my .44 Magnum. That caused a stir, because firearms are apparently not allowed on campus. Someone should've told me that sooner. I then threw a huge party at the night club I'd created out of the frat house, only allowing my players and women from on campus to come. I was called into the Dean's office the next day, which was Thursday.
He threw a copy of the campus news paper on the desk. It had a picture of me with my mouth wide open yelling at the spectators with a gun in one hand and a bottle of Absolut in the other. I had a Norwegian national team scarf wrapped haphazardly around my neck.
"I'm not even going to say anything," he said.
My job as team manager suited me well. I prowled the sidelines, smoking, drinking, and yelling at the refs, who were just student volunteers. I was barred for one match when I ran onto the pitch and stole the ball after one of my players was cut down with no call. It took them 20 minutes to get the ball back.
After we completed our clean sweep of the tournament, I grabbed the cheap little trophy we won, and blew it apart with my .44 Magnum. That caused a stir, because firearms are apparently not allowed on campus. Someone should've told me that sooner. I then threw a huge party at the night club I'd created out of the frat house, only allowing my players and women from on campus to come. I was called into the Dean's office the next day, which was Thursday.
He threw a copy of the campus news paper on the desk. It had a picture of me with my mouth wide open yelling at the spectators with a gun in one hand and a bottle of Absolut in the other. I had a Norwegian national team scarf wrapped haphazardly around my neck.
"I'm not even going to say anything," he said.
Giant Sized 75th Issue Spectacular
I guess Gwen, the Cappie, and some of her friends found some Batman fan movies on YouTube, and they got all excited. They wanted to make one of their own with Captain America. That's when she came to me.
"Of course I'll play the Star Spangled Sentinel for you in your movie."
"Um, no, we already have a Cap. We wanted you to play the Red Skull."
"You already have a Cap? Who?"
"Um, Mads."
"Mads? What are you talking about?"
"Well, we saw him on PBS and in GQ and thought he'd be perfect for the role. Plus, we thought it'd be kind of ironic to have a Norwegian play Captain America."
"And he agreed to do it?"
"Yeah, he loved the irony of it too."
"Oh..."
Well, needless to say I turned down the role of Red Skull. I just didn't think I was right for it. I did see the movie on YouTube, though, and was rather impressed. The movie was pointless, of course. Gwen played some reporter that was kidnapped by the Red Skull, and Mads as Captain America saved her. It was only five minutes long. Mads, in true Mads style, said the most asinine things, like "Red Skull, I know you broke the vase and blamed it on DJ. Now Danny and Uncle Jesse will never trust her again," and "why don't you ever blink? What are you, the Runaway Bride?"
I kind of missed Mads, and one single tear dropped from my right eye. I wiped it away and turned to Patrick Stewart, who was waiting patiently for me.
"Let's go grab a beer."
"I thought you'd never ask."
"Of course I'll play the Star Spangled Sentinel for you in your movie."
"Um, no, we already have a Cap. We wanted you to play the Red Skull."
"You already have a Cap? Who?"
"Um, Mads."
"Mads? What are you talking about?"
"Well, we saw him on PBS and in GQ and thought he'd be perfect for the role. Plus, we thought it'd be kind of ironic to have a Norwegian play Captain America."
"And he agreed to do it?"
"Yeah, he loved the irony of it too."
"Oh..."
Well, needless to say I turned down the role of Red Skull. I just didn't think I was right for it. I did see the movie on YouTube, though, and was rather impressed. The movie was pointless, of course. Gwen played some reporter that was kidnapped by the Red Skull, and Mads as Captain America saved her. It was only five minutes long. Mads, in true Mads style, said the most asinine things, like "Red Skull, I know you broke the vase and blamed it on DJ. Now Danny and Uncle Jesse will never trust her again," and "why don't you ever blink? What are you, the Runaway Bride?"
I kind of missed Mads, and one single tear dropped from my right eye. I wiped it away and turned to Patrick Stewart, who was waiting patiently for me.
"Let's go grab a beer."
"I thought you'd never ask."
Corduroy
So I was rushing around to get ready for a big night, when my phone rings. Of course, I picked it up. There was this weird guy on the other end speaking in this really obscene voice.
"Hey, Steve. Are you wearing corduroy? Ooh, I bet you are, you salty dog you."
"What the hell are you talking about? This isn't Steve, you must have--"
"Oh, Steve, I can just hear you swish-swish your way over to my bedroom."
I hung the phone up and went back to what I was doing. The phone rang again. It was the same guy.
"Mmmm, Steve, I can just see you in that corduroy. Don't play coy with me, Steve. That corduroy you're wearing tells me all I need to know. The swish-swish is like a mating call."
Instead of hanging up this time, I just put the phone on the table, and let him talk to himself. Awful jackass.
"Hey, Steve. Are you wearing corduroy? Ooh, I bet you are, you salty dog you."
"What the hell are you talking about? This isn't Steve, you must have--"
"Oh, Steve, I can just hear you swish-swish your way over to my bedroom."
I hung the phone up and went back to what I was doing. The phone rang again. It was the same guy.
"Mmmm, Steve, I can just see you in that corduroy. Don't play coy with me, Steve. That corduroy you're wearing tells me all I need to know. The swish-swish is like a mating call."
Instead of hanging up this time, I just put the phone on the table, and let him talk to himself. Awful jackass.
SOAPNet
So anyway, I got some invites to go out the other night, and I didn't make it. I found out I my cable company recently picked up SOAPNet. I figured it was just going to be your run-of-the-mill daytime soaps like Days being reaired or something. Nope: they had Melrose and Beverly Hills 90210.
It was insane, I was yelling at the screen for Sydney to dump Michael, and for Allison to deck Amanda. And don't get me started on 90210. It was the one where Ray throws Donna down the stairs. Pure comic gold.
Around 8 I saw that they were reairing the day's soaps, so I figured I was out. Not quite yet: my cable company also picked up the Lifetime Movie Network. Abduction of Innocence with Dirk Bennedict was on, followed by Perfect Tennant with That Guy in it.
It was over. The phone was rininging off the hook. Some of my friends made a trip to my house.
"What are you doing? I thought we were going out. I got backstage passes to the Stones."
"Oh, Jesus, I would, but look at this movie, it's got That Guy."
"Just TiVo it."
I could, but then I considered how if I went out, I'd just be longing to go back and watch what I'd TiVoed. No, it wouldn't work.
"You guys go. This My First Mr. movie with Albert Brooks and Leelee Sobieski looks too hot to miss."
It was insane, I was yelling at the screen for Sydney to dump Michael, and for Allison to deck Amanda. And don't get me started on 90210. It was the one where Ray throws Donna down the stairs. Pure comic gold.
Around 8 I saw that they were reairing the day's soaps, so I figured I was out. Not quite yet: my cable company also picked up the Lifetime Movie Network. Abduction of Innocence with Dirk Bennedict was on, followed by Perfect Tennant with That Guy in it.
It was over. The phone was rininging off the hook. Some of my friends made a trip to my house.
"What are you doing? I thought we were going out. I got backstage passes to the Stones."
"Oh, Jesus, I would, but look at this movie, it's got That Guy."
"Just TiVo it."
I could, but then I considered how if I went out, I'd just be longing to go back and watch what I'd TiVoed. No, it wouldn't work.
"You guys go. This My First Mr. movie with Albert Brooks and Leelee Sobieski looks too hot to miss."
Joey McIntiyah
I was a little embarrassed. I grew up in Brockton, and it took me years to rid myself of the good old Boston accent. But there are moments when I regress.
I was out at Ukranian Hank's club one night, when Joey McIntyre showed. I went to his table and struck up a conversation.
"Dood," I said. "Whataya doin heyah?"
"Dood, I just got outta tha Sox game."
"Ha'd they do?"
"Christ dood, Ortiz is a machine. He hit like three homa's, four ahRBI's. Tha dood's sick."
"Yeah, he should be tha MVP, but you know tha writahs'll give it ta Jeteah."
"It's all about New York. If Jeteah was playin' for tha D-Rays they forget he existit."
Sir Ian McKellen spotted me, and tapped me on the shoulder.
"Dood, can't ya see I'm havin' a convahsation. Waitah, I need anotha' beyah."
"Another? Sir, you've been drinking Martinis."
I froze. My face turned crimson. I bid Joey farewell, and took up a conversation with Sir Ian about Bergman's The Virgin Spring.
I was out at Ukranian Hank's club one night, when Joey McIntyre showed. I went to his table and struck up a conversation.
"Dood," I said. "Whataya doin heyah?"
"Dood, I just got outta tha Sox game."
"Ha'd they do?"
"Christ dood, Ortiz is a machine. He hit like three homa's, four ahRBI's. Tha dood's sick."
"Yeah, he should be tha MVP, but you know tha writahs'll give it ta Jeteah."
"It's all about New York. If Jeteah was playin' for tha D-Rays they forget he existit."
Sir Ian McKellen spotted me, and tapped me on the shoulder.
"Dood, can't ya see I'm havin' a convahsation. Waitah, I need anotha' beyah."
"Another? Sir, you've been drinking Martinis."
I froze. My face turned crimson. I bid Joey farewell, and took up a conversation with Sir Ian about Bergman's The Virgin Spring.
My Dateline Sting
After watching some of those stings Dateline did with Perverted Justice to catch internet predators, I thought I might get in the game myself. I wanted to nail those bastards too, and I figured it could be my good deed for the month.
I enlisted the help of my buddy over at BPD, Mickey Freeman, and he got some of his fellow officers to hang out across the hall at a vacant apartment to arrest the guys we caught. I also got the Commander involved. For those who don't know, she's the Trekkie who wore her Star Trek uniform while serving as a juror on the Whitewater trial in Arkansas. With a baseball hat and some clothes from PacSun, she looked just like a pre-teen boy. She felt it was her duty as a Starfleet officer to help out in the community, and this sting operation of course fell under that rubric.
Unfortunately, the sting was not all that successful: we only caught three dudes. We also had a thirteen year old girl show up, who for some reason pretended to be an old man top get dates with teen boys. Your guess is as good as mine.
Then She came: a forty-something brunette with an amazing body, who looked like a model for a shampoo commercial. It was love at first sight. I pleaded with Mickey as they took her away in handcuffs, to no avail. Apparently there isn't a hotness clause in the criminal justice statute: the law applies evenly to old, gross, fat men who live with their moms; and extremely attractive older women who just made one mistake (or fifteen, as her wrapsheet explained).
"I'll bake you a cake with a file in it," I yelled to her as they carried her off. The Commander and I decided that'd we'd done what we needed to do, and we grabbed a few beers and discussed a little Trek. I was her guest of honor at the convention the next day, which was pretty cool.
I enlisted the help of my buddy over at BPD, Mickey Freeman, and he got some of his fellow officers to hang out across the hall at a vacant apartment to arrest the guys we caught. I also got the Commander involved. For those who don't know, she's the Trekkie who wore her Star Trek uniform while serving as a juror on the Whitewater trial in Arkansas. With a baseball hat and some clothes from PacSun, she looked just like a pre-teen boy. She felt it was her duty as a Starfleet officer to help out in the community, and this sting operation of course fell under that rubric.
Unfortunately, the sting was not all that successful: we only caught three dudes. We also had a thirteen year old girl show up, who for some reason pretended to be an old man top get dates with teen boys. Your guess is as good as mine.
Then She came: a forty-something brunette with an amazing body, who looked like a model for a shampoo commercial. It was love at first sight. I pleaded with Mickey as they took her away in handcuffs, to no avail. Apparently there isn't a hotness clause in the criminal justice statute: the law applies evenly to old, gross, fat men who live with their moms; and extremely attractive older women who just made one mistake (or fifteen, as her wrapsheet explained).
"I'll bake you a cake with a file in it," I yelled to her as they carried her off. The Commander and I decided that'd we'd done what we needed to do, and we grabbed a few beers and discussed a little Trek. I was her guest of honor at the convention the next day, which was pretty cool.
Mads: PBS
I received a request to do an interview about birds for a documentary airing on PBS. I'd done these types of shows before, and now being affiliated with the University, they tried to hire me out to do them as much as possible. I had them interview me at my apartment.
The night before was kind of a bad one, and I didn't get any sleep. When the crew showed, I was naked and sleeping on the couch. After some discussion, I put on a white shirt and a blazer. I sat at my kitchen table with my feet up, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of straight vodka. My hair was all disheveled, and I had like thirteen o'clock shadow.
Due to my stature as a Nobel Prize winner, and with much campaigning from Oklahoma, I made it onto the show, despite my not contributing anything whatsoever that could have been used to add anything to the production. They took from my ramblings about how to properly prepare fois gras, my abrupt interruption of the interview to enjoy "Foolish Heart" playing on the local Adult Contempo station, and my lecture on the merits of the Miami Vice trailer as great Film Noir, little tidbits that made me look like a functioning member of the academic community.
That wasn't the best part. GQ contacted the Dean, and I was featured in an article and photo spread. They really liked my overall appearance, and they asked me to give their readers style tips. I'm beginning to like this professor thing.
The night before was kind of a bad one, and I didn't get any sleep. When the crew showed, I was naked and sleeping on the couch. After some discussion, I put on a white shirt and a blazer. I sat at my kitchen table with my feet up, smoking a cigarette and drinking a glass of straight vodka. My hair was all disheveled, and I had like thirteen o'clock shadow.
Due to my stature as a Nobel Prize winner, and with much campaigning from Oklahoma, I made it onto the show, despite my not contributing anything whatsoever that could have been used to add anything to the production. They took from my ramblings about how to properly prepare fois gras, my abrupt interruption of the interview to enjoy "Foolish Heart" playing on the local Adult Contempo station, and my lecture on the merits of the Miami Vice trailer as great Film Noir, little tidbits that made me look like a functioning member of the academic community.
That wasn't the best part. GQ contacted the Dean, and I was featured in an article and photo spread. They really liked my overall appearance, and they asked me to give their readers style tips. I'm beginning to like this professor thing.
Dracula
I saw my neighbor Dracula the other night. I was just hitting the road, and he was coming in. He had a few pints of blood from the local blood bank.
"Hey, man, what's good?"
"Ah, nothing. Same old same old."
"I'm going out tonight, you wanna come? We'll rip it up."
"Naw dude, thought I'd just stay in. Sweet Home Alabama's on HBO 2."
"Okay, suit yourself."
I saw Blade Trinity with him a few days before. It was funny, because yet again, he was completely misrepresented. The real Dracula doesn't hang out at raves and wear leather pants. He's not even evil really. He wears Cardigan sweaters and Oxford shoes. He listens to smooth jazz. I was at a gas station with him, and he was picking up garbage that some rowdy teenagers dumped out of their car. I asked him one day where he got this bad reputation.
"Me and Bram Stoker had a falling out over some gambling debts. He decided to blast me in the media. It just stuck."
So what is true about Dracula? He's slightly stronger than the average guy his size, but he's not like Hercules or something. The sun is bad news for him, but he said that's not a big deal with the advent of TiVo. He can't turn into demons or bats. He doesn't like black either. I guess he's like really old, but I'm too polite to ask his age, and he hasn't mentioned it. He has a job as a DJ on an all night smooth jazz show for a local am radio station.
He said there's other vampires out there too. Some of them might be as evil as they are in the movies, and they might even listen to techno and host raves. As for Drac, he's just chilling, and I don't think he'd have it any other way.
"Hey, man, what's good?"
"Ah, nothing. Same old same old."
"I'm going out tonight, you wanna come? We'll rip it up."
"Naw dude, thought I'd just stay in. Sweet Home Alabama's on HBO 2."
"Okay, suit yourself."
I saw Blade Trinity with him a few days before. It was funny, because yet again, he was completely misrepresented. The real Dracula doesn't hang out at raves and wear leather pants. He's not even evil really. He wears Cardigan sweaters and Oxford shoes. He listens to smooth jazz. I was at a gas station with him, and he was picking up garbage that some rowdy teenagers dumped out of their car. I asked him one day where he got this bad reputation.
"Me and Bram Stoker had a falling out over some gambling debts. He decided to blast me in the media. It just stuck."
So what is true about Dracula? He's slightly stronger than the average guy his size, but he's not like Hercules or something. The sun is bad news for him, but he said that's not a big deal with the advent of TiVo. He can't turn into demons or bats. He doesn't like black either. I guess he's like really old, but I'm too polite to ask his age, and he hasn't mentioned it. He has a job as a DJ on an all night smooth jazz show for a local am radio station.
He said there's other vampires out there too. Some of them might be as evil as they are in the movies, and they might even listen to techno and host raves. As for Drac, he's just chilling, and I don't think he'd have it any other way.
A Major Art Find
I had a bit of insomnia the other night, and found myself up at 4am watching a documentary on Andy Warhol on PBS. It was interesting, I think simply because Warhol was such a fascinating figure, and it was difficult for the ramblings of the various pseudo-intellectuals the film interviewed to dull my fascination. So anyway, towards the end of the first part there was mention of a show of Elvis paintings he did in LA in the early 60s. It was a bunch of silk screens of the same picture of Elvis dressed as a cowboy pointing his gun at the camera. I rewound the show back and looked at them again (I still had TiVo even after Mads left and I didn't need it for Reba and Days anymore). I had one of those Elvises (Elvi?), and it was hanging on the big wall behind me. It was one where he overlapped three of the same image.
I called my friend Bob Sceriffo, a well respected art appraiser. Though being a little upset that I woke him at 4:45, when I told him the deal, he rushed right over.
"Jesus, man, this is real. This is post-Soup Cans, but still before he was the pop icon we knew him as. If I had to put a price on it, I'd say it's like $1.2 million. I thought Irving Bloom had them all together."
"That's hot."
"Where'd you come across this?"
"Yard sale, 'bout seven years back. The guy wanted $10 for it, but I talked him down to five."
I called my friend Bob Sceriffo, a well respected art appraiser. Though being a little upset that I woke him at 4:45, when I told him the deal, he rushed right over.
"Jesus, man, this is real. This is post-Soup Cans, but still before he was the pop icon we knew him as. If I had to put a price on it, I'd say it's like $1.2 million. I thought Irving Bloom had them all together."
"That's hot."
"Where'd you come across this?"
"Yard sale, 'bout seven years back. The guy wanted $10 for it, but I talked him down to five."
Battlestar Galactica
So Gwen, the Cappie, told me that she and her friends were having a Battlestar Galactica night. Oh sweet, I thought, I love that show. I cancelled an invite to sit up in the owner's box with George Steinbrenner for the Sox/Yankees game so I could go. I'm a huge Dirk Benedict fan: he was great as Lt. Starbuck, and he was great as Faceman on the A-Team. One of the finest actors of our generation.
Well, I bet you already knew what I know now: there are two Battlestar Galacticas. There would be no Dirk Benedict that night. I regrouped and tried watching the new one, but I was sick to my stomach. Not only was it bereft of Dirk, but they couldn't even get anyone decent to play his part. The sense of humor that made the show what it was was completely nonexistant, and this sack of ass crack took itself way too seriously for what it was: lame-assed sci-fi. The Cylons went from being robots to hot chicks, just to make sure they got the key hard-up geeky guy demographic that would normally watch Buffy DVDs on a Friday night after the D&D shop closed. Man, these kids today...
The vegan straw that broke the carnivore's back was an Edward James Olmos sans moustache.
"Gwen, I'm outro. I can't handle this."
"Um... okay... but I thought you loved Battlestar Galactica."
"Yeah, the one from 1979 with Dirk Benedict."
Some guy that was trying to get in Gwen's pants decided to crack foxy.
"Oh that one; that one's goofy."
Goofy? I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up.
"Do you understand that that shit on the TV right now is just as goofy? What makes that shit worse is that it has such an overinlflated sense of selfimportance that it can't see how goofy it is, as opposed to the old one that dealt with its goofiness in a tongue and cheek manner that made it endearing. Trying to make Battlestar Gallactic more realistic is like trying to make Tom and Jerry with a real cat and a real mouse: how fucking entertaining would that be if you put a stick of dynamite next to a mouse nibbling on cheese and a cat cleaning itself? You'd have a dead cat and a dead mouse in the first five minutes, fuck face."
"Dude, what are you talking about?"
I was slightly dejected, so I went to Ukranian Hank's nightclub, sat in a VIP booth, and explained my case to my friends Jose Cuervo and Jack Daniels. Much to my surprise, Gwen showed up.
"You were right," she said. "These kids today: no sense of humor. What do you say tomorrow we rent the real Battletsar Galactica and watch every episode?"
"I'd like that very much."
Well, I bet you already knew what I know now: there are two Battlestar Galacticas. There would be no Dirk Benedict that night. I regrouped and tried watching the new one, but I was sick to my stomach. Not only was it bereft of Dirk, but they couldn't even get anyone decent to play his part. The sense of humor that made the show what it was was completely nonexistant, and this sack of ass crack took itself way too seriously for what it was: lame-assed sci-fi. The Cylons went from being robots to hot chicks, just to make sure they got the key hard-up geeky guy demographic that would normally watch Buffy DVDs on a Friday night after the D&D shop closed. Man, these kids today...
The vegan straw that broke the carnivore's back was an Edward James Olmos sans moustache.
"Gwen, I'm outro. I can't handle this."
"Um... okay... but I thought you loved Battlestar Galactica."
"Yeah, the one from 1979 with Dirk Benedict."
Some guy that was trying to get in Gwen's pants decided to crack foxy.
"Oh that one; that one's goofy."
Goofy? I grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up.
"Do you understand that that shit on the TV right now is just as goofy? What makes that shit worse is that it has such an overinlflated sense of selfimportance that it can't see how goofy it is, as opposed to the old one that dealt with its goofiness in a tongue and cheek manner that made it endearing. Trying to make Battlestar Gallactic more realistic is like trying to make Tom and Jerry with a real cat and a real mouse: how fucking entertaining would that be if you put a stick of dynamite next to a mouse nibbling on cheese and a cat cleaning itself? You'd have a dead cat and a dead mouse in the first five minutes, fuck face."
"Dude, what are you talking about?"
I was slightly dejected, so I went to Ukranian Hank's nightclub, sat in a VIP booth, and explained my case to my friends Jose Cuervo and Jack Daniels. Much to my surprise, Gwen showed up.
"You were right," she said. "These kids today: no sense of humor. What do you say tomorrow we rent the real Battletsar Galactica and watch every episode?"
"I'd like that very much."
TomKat and Heinze 57 Sauce
I shot down to DC a couple weeks ago to catch the Monday night opener of Washington's Football Team (I can't bring myself to call them by their racist name). After making the rounds of the the party scene until 6 in the morning, I made my way over to a Waffle House to grab some breakfast. The place was almost completely empty except for one couple sitting at the other end of the restaurant.
I almost coughed my hasbrowns smothered in Heinze 57 Sauce when I saw who it was: Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Oh my God, this was amazing. I usually don't get starstruck, but Tom Cruise!
Should I say something to him? None of the staff seemed to recognize who they were. It was surreal. He was wearing a black V-neck cashmere sweater and jeans, and she was kind of wearing the same thing. They were having a conversation, but I couldn't tell about what.
The waitress refilled my coffee and I ordered some more hash browns. I love these hash browns with Heize 57 Sauce. I love them. I love them! Oh shit, we made eye contact. I quickly looked away. What a moron I am. I was trying to think what the one thing would be that I'd do if I met Tom. Probably I'd try to get him to do that patented Tom Cruise run. Was it really patented? The patent's probably pending.
I wonder if he'd try to recruit me into the Church of Scientology? Scientology wouldn't be so bad, as long as I didn't have to read that L. Ron Hubbard hack sci-fi writing. God that shit sucks.
He paid the bill, and they got up to leave. This was my big chance. I looked at him as he walked by. He gave me a nod, and I gave him the chin up with the raised eye brows. And they walked out of the Waffle House.
I almost coughed my hasbrowns smothered in Heinze 57 Sauce when I saw who it was: Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes. Oh my God, this was amazing. I usually don't get starstruck, but Tom Cruise!
Should I say something to him? None of the staff seemed to recognize who they were. It was surreal. He was wearing a black V-neck cashmere sweater and jeans, and she was kind of wearing the same thing. They were having a conversation, but I couldn't tell about what.
The waitress refilled my coffee and I ordered some more hash browns. I love these hash browns with Heize 57 Sauce. I love them. I love them! Oh shit, we made eye contact. I quickly looked away. What a moron I am. I was trying to think what the one thing would be that I'd do if I met Tom. Probably I'd try to get him to do that patented Tom Cruise run. Was it really patented? The patent's probably pending.
I wonder if he'd try to recruit me into the Church of Scientology? Scientology wouldn't be so bad, as long as I didn't have to read that L. Ron Hubbard hack sci-fi writing. God that shit sucks.
He paid the bill, and they got up to leave. This was my big chance. I looked at him as he walked by. He gave me a nod, and I gave him the chin up with the raised eye brows. And they walked out of the Waffle House.
Mads: Close Call
Oklahoma went to Oregon during Separaton Saturday. It was one of the closer match-ups of the weekend. I had a hunch Oregon may take that game, so I took tons of action on campus. The funny thing is that these people are so obsessed with their team that they were giving me two-to-one odds. I was loving it.
Until the game. It was bad: Oklahoma was up almost two touchdowns with a little over three minutes to go. That's when the Ducks scored. Oh man, onside kick. If the Duck's could recover it, I was golden.
I had a friend working on the technical crew or whatever at the stadium in Oregon, and I told him if he helped me out, I'd shoot him some of the action. Well, I ended up needing to give him 50% of my take because of how big he came through. Oregon recovered the onside kick, but on the replay, everyone could see that they illegally touched the ball before it had traveled ten yards. Everyone could see it, except the replay offcial. He didn't get the views that were clear cut because of my friend, so he had to let the play stand. Oregon then scored the go-ahead touchdown, blocked a potential gamesaving fieldgoal by the Sooners, and I was rich, bi-otch.
People tried to dispute the result, considering the Pac-10 suspended the officials that worked the game. It was hard getting the money, but eventually I pulled in 90% of what I was owed, and made the other ten percent's lives a living hell for not paying me. Apparently the meatheads here in Norman have been calling the replay official with deaththreats. Sucks to be him.
Until the game. It was bad: Oklahoma was up almost two touchdowns with a little over three minutes to go. That's when the Ducks scored. Oh man, onside kick. If the Duck's could recover it, I was golden.
I had a friend working on the technical crew or whatever at the stadium in Oregon, and I told him if he helped me out, I'd shoot him some of the action. Well, I ended up needing to give him 50% of my take because of how big he came through. Oregon recovered the onside kick, but on the replay, everyone could see that they illegally touched the ball before it had traveled ten yards. Everyone could see it, except the replay offcial. He didn't get the views that were clear cut because of my friend, so he had to let the play stand. Oregon then scored the go-ahead touchdown, blocked a potential gamesaving fieldgoal by the Sooners, and I was rich, bi-otch.
People tried to dispute the result, considering the Pac-10 suspended the officials that worked the game. It was hard getting the money, but eventually I pulled in 90% of what I was owed, and made the other ten percent's lives a living hell for not paying me. Apparently the meatheads here in Norman have been calling the replay official with deaththreats. Sucks to be him.
My Weekend in London
My good friend Malcolm Glazier, owner of Manchester United, invited me over for the weekend to watch his team play my team Arsenal at Old Trafford. The game was on Sunday, and he was going to fly me up from London via his private jet Sunday morning, so I had a Saturday to kill in the UK's biggest city. I probably should've kept a low profile, but sometimes I have diffculty with that.
I turned down invites by Gwenyth Paltrow and Elton John and instead decided to take it easy by playing some craps at an underground casino. The next thing I knew I had somehow talked my way into a backroom high stakes poker game. Considering I needed to take it easy, I probably should've avoided palming cards, but I really wanted to stick it to these limeys.
Palming cards while playing Texas Hold 'Em is an interesting undertaking. I first had to palm a cheap card with no one looking. I took a four of hearts and stuffed it up my sleeve. The next move was to take a great card and replace the four, and I did that when I was dealt an ace of spades. I even played the four of hearts with the five of hearts I was dealt with the ace. Then I got the big one. An ace of diamonds that I paired with the ace up my sleeve. I slow played the fuckers to a big pay day. Then I was busted.
It wasn't for palming the cards, but rather for killing the big cheese. When his strong man took hold of my arm to toss me out, the palmed card was revealed. Luckily I stored my Alka-Seltzer tablet, a la Bolo Yeung from Bloodsport. I crushed it in my hands and threw the dust in his eyes, escaping in a cloud of white smoke.
But my troubles weren't over. All my money and my passport were at the hotel I was staying at, and when I tried to get in, I found two suspicious looking chaps staking the place out. I spent the night moving from bench to bench, and then missed my flight to the game. I had to stow away on a freight ship bound for Boston, where I lived for three weeks on canned crab meat and Guiness, and kept my sanity by reading paperback copies of Dickens novels. I prematurely thought I was in Boston, and instead disembarked in New Foundland. I had to hitchhike all the way back home.
I turned down invites by Gwenyth Paltrow and Elton John and instead decided to take it easy by playing some craps at an underground casino. The next thing I knew I had somehow talked my way into a backroom high stakes poker game. Considering I needed to take it easy, I probably should've avoided palming cards, but I really wanted to stick it to these limeys.
Palming cards while playing Texas Hold 'Em is an interesting undertaking. I first had to palm a cheap card with no one looking. I took a four of hearts and stuffed it up my sleeve. The next move was to take a great card and replace the four, and I did that when I was dealt an ace of spades. I even played the four of hearts with the five of hearts I was dealt with the ace. Then I got the big one. An ace of diamonds that I paired with the ace up my sleeve. I slow played the fuckers to a big pay day. Then I was busted.
It wasn't for palming the cards, but rather for killing the big cheese. When his strong man took hold of my arm to toss me out, the palmed card was revealed. Luckily I stored my Alka-Seltzer tablet, a la Bolo Yeung from Bloodsport. I crushed it in my hands and threw the dust in his eyes, escaping in a cloud of white smoke.
But my troubles weren't over. All my money and my passport were at the hotel I was staying at, and when I tried to get in, I found two suspicious looking chaps staking the place out. I spent the night moving from bench to bench, and then missed my flight to the game. I had to stow away on a freight ship bound for Boston, where I lived for three weeks on canned crab meat and Guiness, and kept my sanity by reading paperback copies of Dickens novels. I prematurely thought I was in Boston, and instead disembarked in New Foundland. I had to hitchhike all the way back home.
Bohemian Like Me
Gwen, the Cappie, invited me to a poetry night at a near-by cafe. It was open mic, and one of her friends was reading. Her friend sucked, hard. Everyone sucked, hard. I decided to take things into my own hands... I mean Christ, if you want something done right, sometimes you gotta roll up them sleeves, grab a wrench, and get in there and put Suzy's fucking tricycle together. So I put my name on the list, and waited to be called. Gwen and her friend were surprised that I would be reading, but even more surprised at my poem.
"Hello, everyone. The piece I am about to recite is going to be extemporaneous. It's all stream of consciousness. Here we go. It's entitled: Gay Rodeo in Calgary.
Chaps
No pants underneath
The breeze carresses my
Sublime buttocks
A moustache
Too much?
No, the bull whip
Is too much
Smooth leather saddle
Beginning to chafe
A rodeo clown
One single tear
Ruins his make-up
Can you last 8 seconds
At the Gay Rodeo?
Thank you very much."
I sat down, and at first people didn't know what to make of it. Gwen was kind of embarrassed. But then the clapping started. Then the cheering. I couldn't help it... I was the man, and little Suzy would have her tricycle to ride on Christmas morning.
"Hello, everyone. The piece I am about to recite is going to be extemporaneous. It's all stream of consciousness. Here we go. It's entitled: Gay Rodeo in Calgary.
Chaps
No pants underneath
The breeze carresses my
Sublime buttocks
A moustache
Too much?
No, the bull whip
Is too much
Smooth leather saddle
Beginning to chafe
A rodeo clown
One single tear
Ruins his make-up
Can you last 8 seconds
At the Gay Rodeo?
Thank you very much."
I sat down, and at first people didn't know what to make of it. Gwen was kind of embarrassed. But then the clapping started. Then the cheering. I couldn't help it... I was the man, and little Suzy would have her tricycle to ride on Christmas morning.
Separation Saturday
Separation Saturday: 7 games featuring 14 teams in the AP Top 25. This was the biggest day in college football in 13 years. I was ready. I started my day off by watching College Gameday, which was disappointing because Lee Corso picked the USC Trojans to win, meaning that he didn't put on a huge goofy mascot head, but a Trojan helmet. At noon I stayed in and watched BC win another double OT game, this time against BYU. I decided to go to Harry's bar to watch the Michigan/Notre Dame game. Harry's is a very exclusive private bar that very few people can gain entry into.
I brought the book I was reading: Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust, and I was glad I did, because Michigan killed Notre Dame, and the game was over by halftime. I could've watched the LSU/Auburn game, which was close throughout, but that would have meant moving to another table, and I didn't want to do that, so I became engrossed in my book instead.
I was brought back into the world of the bar by a male voice with a German accent.
"Hello, can you tell me where the bathroom is?"
I looked up. It was Arnold Schwarzenegger, flanked on both arms by two Drag Queens. Of course, two questions immediately popped into my head: why was Arnold in Boston when he should be in LA for the USC/Nebraska game?; and what was he doing with two Drag Queens? My first question was answered by Mitt Romney, who I saw at the bar. He shrugged his shoulders at me and shook his head. Mitt was at the BC game, probably upset at the result being that he is a card carrying Mormon. I bet Arnold's flight was late, and he was supposed to be Mitt's guest at the game. My second question was answered just by observing Arnold: he didn't know they were Drag Queens.
"Hello, are you there?"
"Yes... sorry. The bathroom? Go down those stairs at the back there, take a left at the fat guy with a moustache. Keep going until you see the cigar store Indian. Go through the beaded curtain with the print of a magic mushroom on it. You should see a group of old Chinese men playing Mah Jong. Give them this:" I showed him the surfer's "hangloose", "and say 'Shaka Bra.' One of the guys should look up from his game and point you into the direction of the Men's Room with his head."
"Okay, dude, viele danke."
"Bitte, baby, bitte. Jesus, Michigan just scored again..."
I brought the book I was reading: Evelyn Waugh's A Handful of Dust, and I was glad I did, because Michigan killed Notre Dame, and the game was over by halftime. I could've watched the LSU/Auburn game, which was close throughout, but that would have meant moving to another table, and I didn't want to do that, so I became engrossed in my book instead.
I was brought back into the world of the bar by a male voice with a German accent.
"Hello, can you tell me where the bathroom is?"
I looked up. It was Arnold Schwarzenegger, flanked on both arms by two Drag Queens. Of course, two questions immediately popped into my head: why was Arnold in Boston when he should be in LA for the USC/Nebraska game?; and what was he doing with two Drag Queens? My first question was answered by Mitt Romney, who I saw at the bar. He shrugged his shoulders at me and shook his head. Mitt was at the BC game, probably upset at the result being that he is a card carrying Mormon. I bet Arnold's flight was late, and he was supposed to be Mitt's guest at the game. My second question was answered just by observing Arnold: he didn't know they were Drag Queens.
"Hello, are you there?"
"Yes... sorry. The bathroom? Go down those stairs at the back there, take a left at the fat guy with a moustache. Keep going until you see the cigar store Indian. Go through the beaded curtain with the print of a magic mushroom on it. You should see a group of old Chinese men playing Mah Jong. Give them this:" I showed him the surfer's "hangloose", "and say 'Shaka Bra.' One of the guys should look up from his game and point you into the direction of the Men's Room with his head."
"Okay, dude, viele danke."
"Bitte, baby, bitte. Jesus, Michigan just scored again..."
Mads: Test Scores
I got a call into the Dean's office. I normally would just blow him off, but I was hungry, and the path to the campus Taco Bell goes right past his office window, so I just decided to pop in and see what was up.
"It's your students's test scores. They all got A's. How did that happen?"
"Actually they all failed at first, and I needed to scale them."
"Yes, we got some initial complaints that the test material wasn't covered in either the class lectures or the text book, and the testing atmosphere was not conducive to one taking an exam. Do you know anything about this?"
I lit a cigarette and shook my head.
"I have a copy of the exam right here. One of the questions required the students to name 30 Madonna music videos."
"Not too difficult. I figured that's a gimme. You gonna tell me you couldn't do that?"
"Well, let me see, 'Borderline', 'Papa Don't Preach', 'Cherish'."
"Yeah, none of them picked that one."
"Well, Jesus, Mads, these kids aren't that old. Most of them only know Madonna as the old chick that kissed Brittney."
"That's precisely my point. The kids need to know these things."
"Whatever... I don't know how I got off track here. None of these questions have anything whatsoever to do with ornithology."
"What about the essay question?"
"Is Big Bird a puppet? Provide a structured arguement either way. Your TA had to correct all those Blue Books for that question?"
"That's what I pay him for, of course."
"No, we pay him, and that's not what we pay him for. And while we're on the subject of money, the Department received a bill for $50,000 for a private performance by Melissa Manchester. What the hell is that about?"
"I just really thought it would be a great confidence builder for the kids if we could give them 'Don't Cry Out Loud'. I thought it went over well."
"Students don't need concerts while they're taking tests... they need quiet. And 'Don't Cry Out Loud'? What the hell's wrong with you?"
"C'mon, Baby can't be broken, you see... 'cause Baby had the greatest teacher... that's me... Don't CRYYYYYYYY OUUUUUUT LOOOOOO--"
"Okay, okay, I get the point. What... what the hell are you doing?"
I was cutting some coke into four lines on top of the ornithology journal that my newest article was published in. I had grabbed it off the Dean's desk. I rolled up a Benjie and hoovered up a couple. I then lifted the magazine and rolled bill in the direction of the Dean with one hand while I cleaned my nose with the other.
"Jesus Christ, Mads, what if someone came in here."
He leaned over and did the other two lines.
"You know what Deanie? I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."
"Fuck you, Mads. Fuck you."
"It's your students's test scores. They all got A's. How did that happen?"
"Actually they all failed at first, and I needed to scale them."
"Yes, we got some initial complaints that the test material wasn't covered in either the class lectures or the text book, and the testing atmosphere was not conducive to one taking an exam. Do you know anything about this?"
I lit a cigarette and shook my head.
"I have a copy of the exam right here. One of the questions required the students to name 30 Madonna music videos."
"Not too difficult. I figured that's a gimme. You gonna tell me you couldn't do that?"
"Well, let me see, 'Borderline', 'Papa Don't Preach', 'Cherish'."
"Yeah, none of them picked that one."
"Well, Jesus, Mads, these kids aren't that old. Most of them only know Madonna as the old chick that kissed Brittney."
"That's precisely my point. The kids need to know these things."
"Whatever... I don't know how I got off track here. None of these questions have anything whatsoever to do with ornithology."
"What about the essay question?"
"Is Big Bird a puppet? Provide a structured arguement either way. Your TA had to correct all those Blue Books for that question?"
"That's what I pay him for, of course."
"No, we pay him, and that's not what we pay him for. And while we're on the subject of money, the Department received a bill for $50,000 for a private performance by Melissa Manchester. What the hell is that about?"
"I just really thought it would be a great confidence builder for the kids if we could give them 'Don't Cry Out Loud'. I thought it went over well."
"Students don't need concerts while they're taking tests... they need quiet. And 'Don't Cry Out Loud'? What the hell's wrong with you?"
"C'mon, Baby can't be broken, you see... 'cause Baby had the greatest teacher... that's me... Don't CRYYYYYYYY OUUUUUUT LOOOOOO--"
"Okay, okay, I get the point. What... what the hell are you doing?"
I was cutting some coke into four lines on top of the ornithology journal that my newest article was published in. I had grabbed it off the Dean's desk. I rolled up a Benjie and hoovered up a couple. I then lifted the magazine and rolled bill in the direction of the Dean with one hand while I cleaned my nose with the other.
"Jesus Christ, Mads, what if someone came in here."
He leaned over and did the other two lines.
"You know what Deanie? I think this is the start of a beautiful friendship."
"Fuck you, Mads. Fuck you."
Monday, April 23, 2007
Mads: The Protest
I was heading to the class I taught the other day by my favored mode of transportation: on the back of my emu Gucci. As I neared the building my class was held in, I noticed a group of people protesting my use of the bird. I reached into my backpack and found my mace, then borrowed a whiffleball bat from some kids playing in the quad. I smacked Gucci in the rear, and got her to charge into the crowd.
The kids were stunned. They scattered quickly as I rained down blows and sprayed them in the face. The bat was bent in half. Gucci was helping as well, biting and scratching where she could. When Public Safety arrived, they understood the situation implicitly, and arrested all of the protesters. I was only five minutes late to my class.
The next day I received a letter from the campus Young Republicans asking if I'd like to join them as a faculty adviser after what happened. I of course told them to play hide and go fuck themselves. Then I turned on Passions.
The kids were stunned. They scattered quickly as I rained down blows and sprayed them in the face. The bat was bent in half. Gucci was helping as well, biting and scratching where she could. When Public Safety arrived, they understood the situation implicitly, and arrested all of the protesters. I was only five minutes late to my class.
The next day I received a letter from the campus Young Republicans asking if I'd like to join them as a faculty adviser after what happened. I of course told them to play hide and go fuck themselves. Then I turned on Passions.
Double H
I got the call today that I'd forgot to expect. Hubert Humphrey wanted to meet to discuss his campaign for president in '08. We hooked up at a local underwear shop that caters to gay men. We had to sneak into the dressing room because we couldn't hear each other over the extremely loud house music. The current song was a remix of Climie Fisher's "Love Changes Everything."
"Love changes... changes everything... man, who does this song," I said to myself.
"Climie Fisher."
"Climie Fisher? How did you know that?"
"I had a lot of time to kill in the '80s and '90s. I spent 24 hours a day sitting on a beach in the Caribbean listening to music."
"24 hours a day? You didn't sleep?"
"I didn't. But anyway, we need a strategy to get me the NH Primary."
"Well, I was thinking you've got the best record on Iraq and the economy and social security, because you haven't had to vote on any of those things in like 30 years."
"Okay. What else you got?"
"That's it for right now. What did you have?"
"I'm thinking of having Jack Wagner as my running mate."
"Jack Wagner?"
"Yeah, Frisco from General Hospital..."
"Yeah I know who he is."
"He's on Bold now."
"Yeah, with Lorenzo Lamas. But whatever, why Jack Wagner? Why not Pacey from Dawson's Creek?"
"Joshua Jackson... yeah, Double H and Double J. I kinda like it, make it shorter I'll buy it."
I looked at him pondering my suggestion, and realized just how much my work was cut out for me.
"Think we can make this has been a president?"
"Has been? Dude, you're a never has was."
He laughed and patted me on the shoulder. He walked to the front of the store, then turned back to me:
"We're gonna win this shit, fucker, you know that?"
"I do, bitch. I do."
Love changes... changes everything...
"Love changes... changes everything... man, who does this song," I said to myself.
"Climie Fisher."
"Climie Fisher? How did you know that?"
"I had a lot of time to kill in the '80s and '90s. I spent 24 hours a day sitting on a beach in the Caribbean listening to music."
"24 hours a day? You didn't sleep?"
"I didn't. But anyway, we need a strategy to get me the NH Primary."
"Well, I was thinking you've got the best record on Iraq and the economy and social security, because you haven't had to vote on any of those things in like 30 years."
"Okay. What else you got?"
"That's it for right now. What did you have?"
"I'm thinking of having Jack Wagner as my running mate."
"Jack Wagner?"
"Yeah, Frisco from General Hospital..."
"Yeah I know who he is."
"He's on Bold now."
"Yeah, with Lorenzo Lamas. But whatever, why Jack Wagner? Why not Pacey from Dawson's Creek?"
"Joshua Jackson... yeah, Double H and Double J. I kinda like it, make it shorter I'll buy it."
I looked at him pondering my suggestion, and realized just how much my work was cut out for me.
"Think we can make this has been a president?"
"Has been? Dude, you're a never has was."
He laughed and patted me on the shoulder. He walked to the front of the store, then turned back to me:
"We're gonna win this shit, fucker, you know that?"
"I do, bitch. I do."
Love changes... changes everything...
32-year Old Grandfather
My younger brother got a woman pregnant when he was 16. It was kinda a big deal, because the woman he got pregnant was Mrs. Jenkins, our extremely hot high school English teacher, who was married to an old rich man. We surmised correctly that the old man couldn't get it up anymore, and these being the days before Viagara, it was only a matter of time, and my brother was the lucky one. Unfortunately, two years earlier, when he was 14, I thought he was having sex with the neighbor girl, so I gave him a couple of condoms. He wasn't, and those condoms sat unused in his wallet until he nailed Mrs. Jenkins, rendering them rather uneffective.
Well, as you can imagine, the daughter that resulted from this unholy union did not have the best life, and it was no surprise when she too had a baby just shy of her 17th birthday. My brother was now a grandfather at 32. Not a bad deal if you ask me.
They (my brother, my niece, and her son) all came over to visit me so I could see the baby. He was cute enough. They named him Brady after the star New England quaterback.
"Hey, Sex in the City's on," my niece said. "Do you watch that show?"
"No."
"Oh, come one, I bet it's right up your alley. All they talk about is getting laid and shopping."
We turned it on, and the first thing I saw was a naked Kim Cattrall. Man, she looked almost as hot as she did in Mannequin.
"What's Mannequin?"
I was shocked that not only had she not seen such a classic movie, she hadn't even heard of it.
"Well, maybe you should've given my dad that for Christmas, instead of all those Bergman pictures..."
It was a good point, but because I'd given him those movies, and she'd been subjected to them at such a young age, she spoke near fluent Swedish, and with the German she was learning in school, was on the fast track to a Germanic Languages scholarship at Harvard. That was until this happened. I asked her who the father was.
"Oh, my boyfriend. He was a couple years older than me, and joined the army. He was blown up by a car bomb in Iraq. Unfortunately I can't get any money from the military, because we weren't married; not that I would've married him anyway, but the money would've helped."
That's when I sprang into action and called my gal Natalie Jacobson with Channel 5 News. Her story was on the TV that evening. Within a week there was a celebrity golf tournament, celebrity concert, celebrity poker tournament, and two celebrity bowling tournaments held in her name. We'd managed to net her about 1.7 million dollars tax free. That wasn't counting the $300,000 scholarship. She was a little annoyed, though, with all the publicity. She had to do shows like Hardball, Cold Pizza, and Today. Not only that, but her background in Germanic languages drew attention from Europeans. The Swedish consolate gave her a key to Goteborg. It was tough.
But when she moved into Manny Ramirez's old luxury condo for free, received lifetime season tickets to the Red Sox and Patriots (Tom Brady was touched the child was named after him), and found out she was in such high demand she could charge money for appearences, her mindset changed. She put off plans for college, and became both the reason why we shouldn't "cut and run" and "need to stay the course"; and the reason why we need "a plan to withdraw our troops", and "how he would've survived with body armor". Republicans and Democrats in key Battleground States paid five and sometimes six figure amounts to secure her face at a campaign event.
My niece had become a extremely rich and famous. I guess it was the American dream. Ish.
Well, as you can imagine, the daughter that resulted from this unholy union did not have the best life, and it was no surprise when she too had a baby just shy of her 17th birthday. My brother was now a grandfather at 32. Not a bad deal if you ask me.
They (my brother, my niece, and her son) all came over to visit me so I could see the baby. He was cute enough. They named him Brady after the star New England quaterback.
"Hey, Sex in the City's on," my niece said. "Do you watch that show?"
"No."
"Oh, come one, I bet it's right up your alley. All they talk about is getting laid and shopping."
We turned it on, and the first thing I saw was a naked Kim Cattrall. Man, she looked almost as hot as she did in Mannequin.
"What's Mannequin?"
I was shocked that not only had she not seen such a classic movie, she hadn't even heard of it.
"Well, maybe you should've given my dad that for Christmas, instead of all those Bergman pictures..."
It was a good point, but because I'd given him those movies, and she'd been subjected to them at such a young age, she spoke near fluent Swedish, and with the German she was learning in school, was on the fast track to a Germanic Languages scholarship at Harvard. That was until this happened. I asked her who the father was.
"Oh, my boyfriend. He was a couple years older than me, and joined the army. He was blown up by a car bomb in Iraq. Unfortunately I can't get any money from the military, because we weren't married; not that I would've married him anyway, but the money would've helped."
That's when I sprang into action and called my gal Natalie Jacobson with Channel 5 News. Her story was on the TV that evening. Within a week there was a celebrity golf tournament, celebrity concert, celebrity poker tournament, and two celebrity bowling tournaments held in her name. We'd managed to net her about 1.7 million dollars tax free. That wasn't counting the $300,000 scholarship. She was a little annoyed, though, with all the publicity. She had to do shows like Hardball, Cold Pizza, and Today. Not only that, but her background in Germanic languages drew attention from Europeans. The Swedish consolate gave her a key to Goteborg. It was tough.
But when she moved into Manny Ramirez's old luxury condo for free, received lifetime season tickets to the Red Sox and Patriots (Tom Brady was touched the child was named after him), and found out she was in such high demand she could charge money for appearences, her mindset changed. She put off plans for college, and became both the reason why we shouldn't "cut and run" and "need to stay the course"; and the reason why we need "a plan to withdraw our troops", and "how he would've survived with body armor". Republicans and Democrats in key Battleground States paid five and sometimes six figure amounts to secure her face at a campaign event.
My niece had become a extremely rich and famous. I guess it was the American dream. Ish.
The Deepcheeks Diet: It's All the Rage
I was hanging out at Ukranian Hank's club the other night, chilling with a big crew in VIP. Somehow I'd managed to find myself alone with this very attractive brunette. I offered her some of the nachos in front of us.
"No thank you, I'm on the Deepcheeks Diet."
"The Deepcheeks Diet? What's that? Is it like South Beach?"
"No way, it's totally different. It was created by this doctor Dr. T. Gristle McThornbody. Basically it says that you can lose weight by cutting out really fattening food, and by exercising on a regular basis. Like I run two miles a day now, and instead of eating chips and candy, I eat fruits and vegatables."
"You need a book to tell you that?"
"Hey man, don't knock it, it works."
"I know it works, that's the whole point. I know it works without a book to tell me it works."
"You're just jealous. I've lost 9 lbs. in just two weeks."
"I'm jealous that a healthier diet and daily exercise lead to weight loss?"
"Yes."
"Whatever, you wanna go somewhere and makeout?"
"Okay..."
"No thank you, I'm on the Deepcheeks Diet."
"The Deepcheeks Diet? What's that? Is it like South Beach?"
"No way, it's totally different. It was created by this doctor Dr. T. Gristle McThornbody. Basically it says that you can lose weight by cutting out really fattening food, and by exercising on a regular basis. Like I run two miles a day now, and instead of eating chips and candy, I eat fruits and vegatables."
"You need a book to tell you that?"
"Hey man, don't knock it, it works."
"I know it works, that's the whole point. I know it works without a book to tell me it works."
"You're just jealous. I've lost 9 lbs. in just two weeks."
"I'm jealous that a healthier diet and daily exercise lead to weight loss?"
"Yes."
"Whatever, you wanna go somewhere and makeout?"
"Okay..."
Sunday, April 22, 2007
The Lies About Marijuana
Man, I can't stand those asinine commercials where these smug bastards pontificate about the potential horrors of smoking weed. All they do is work on lies and misperception: like tobacco companies... isn't it ironic?
Anyway, the point is, the other day I found myself in one of those utterly unplausible scenarios depicted in those abhorrent commercials. My friend Matty D was in town (not to be cofused with Matty the Mainer, this guy's a friend of Affleck's), and he wanted to get together. When I got in his car, he pointed to a bag of weed on the dash with pack of rolling papers on it. I understood, and rollded a big fatty on the top of my hardcover copy of Farrell's Studs Lonigan Trilogy. At that point we proceeded to get baked out of our minds.
Matty D suggested we stop and grab some MceeDee's, and I couldn't argue with him. After we grabbed our food in the drive through, Matty sped out, then came to an abrupt stop.
"Did you feel that?"
"What're you talking about?"
"I think I just ran something over."
We got out and found a twisted pink bicycle next to a girl lying in a pool of blood. No way, this couldn't be happening.
"Quick," I said. "Open your trunk. We need to get rid of this thing A-Sap."
Man, if those losers in the anti-drug campaign ever found out that the most ludicrous lie they've ever told to defame the character of our great canibus actually came true, we'd set the free marijuana movement back fifty years. I carried the body and bike at the same time over to the trunk of Matty D's car.
"What if someone sees us?" He said.
"If we move quickly enough it won't matter."
"I think she's still alive."
"That's not the issue here. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made for the good of the movement."
Right then I felt someone jump on my back. Shit, I thought, it's the cops. But it wasn't, it was Ashton Kucher.
"Man," he said. "We've never had anyone try to cover up the crime! I guess you're right, we can never fool you!"
One time at a party I told Ash I could never be Punk'd. I think he believed that I would never have the audacity to cover up Matty D's running over a little girl, so he assumed the game was up and I was hip to the scam. But he was wrong, and I had been fooled. I sat down on the curb and lit a Parliament. Wow, what a relief. I was glad I didn't have to dispose of another body. That can be hard work.
Anyway, the point is, the other day I found myself in one of those utterly unplausible scenarios depicted in those abhorrent commercials. My friend Matty D was in town (not to be cofused with Matty the Mainer, this guy's a friend of Affleck's), and he wanted to get together. When I got in his car, he pointed to a bag of weed on the dash with pack of rolling papers on it. I understood, and rollded a big fatty on the top of my hardcover copy of Farrell's Studs Lonigan Trilogy. At that point we proceeded to get baked out of our minds.
Matty D suggested we stop and grab some MceeDee's, and I couldn't argue with him. After we grabbed our food in the drive through, Matty sped out, then came to an abrupt stop.
"Did you feel that?"
"What're you talking about?"
"I think I just ran something over."
We got out and found a twisted pink bicycle next to a girl lying in a pool of blood. No way, this couldn't be happening.
"Quick," I said. "Open your trunk. We need to get rid of this thing A-Sap."
Man, if those losers in the anti-drug campaign ever found out that the most ludicrous lie they've ever told to defame the character of our great canibus actually came true, we'd set the free marijuana movement back fifty years. I carried the body and bike at the same time over to the trunk of Matty D's car.
"What if someone sees us?" He said.
"If we move quickly enough it won't matter."
"I think she's still alive."
"That's not the issue here. Sometimes sacrifices need to be made for the good of the movement."
Right then I felt someone jump on my back. Shit, I thought, it's the cops. But it wasn't, it was Ashton Kucher.
"Man," he said. "We've never had anyone try to cover up the crime! I guess you're right, we can never fool you!"
One time at a party I told Ash I could never be Punk'd. I think he believed that I would never have the audacity to cover up Matty D's running over a little girl, so he assumed the game was up and I was hip to the scam. But he was wrong, and I had been fooled. I sat down on the curb and lit a Parliament. Wow, what a relief. I was glad I didn't have to dispose of another body. That can be hard work.
Andrea Zuckerman, What a Gal!
I went to the premier party to X-Men 3 a while back, and I wasn't the most popular cat there. I thought it would make a splash if I invited Ann Coulter, and it did: the wrong kind. No one was happy with me, and I was rendered persona non grata by most of the party goers. I couldn't help it, though. Ann Coulter's kinda hot.
Anyway I found myself sitting at the bar by myself, watching a rerun of 90210 on the SOAP Network. It was the episode where poor Andrea missed the prom and was watching some prom massacre horror movie on TV.
"Man, that Andrea is an absolute turn on."
It was Sir Ian McKellen.
"Sir Ian McKellen, but aren't you...?"
"Doesn't mean I can't find Andrea Zuckerman hot."
"No, no it doesn't."
I heard a scream and looked over. A drunk Alec Baldwin had just thrown a drink in my date's face.
"Looks like you've got to attend to your date."
"Christ, I know."
"You should consider batting for our team."
"Why, you're gonna tell me you guys don't have drama? Please."
"Oh, we have drama, just not over politics."
I looked back at the TV screen.
"I just can't see what you see in Andrea. I'll take Donna any day."
"You would, fucker. You would."
Anyway I found myself sitting at the bar by myself, watching a rerun of 90210 on the SOAP Network. It was the episode where poor Andrea missed the prom and was watching some prom massacre horror movie on TV.
"Man, that Andrea is an absolute turn on."
It was Sir Ian McKellen.
"Sir Ian McKellen, but aren't you...?"
"Doesn't mean I can't find Andrea Zuckerman hot."
"No, no it doesn't."
I heard a scream and looked over. A drunk Alec Baldwin had just thrown a drink in my date's face.
"Looks like you've got to attend to your date."
"Christ, I know."
"You should consider batting for our team."
"Why, you're gonna tell me you guys don't have drama? Please."
"Oh, we have drama, just not over politics."
I looked back at the TV screen.
"I just can't see what you see in Andrea. I'll take Donna any day."
"You would, fucker. You would."
Batman Versus Predator
Me and Gwen, the Cappie, were at the video store looking for a movie to rent. Most of the stuff there was crap, like Cruel Intentions 7 and Children of the Corn 16. But I did see one movie that both Gwen and I could agree on. It was a direct to video film entitled Batman vs. the Predator.
I turned the case over and saw that it starred Adam West as Batman. It was so neccesary to rent it at that point, I'd have paid $100 for just one night alone with it.
And the movie didn't disappoint, either. The first scene had West as Bruce Wayne in a coffee shop trying to order a poppyseed bagel. He was fighting with the store clerks about it because they told him they were out. As he was giving them a lecture on the importance of customer satisfaction, someone cracked a Snapple(TM) bottle over his head. This was going to be good.
After that, there was some kind of expensive auction going on in Gotham that Bruce Wayne attended. Then this bright green gas flooded the room knocking everyone out, and the Predator, his henchmen and this really hot woman in Go-Go boots came in and took a really expensive painting. It was on.
You can imagine how the rest of it went: Commissioner Gordon called him and Robin to tell them what was up. They later foiled some other plans of the Predator's. They showed the Predator's lair, where the hot woman called him things like "Preddy Baby". At one point the Predator had Batman and Robin, but instead of killing them, chained them to a wall and left a big bowling ball like bomb there to blow them up instead. Batman escaped by using his Bat-cooking oil to slip out of the shackles, and his Bat-soap to make a fake gun. The movie ended when the Predator kidnapped Batgirl and planned on feeding her to some oversized Venus Flytrap, and then Batman and Robin showed up and kicked some ass.
I was extremely satisfied, and am looking for the sequel. I turned off the DVD player, and Gwen and I watched Good Times on TVLand.
I turned the case over and saw that it starred Adam West as Batman. It was so neccesary to rent it at that point, I'd have paid $100 for just one night alone with it.
And the movie didn't disappoint, either. The first scene had West as Bruce Wayne in a coffee shop trying to order a poppyseed bagel. He was fighting with the store clerks about it because they told him they were out. As he was giving them a lecture on the importance of customer satisfaction, someone cracked a Snapple(TM) bottle over his head. This was going to be good.
After that, there was some kind of expensive auction going on in Gotham that Bruce Wayne attended. Then this bright green gas flooded the room knocking everyone out, and the Predator, his henchmen and this really hot woman in Go-Go boots came in and took a really expensive painting. It was on.
You can imagine how the rest of it went: Commissioner Gordon called him and Robin to tell them what was up. They later foiled some other plans of the Predator's. They showed the Predator's lair, where the hot woman called him things like "Preddy Baby". At one point the Predator had Batman and Robin, but instead of killing them, chained them to a wall and left a big bowling ball like bomb there to blow them up instead. Batman escaped by using his Bat-cooking oil to slip out of the shackles, and his Bat-soap to make a fake gun. The movie ended when the Predator kidnapped Batgirl and planned on feeding her to some oversized Venus Flytrap, and then Batman and Robin showed up and kicked some ass.
I was extremely satisfied, and am looking for the sequel. I turned off the DVD player, and Gwen and I watched Good Times on TVLand.
The Greatest Show Ever
I met my friend Trajan, the writer, out for lunch the other day, and I couldn't wait to tell him the news:
"I just saw the greatest show ever."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, it was a talk show with Tony Danza as the host."
"The Tony Danza Show?"
"Must've been. It was amazing. He had the dad from Malcolm in the Middle and Debbie Gibson performed 'Lost in Your Eyes', one of my all time faves."
"You mean Deborah."
"What?"
"Deborah Gibson. She goes by Deborah now."
"Oh, like Rick Schroeder. Well anyway, again, it was amazing. There was no pretense, just Danza being Danza, and who doesn't like Tony Danza?"
"Apparently a lot of people, because the show's been canceled."
"No it hasn't, I just watched it."
"Those are reruns they're playing until the fall season starts. He's done baby."
"Wow, that's crazy."
I shook my head and took a sip off my Bloody Mary. It's a sad day in the country I love when a national icon can't garner enough ratings to keep a daytime talk show on the air. I lifted my glass. Here's to you Tony Danza, you're one of the good ones.
"I just saw the greatest show ever."
"Oh?"
"Yeah, it was a talk show with Tony Danza as the host."
"The Tony Danza Show?"
"Must've been. It was amazing. He had the dad from Malcolm in the Middle and Debbie Gibson performed 'Lost in Your Eyes', one of my all time faves."
"You mean Deborah."
"What?"
"Deborah Gibson. She goes by Deborah now."
"Oh, like Rick Schroeder. Well anyway, again, it was amazing. There was no pretense, just Danza being Danza, and who doesn't like Tony Danza?"
"Apparently a lot of people, because the show's been canceled."
"No it hasn't, I just watched it."
"Those are reruns they're playing until the fall season starts. He's done baby."
"Wow, that's crazy."
I shook my head and took a sip off my Bloody Mary. It's a sad day in the country I love when a national icon can't garner enough ratings to keep a daytime talk show on the air. I lifted my glass. Here's to you Tony Danza, you're one of the good ones.
Mads: Save Our Frat
I had nothing better to do one afternoon, so I thought I might attend one of my courses. My TA seemed very surprised to see me. So did the students. My lecture consisted of the story of my friend from Boston and me being stranded on an uninhabited island in the South Pacific, and how a special species of bird's appearance on the island with us told me that an inhabited island was not too far away, and my friend and I built a raft and made it in time for a huge pig roasting ceremony. The class loved it. Afterwards one of the students approached me:
"Um, hi, Professor Olafssen?"
"Please, call me Mads. What can I do for you son?"
"I'm a member of the fraternity Pi Episilon Omicron Sigma, and we're in danger of losing our charter. We thought maybe a faculty member with your stature would help in keeping us on campus."
"Do you guys party?"
"Um... I guess..."
"Not good enough. I need a 7 day a week party guarantee."
"Sir?"
"Let me take a look at your place."
He took me over there, and the place had potential. Two-stories; three bathrooms, two of which were meant for multiple occupants; dance floor in the basement. This would work.
"Here's the deal guys, your place is not suited for living in. I need you to take the guys to a motel in town. I'll cover the expense, but this place needs to be renovated."
"Sir?"
"Come on now, this place should be condemned. Do you want my help or not?"
"No, no. We'll do it. Who's gonna renovate it?"
"Don't you worry."
I called my friend Ukranian Hank and he got together a group of investors. It took us two solid weeks of three shifts of work to fix the place up, but it turned out well. Within a week of opening, my new club, Oslo Nights, was the most popular spot in Norman. The boys tried to sue to get their house back, but the contract their president signed was pretty explicit. Maybe he should've read it. Besides, we did make an addition of dorm style housing at the back of the house for them if they wanted to move back in.
"Um, hi, Professor Olafssen?"
"Please, call me Mads. What can I do for you son?"
"I'm a member of the fraternity Pi Episilon Omicron Sigma, and we're in danger of losing our charter. We thought maybe a faculty member with your stature would help in keeping us on campus."
"Do you guys party?"
"Um... I guess..."
"Not good enough. I need a 7 day a week party guarantee."
"Sir?"
"Let me take a look at your place."
He took me over there, and the place had potential. Two-stories; three bathrooms, two of which were meant for multiple occupants; dance floor in the basement. This would work.
"Here's the deal guys, your place is not suited for living in. I need you to take the guys to a motel in town. I'll cover the expense, but this place needs to be renovated."
"Sir?"
"Come on now, this place should be condemned. Do you want my help or not?"
"No, no. We'll do it. Who's gonna renovate it?"
"Don't you worry."
I called my friend Ukranian Hank and he got together a group of investors. It took us two solid weeks of three shifts of work to fix the place up, but it turned out well. Within a week of opening, my new club, Oslo Nights, was the most popular spot in Norman. The boys tried to sue to get their house back, but the contract their president signed was pretty explicit. Maybe he should've read it. Besides, we did make an addition of dorm style housing at the back of the house for them if they wanted to move back in.
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