Norwegian Thanksgiving

I was in the mood for a nontraditional Thanksgiving this year, and Mads, my Norwegian companion, had just the thing. In Norway, Thanksgiving is very different from ours. With no genocide of First Nation people to celebrate, they're forced to focus on the consumerism side to the holiday. This is done by replacing the turkey with fois gras. I can get with that.

We didn't have many people over, just Gwen after she was done with her parents, Sir Ian McKellen, and Dracula from next door. I put on a nice adult contempo mix CD, and served some Cakebread chardonnay, which went well with Mads' seared fois.

I made the observation that last Thanksgiving was spent sans my Norwegian companion, and a single tear welled up in my eye. I had much to be thankful for. Then Sir Ian McKellen farted, and we all laughed.

An Open Letter to Justin Bobby

I took some time off a while back, in order to rediscover who I am. I was confused, to say the least.

I had been watching a lot of The Hills, and I found my self totally befuddled by the concept of Audrina's not-so-erstwhile boyfriend, Justin Bobby. In my mind, there was just no way possible for this guy to exist outside the bounds of the show. I asked my personal biographer Matty if he thought MTV invented him.

"I can't imagine. As a writer myself, I could see inventing a Spencer, or even an Audrina; but a Justin Bobby... that would take an immense talent, one whose special skills would be wasted in developing a persona for a reality show."

I wasn't as easily convinced, or at the very least, I needed to see this thing myself, outside the filter of the TV camera. I flew out to LA, in hopes of seeing a Justin Bobby in the wild.

A local source familiar with the situation (Sir Ian McKellen) told me where Mr. Justin Bobby hangs out. I found out that Justin Bobby not only exists, but the MTV portrayal of him was spot on, or perhaps they went a little easy on him. He had the same voice, hair, and attitude. I was flabbergasted.

I took some time and sat on Venice Beach, watching the waves. If an individual like a Justin Bobby actually existed, the next logical question had to be: do I? Everything that I thought was true and right had been tossed out the window. I felt like going back to him. I had more questions now: how did you become so ridiculous? do you know you're that ridiculous? are there more like you? what do your parents think?

It was like a bad acid trip. In my 37 years on the planet I had never experienced anything like it. I had no proof anymore that I was real. I felt it was time to end the madness, and I drank a fifth of Don Julio and walked towards the surf, ready to let it take me into that long goodnight.

I woke up the next day with a face full of sand. Some kids had been covering me on the beach, and their mom found me, thinking I was dead. I spit some of the sand out, and thanked them for their generosity. Without showering, I packed my things and boarded a plane back to Boston.

Magic Lock up the Eastern Conference Before Season Starts

Despite the major moves by the Celtics and Heat bringing in Kevin Garnett and Penny Hardaway respectively, it looks like the Magic are making a big push to solidify their position as the East's best with their signing today of former Colgate standout Adonal Foyle.

In lieu of getting a chance to talk to Bill Walton, I had Mads, my Norwegian companion, who does a killer Walton impersonation, discuss the impact this will have on the East.

"Adonal Foyle is the best big man since Hakeem. Other than maybe Shaq or Mark Blount, no one can touch Foyle's post presence. I don't see how any team in the Eastern Conference can stop the Magic's dominance."

Sir Ian McKellen was wholly unimpressed.

"Why must you guys always pick on my man Mark Blount?"

"Mark Blount is the greatest force the basketball court has ever seen. He's the greatest center since Tony Battie."

The Hills is Back

I hadn't been keeping up with what was on MTV too much lately. I've really only been rockin' with Making the Band 4. That's why I was shocked when I got a phone call from Sir Ian McKellen a little after ten pm the other night.

"Where the fuck are you?"

"I don't know, where the fuck're you?"

Luckily they re-aired The Hills season opener a couple hours later. It looked like we were in for a good season.

"Who was that dork our Audrina was hooking up with?" Mads, my Norwegain companion said. "Look at his hair and that hat. He looks like a clown."

"He looks like a clown," I said. "Because he's barely 21 years old. You're a thirtysomething man watching them on TV. What's your excuse?"

"Hey," Sir Ian said. "I take offense to that. The Hills might be the best show on American television since Seinfeld."

I couldn't argue with him there. I asked Matty what he thought a couple days later.

"I'm too emotionally bereft to think today. One of the Bush Twins is off the market."

"As far as you were concerned, she was never on the market."

"At least I've still got a crack at Condy."

Mads' Mom's Cooking

I didn't know Mads, my Norwegian companion, had a mom. I thought he was asexually spored. But there she was, in our apartment. She wasn't very mom-like: she hated kids with a passion, only watched Baseball Tonight (she was a huge Pittsburgh Pirates fan, go figure), and she made excessive off-track bets on horse races.

The last night she was in town, she offered to cook for us, as a repayment for her stay in our place. Mads insisted she didn't, but I thought he was just being nice, so I said I'd be delighted to have her cook. Mads wasn't just being nice.

I thought things were weird when she brought in tons of apples. Why would anyone do that? Mads rolled his eyes, but I thought it was just some Norwegian traditional recipe. I was wrong again.

She put all of our dishes in hollowed out apples: the fried calamari, the pan seared salmon, the braised lamb chops in Barolo wine sauce. I was shocked. I'd never seen anything so ludicrous in my life. Sir Ian McKellen called to tell me he was coming over and did I want him to bring anything. I told him supper.

Two Bills: We Made It

This is it, baby, the 200th blog (mine, anyway). Everyone was at my apartment for the celebration: Sir Ian McKellen, underground casino owner Martinson Agunga Agunga, night club owner Ukrainian Hank, Gwen the Cappie, Matty the Mainer and his son Goodtimes, Patrick Stewart, and former Red Sox second baseman Marty Barrett, just to name eight. The party was planned by Martha Stewart, and catered by chef Ming Tsai. It was a regular happening.

It all really came together when Mads showed up. It felt like old times to have my Norwegian companion back with me. I had him on my team in a game of Beruit against Matty the Mainer and Santino from Project Runway. We killed them, and considering I hadn't won a game since Mads left, the whole thing just seemed right. (Matty will tell you we won so easily because he had to hold Goodtimes, and Santino wasn't very good.)

As the party wound down, Mads and I went out on my terrace and shared a cigarette.

"I'm thinking of moving back here," he said.

"You know your room's just as you left it."

"All right then."

We gave each other a firm, manly hug. Then we heard:

"I thought you'd never ask."

It was Patrick Stewart. Sir Ian McKellen had suggested they blow this pop stand (my party) and go grab a drink at his hotel. I never thought I'd hear one of my events referred to as a "pop stand", but I guess if anyone would do it, it would be him.

Our Trip to New York

Boston is great, but sometimes we need a break, so me, Gwen, Sir Ian McKellen, Hubert Humphrey, and Matty the Mainer made a trip down to the Big Apple. We decided to take in an amateur night at a comedy shack.

The comedian was horrible, and no one was really enjoying it, except for a few pity laughs. At the end of the set, he made a joke about his kid taking a dump on the floor, and his response to it.

"What... should we rub his nose in it?"

You could almost hear the crickets, until Ian Mckellen stood up. Oh shit, I thought, here it comes:

"Why doesn't someone rub your nose in this set so you don't do it again? You suck."

The comedian tried to respond, but was drowned out by the cheers and laughter. Luckily for us, no one recognized him as Magneto from X-Men, or we'd've heard about it in the tabloids.

AC Milan

Many of you know that Man Utd. played AC Milan yesterday for a chance to go to the Champions League final. Man Utd. was one goal up on aggregate, so they just needed to score one and play defense, and they were in pretty good shape.

Of course, I knew better. Utd. never plays well against Milan in Italy. Also, Patrice Evra was out on a yellow card suspension, which severely deteriorated their defense. I took as many bets as I could at 3-to-1 odds, and cleaned the hell up. Milan won 3-0, 5-3 on aggregate.

The best bet was the one I made with Sir Ian McKellen. This one wasn't for money. Instead, he had to walk around Harvard Square in a bunny suit. In perhaps the greatest irony, no one recognized him, assumed he was a street performer, and he made $22.37 in tips. Not a bad deal if you ask me.

Now I gotta think about the final...

Pepe Was Not a Nice Boy

Sir Ian McKellen and I were playing 2006 FIFA World Cup on PS2, when he got a text message.

"Wow, I'm needed in Honduras," he said.

"Honduras? What's down there?" I had just scored with Didier Drogba, so I put the controller down and looked at him.

"I own a beach house. They're really cheap in Honduras, you know? Anyway, apparently there was a big police raid at my place."

We hopped a charter flight to Honduras without even packing. When we got there, it wasn't a pretty sight.

"Are you Sir Ian McKellen?" The head of the Honduran federal police department asked. He was a stout man with a thin moustache.

"Si, I am."

"When was the last time you were down here?"

"Wow, 2004, I think. Things have been hectic lately. I let Pepe live there when I'm not around."

"What do you know about Pepe?"

"He seems like a nice boy."

In fact, Pepe was not a nice boy. He ran an illegal drug operation, acting as a middle man for coke going from Columbia to Mexico. For fun, he raised pit bulls for a dog fighting ring, which also took place at the house. Mr. McKellen immediately contacted his lawyer. I asked the police chief where I could go to see some jaguars in the wild. I love jaguars.

Why Budweiser Commercials Are so Dumb

A classified document from Budweiser world headquarters surfaced today, and it sheds some light on their really bad commercials. According to the files, the sampling process for their focus groups was skewed, which caused them to pick more men with sub-three digit IQs.

For anyone who's seen any commercials targeted toward men during any sporting event, the message is very clear: men are dumb. The advertising executive with his bushy goatee and blue or pink button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up has a very low opinion of the men who watch sports but yet do not invest money in big brokerage firms. Now we know why.

I was telling Sir Ian McKellen this a few days ago when we were watching the Sox and Yanks on ESPN. He kind of ignored me while I was talking. Then the Bud Light commercial came on where these two meatheads play rock/paper/scissors for a beer, and one of the guys throws a real rock, which knocks the other one down. I shook my head and turned to Sir Ian, and he was laughing.

"I'm going to remember how funny that commercial was when I'm at a bar again, and I'll buy a Bud Light."

"Why don't you go make another X-Men movie?"

"Why don't you make me?"

Dice-K's 21 Strikeouts

I was sitting in my livingroom, eating some fresh, pan-seared scallops a guy a knew who worked on a boat smuggled for me that day, when Sir Ian McKellen burst into my apartment.

"You'll never believe the dream I had last night."

"Try me. We'll see what I will believe and what I won't."

"I had this dream that I was hanging out with some people, watching SportsCenter. They were reporting on Dice-K striking out 21 batters, which is some kind of a record, right?"

"Okay...?"

"Yeah, then Lauren from The Hills called me over. I was sitting on the floor and she wanted me to cuddle with her on the couch. When I got over to her, she licked my face. Can you believe it? What does it all mean?"

"I must say, my man, being the limey that you are, I'm rather impressed that you know the Major League record for strikeouts in a game is 20. I'd say the dream can mean only one thing."

"No, you can't be saying..."

"Yep: Road Trip!"

We rented a red convertible and drove down to Des Moines, Iowa.

I Was Stuck in a Dateline Set-up

A friend of mine living in Duxbury owed me 15 Gs after Liverpool beat Barcelona two weeks ago. He finally told me to stop by his house to get the money. He gave the directions, and told me what time he'd be home. It sounded good to me.

The first thing that seemed off was the young girl that answered the door. I asked her if I had the right house; that I was looking for Dave.

"Dave? Aren't you [some random Internet screen name]?"

"No, not at all. I'm here for my 15Gs."

I put a hand up to Sir Ian McKellen, who had driven me there, and was sitting in the car with it running. He gestured for me to come over to him. I shrugged my shoulders. He got out.

"There's cops staking out the house, man. I think we should get out of here."

The cops got nervous, and jumped out of their hiding places. They yelled for me to get down on the ground. I put two and two together. They thought I was there to have sex with the girl. I was on Dateline. It took a far amount of work, but once the Perverted Justice people were able to confirm that I didn't look like the guy they were expecting, and there was no obscene chat that corresponded to me, they let me go. There was also the threat of me and Sir Ian suing them, which convinced them not to use any of the footage of my visit.

Dave had skipped town. A friend of his at the local police station told him of the Dateline sting, and he thought it would be funny to set me up, so he established a chat with one of the decoys, made an appointment to meet her, and then sent me over. I found out from someone else that he was over in Chicago, so I put in a call to the Mayor, who I knew would take care of him for me. Awful jackass.

My Weekend at the Oscars

I had expected to spend the weekend at the Oscars, but there was a slight change in plans. Sir Ian McKellen and I decided to catch the C's game Friday when they played the Lakers. We were fortunate enough to be sitting right behind Jack. Mr. McKellen was fortunate enough to notice that as Jack bent over to pick up whatever was at his feet, his underwear was showing. In actuality, it wasn't, because Jack was wearing a blazer that covered his ass, but I'll let Ian tell the story as he saw it.

So anyway, he saw the exposed drawers (or rather, pulled up the back of the coat), and gave Jack a massive wedgie, practically lifting him off the ground. I didn't know what to do, so I stood up and yelled:

"That one was for you, Tommy! Go Green!"

We were asked to leave. Ian and I still went to the Oscars, but when he saw Jack again, all bets were off.

"That's right fucker," Mr. McKellen said. "You can't handle the truth: I shoved your drawers so far up your crack that you're still picking them out."

The security there tried to separate them, but Ian grabbed my mace out of my back pocket, and sprayed wildly, even hitting me with some. As I tried to clear my eyes, I felt his hand take mine and pull me away. We didn't stop running until we'd made it to a nearby McDonald's. I ordered us some food, and we sat in a booth.

"That was beautiful," he said. "Later, we'll go egg the apartment complex where those girls from The Hills live at."

Did You Know ER was Still on TV?

I had some people over, and we were drinking copious amounts of alcohol, when Sir Ian McKellen looked over to me, and in a drunken stupor, said:

"We need to clean stuff up, before we get in trouble."

"You're right, DJ, we better get everyone out of here before Uncle Jesse gets home."

We laughed.

"I love watching him on ER ," Will I Am, from the Black Eyed Peas said.

"Uncle Jesse?"

"Well, the guy who plays him. He's on ER now."

"First, who invited you here? I don't hang out with advertising executives. Second, why is ER still on the air? It was already stale after the fourth season. And finally, who the fuck, who the fuck, who the fuck got the dope."

"I'm not an advertising executive, I'm Will I Am..."

"I know who you are, and you make jingles for TV ads."

He wanted to respond, but instead jumped up and down in agony, clutching his right leg. Ian had given him a hot foot. It felt good.