Yuletide Randomness

You saw mommy kissing Santa Claus? Kind of makes the milk and cookies you left seem naively passé, doesn't it?

I'm dreaming of a chromatically challenged Christmas.

Blonds don't really have more fun, they just forget their misery quicker.

A life lesson from McDonalds: You get your toy only after all your nuggets are gone.

Yo-yos were invented by the ancient Chinese, and originally meant to be weapons. With this in mind, I'd love to see Tommy Smothers just frickin' lose it one day and nail some smartass 14 year-old with a Duncan Butterfly, a big bright red one.

Sure, shop local this holiday to support your town's economy, even though you plan to return everything on the 26th.

With fuel costs what they are now, some parents are encouraging their kids to misbehave – a lump of coal is a lump of coal!

I've been given half a peace sign by several motorists this holiday season, so at least people are trying. Huh? What am I missing??

Novembre Randomnois

If you haven't been to the bathroom since yesterday, you're full of shit.

Don't wait for spontaneity, be impulsive!

I fantasized about sex with Penelope Cruz... until I met her. I also used to think that the Dan Aykroyd skit in which he plays Julia Child, and accidentally opens a vein with a paring knife, was hilarious... until I actually met Julia Child. Then I thought the skit was just mean.

I don't want to be in charge, but I will defy anyone who assumes they are.

I enjoy seeing two women I've fantasized about standing in a hallway together talking. I'll leave it at that.

The ultimate answer to any question: "It's because people are idiots."

Paula Abdul is the new spin on Dino; the celebrity drunk... only Dino was pretending.

Half of life is trying to keep it from falling apart.

I've alternated between the same two pair of socks for the past week... and so far I'm okay.

How can a movie's dialogue be clever when nobody in real life talks that way?

Hammer as loud as you need to, but get whatever it is you're building built already!

All Worded Up

I can read readin' and I can read writin' but I can't read writin' that's written rather rotten.
– Burt Sugar

I had a cousin who was an avid science fiction buff, back in that mythical time before George Lucas gifted us with the "Star Wars" culture, and true sci-fi addicts found their main fix not at the movies, but in the nebulous universe of trade paperbacks.

His pulp library covered a whole wall in his home – a fortress barricade of those 4"x6" tomes – Asimov and Clarke and Pohl, and hundreds of lesser-known authors of that past era. You find them now in used book stores. Open one and glide your fingers across the coarse, woody surface of those yellowing pages, turning to dust in the 21st century sunlight. Their time will not pass again.

The feeling from that wall of dog-earred volumes, was that a considerable chunk of someone's life had been spent reading. That Richard Matheson wasn't just pecking away on that soon-obsolete typewriter just to see his own words in a stylish font – much like thousands of bloggers (guilty as charged) do in this cyber-age of ours.

When I stroll through Borders – the French brothel of major bookstore chains – the paperbacks just don't give me any "feeling." The air I find in modern booksellers, is that the product gives off a foreboding pheromone.

When I browse through a book anymore, I sense that writers don't write for readers – they write to placate themselves, to secure some kind of symbolic ownership of a topic – to establish a documented expertise, that they can claim later on for a speaking fee.

Yeah, maybe I'd do it too, but not always.

A time ago I was approached by an aspiring author, to create illustrations for his still unpublished book. His idea was that my illustrations would help the book "turn the corner" in the hunt for a publishing deal. I wondered, and I think I actually asked him politely, that if the text was lacking, how would drawings based on those inadequate words improve them?

The more I over-analyzed it, the more it seemed like a whirling dervish of negativity. The guy was basically, indirectly, admitting his work is substandard, in the assumtion that the readers to whom he intends to peddle his underbaked drivel are gullible simps who'll never question its alleged integrity – if it's illustrated. He's hoping they'll see the pretty pictures, and think they've actually read something. In short, he didn't write a book to be read – he wrote a book to be bought.

He wasn't after a reputation as an author, good or bad. He wanted his fifteen minutes of fame on the talkshow circuit. And of course, lots and lots of money – enough to keep him from having to get a real job, until his next bigass idea for another ripoff.

Must be nice work if you can get it.

Unfortunately today's bookstores are ripe with these "authors" who aren't necessarily sating any cosmic urge to write and be read, but who've wrangled a book deal in a quest to finance a third home and a bigger SUV.

And in that bald pursuit of wealth, they're perfectly willing to undermine your perceptions (much like certain politicians I could name), and even empty the pockets of certain readers with disturbed, under-researched content. "The Secret," anyone?

As for the fans of this pabulum, the same people who gobble up these lukewarm distillations would probably be outraged if they discovered their cigs and lattés were somehow as deluded. "The Shack" ought to have a half-moon carved in the door – what you'll find inside amounts to as much.

Maybe it's always been that way, and I am vainly clutching the naiveté of my youth out of spite.

Sure, I think Writers have the right to make a living from their words, if their words are worthy of that reward.

But like the legal definition of abuse, judgment hinges on effect, not intent. That's why a hardbound book called "Bad Things" with only 50 pages, and a single incomplete sentence – in large type – per page (#5. Head lice.), can ask a $20 cover price, and make a million dollars for some non-writer.

The talent is in coddling network connections, rather than words on a page. I often refer to these books as "the big junkpile."

Also appropriate is my word, "copromage." The worship of shit.

That same author who wanted his book illustrated, posed a little question to me, to shore up his intellectual veneer: "You know the difference between a writer and an author," he asked?

A Writer writes for someone else who selects the topic and takes the credit – an Author works for himself, and writes about topics of his own choosing. Okay...

I had a comeback for him: A writer gets paid, usually because he's proven he writes well – while anyone with a pen or a keyboard can call themselves an author, whether they make a dime or not. (And "blogging" didn't even exist yet. O, what an asshole was I!)

That didn't improve my chances of getting hired by this guy, but by the time he began power-quoting himself, my mind was made up that I didn't want his partnership anyway. I went on being an arrogant prick with empty pockets. He probably got a book deal somewhere, and bought a Lexus. I don't remember his name anymore.

But it isn't only books and writers that have changed. Readers have changed too. I marvel at the new age of endless digital text, and those who sit in coffeeshops and stare at column-less waves of words on computer screens. It's a trancelike intensity that I admit I just don't get. I wonder how their inner circuitry processes all that data – if indeed they are "processing" anything. Gen-Wikipedia has added wider access and a deeper saturation point to our information age, but not necessarily improved accuracy.

And books themselves have strayed away from readability, in favor of attractive packaging and faux-prestige.

When I was in school, nearly everything eventually went to paperback – usually had 100+ pages, that cost 50¢ or 75¢... $1.50 by my senior year. Even a nerdy kid like me could acquire a personal library. Mine was never a fortress wall, but rather a box in the closet. And a paperback meant that you could read it in bed without it breaking your nose if you dozed off.

Even comic books operated on a higher literary plane during my kidhood. At least I recall it that way. My mother's constant reprimands against ruining my mind with "that garbage," was countered by my grandmother's tempered, "at least he's reading!"

Green Lantern may have been a poorly developed fantasy character with an overly dramatic costume and laughable motivation, but he spoke in complete sentences.

You could learn to read with comics, back in the day. It was natural to graduate from comics to more substantial reading, like novels – because it eventually dawned on us that comics were using up space with pictures, that could just as easily be occupied by MORE story! I say this, even though that very same artwork inspired my own desire to draw and illustrate – as much as the "all-word" books I graduated to gave me the desire to write.

Today's comics are previews for a video game – or toy – or movie – or, you name it. They don't inspire, they sell. "Tie-ins" the industry calls them.

They have adopted the "manga" philosophy, which I interpret as feeding the eyes candy, while letting the brain starve. The style favors simplified yet preponderant illustrations, and as few words as possible. Some are barely strings of spelled-out grunts.

This is basically a high-tech retreat to the age of cave drawings. And usually these books feature characters who have no basis in reality, other than having two arms and two legs – most times.

What a potent poison for a young mind in the formative stages. To matter in life, one must possess:
1. The visual appeal of the limpid-eyed nymph who lip-synced the opening song at the Beijing Olympics.
2. A martial-arts prowess somewhere at or above a Bruce Lee.
3. A badass wardrobe and a punk mane that holds it shape even in battle.
4. Futuristic toylike-but-lethal weaponry.
5. Most importantly, an indwelling mystical demon (don't leave the house without one) that grants you diety-like powers, in case items 1 thru 4 aren't enough to insure you a nice day.

Aren't there counseling groups for kids battling these very dysfunctional, narcissistic conceptions of reality? I mean the reality that kicks in, ready or not, when you wake up – not the reality that depends on a game control and a wild thumb technique.

Yeah, I read my share of Superman, Batman, Spiderman, Mad, Cracked, Creepy, et al., but just one ugly leap off the top of a playground slide, with a sheet around my neck, was enough to clue me in that the Man of Steel was just entertainment. The Fantastic Four never sent me into epileptic seizures.

Oh yeah, when I was a kid, comic books were 12¢ or 15¢. Ones with 100 pages, reprinting issues I may have missed, were a whopping 50¢.

Today in most bookstores, I need a $20 bill for a 70-page shelf-hog that will never be in paperback, can be read in 10 minutes thanks to 24-point size text, and claims to be the answer to life, the universe and everything. And I know it must be good because so many movers and shakers have endorsed it – 20 of those 70 pages are taken up by excerpts of their glowing reviews. This is reading?

No, it's bookselling, and that's... the secret.

Oktobre Randomfest

The first thing that comes to mind is its lack of content.

I wish I had a good idea for every spare pen I have laying around.

Anyone who quotes lines from "Star Trek" in a serious conversation, isn't worth spending much time talking to.

Few things are more pathetic than a group of activists who can't even find the people that they are supposedly protesting against.

I want to see an action figure called "Captain Apathy."

The Pony Express failed because it took a whole week to wait for mail, and then you couldn't buy stamps from a horse.

How to prevent being abducted by aliens: Just before you drift to sleep, concentrate on a mental picture of Jesus eating raw hamburger. The aliens will be too frightened to read your mind any further, and leave you alone.

Why do drunks always get home exactly as I get to bed?

Order another beer, idiot, she isn't pissed enough!

I wish I could decide what to throw out, and what to put away and never use again.

What do you call the fear of not knowing what something is called?

Yep, September Randomness

Another great 2-book set:
Looking For Mr. Goodbar
Goodbye, Mr. Chips

The "Secret" is how they can keep repackaging the same old shit and know you'll keep buying it. The producers of Three Stooges DVDs use a similar philosophy.

Finland has not participated in a war in decades now. What the hell's their problem?

The dinosaurs took care of the planet.
For way longer than we've even been on it... and it still got rid of them.

A bag of Nacho Cheese Doritos before bed will produce the same effect as some bad acid before bed.

Why do the neighbors insist on slamming doors? To convince them to stay closed?

When Hitler was dead, the war in Europe was over. When Saddam Hussein was dead, 20,000 more troops were sent in. What aren't we being told?

If you travel back in time and shoot your grandfather, you do not suddenly cease to exist. But your hair changes color. Your height possibly changes, and if you're lucky, the length of your shlong gets a sudden boost.

Sometimes I wonder, maybe it is worth it to go into politics, for all that money I wouldn't have to work for.

If sex were as good as root beer, would it be foamy?

All In My Head

I'm thinking of a radio advertisement. I heard it years ago, many years ago – we're talking 1973 or so. I don't remember what the ad was for, just the repeated catch-phrase that echoed eerily through a night-shrouded country bedroom, with dogs ruh-ruh-ruffing somewhere off in the distance, and crickets chirping just beyond the open window. "Did they die for us?"

Who? Did who die? I'm trying to remember it. It was spoken by a group of children – a chorus of nine- and ten-year olds. "Did they die for us?" Then a somber baritone announcer mumbled something no doubt poignant and sobering. Followed by the children asking once more, "did they die for us?"

That's all I have. No clues that will suddenly uncloak the answer the longer I ponder. Just the interesting notion of who "they" might be. The ones that apparently died. And made a group of children curious as to whom "they" kicked off for.

Was it about veterans? When I think sometimes of a radio murmuring in the dark somewhere next to my bed, I remember one particular veteran: my dad. There's no face connected to this particular memory of him – just the blackness of a dark bedroom, pierced by a tiny, glowing orange point of light. A cigarette flaring. Intensifying to a neon yellow ever briefly, then simmering down to a flicker of amber. A falling star in an empty night. He smoked in bed. Never fell asleep mid-cig. He was either very careful or extremely lucky.

Was it rabbits that died? The bunnies who bought the farm, so that the mothers of this group of kids could find out whether a nose-picking little radio actor was on the way? Those were the 70s, afterall. There were no little gray "+" signs that turned blue. No ultrasound photographs. The "rabbit test" involved the death of Bugs, so that Mom could find out if your new little brother was in the oven. In that case, kids, yeah – they died for you. The real question is, were you worth it?

Another memory I connect to a puttering little night stand radio is announcer Vin Scully ("Vinnnz Gully" as he himself pronounced it) fading in and out with "so that's the inneen, as thuh Daahhjers take a pawbuball to zekkun" (the Dodgers take a pop-up ball to second) and thah remines me, faahnz, how all other lunchmeats come in zekkun to Fahhmer Jahhnz lunchmeat..."

I could listen to this guy talk all night, about damn near anything. An Ell-Lay raydeeo dude fighting his New Yawka accent like a mailman swatting a pitbull with the Publishers' Clearinghouse sweepstakes.

"An I godda pizzed-off bumble-bee in my trowzers, stingin' my azzzz, fanz, an boy duz it hurrrrt. Which remines me how all the other weener brands STING YOU IN THE AZZ at the subermarket cheggout lines. Unlike the deee-lishuss, wallet-friendly priced weenerz frum Fahhmer Jahhhn..."

I'd get up at 1:30 in the morning for a sandwich, to get that mean Fahhmer Jahhn bologna monkey off my back. Yes, I was a fat kid, until the few stations whose signals reached over the mountains to our house stopped carrying Dodger games – or at least just broadcast day games, when I was at school.

I'll never forget Scully translate the drama of a sudden homerun, to an audience that couldn't actually see the action. "Heeerrre's the pitch... An it's wayback... waaaayyback... and kiss it g'bye!!" I can hear it in my head, as clear as any 50,000 watt signal drifting north over the hills on a night sky crowded with thunderheads.

Scully announced Dodger games on the radio almost since Marconi invented the damn thing. I think Al Michaels first got work simply because his voice was a sound-alike to Scully's. Since the Dodgers themselves couldn't draw much of a radio audience by actually winning a game on a regular basis, they must have figured they'd better stick to SOMETHING that worked. Screw the game.

I just remembered that the foreboding "Did they die for us" commercial happened during a Dodger game broadcast. Maybe it referred to the Dodgers themselves. Or maybe just the ratings of their radio games.

Dodgers don't really die. They pop up to second.

Peevish Pastiche

I've had enough long-winded belly-ache about politics and all the crap served up hot on a paper plate by the media. They don't even spice it up anymore. Now the crap is sugar-free. Now it's bland and bereft of all zing and zeal. Sure, it's the same crap – but now they don't even attempt to make it look or taste like something else. Cynical turds.

Piss on our heads and shout that it's Free Lemonade Day.

How can I impress you with my rapier wit and wordplay wizardry when they bombard us with so much CRAP demanding comment!! Shitmeisters!!

Have you seen Madonna's latest concert snaps featuring those tendony forearms and sinewy inner thighs? That's what retirement home nurses see every day at sponge bath time. I'm turned on. Seriously. When you get to be my age, things that were repellant in my twenties suddenly totally DO IT for me.

I say, as long as you can hold that Schick steady enough for even crotch-frame symmetry, flaunt it, Madge! Play the Strat more often too!

I'm glad that one of my personal heroes, Jerry Lewis, doesn't look like an oompa-loompavitch anymore. He may be 82 now, but he looks like "Jerry" again, and that brings on a feeling of peace. That some things really are eternally correct. See "The Bellboy." That movie explains everything. When you walk through a storm...

Another Jerry – Reed – died. The slickest cracker in the box. A better guitargod, and a better actor, than a lot of folks gave credit for. And we're now "In a world" without Don LaFontaine. Sucks.

See this shit? There's TWO MORE 20th century icons that future dumbed-down generations of entertainment addicts will, ironically, not have frickin' clue one about. And when some old fart – like yours truly – attempts to explain to them what they missed simply by being born too damn late, they won't spend two seconds listening. They'll turn up the volume on their iUnipodphoneberry and lurch away. Fawk.

I see Karl Rove is back in the country, and still being given national airtime to spew his corrosive demon bile. Isn't he a fugitive? Shouldn't someone have met him at the border with handcuffs?? Wow, here's a guy doing Osama bin Laden one better – living right out in the open and still not being hauled in.

The Hadron Super Collider is due to be switched on in a week. There are some scientific types being spun into the wacko column, who think it worth talking about, that this huge "unknown" might shove us into a dangerous new territory that there will be no backing away from.

The most extreme nightmare scenario: it conjures up a mini black hole – on earth – that does exactly what the big black holes in space do, that is, devour light and matter. That would pretty much be the bad hair day from hay-ell, bee-otch. Incredible to watch. Impossible to run from.

Suggestion: Give Rove an up-close-n-personal tour of the contraption, timed just as the toggle is flipped.

The most far-out & groovy possibility: it creates a method of time-travel. Sign me up. I'll even join a gym and start eating right to qualify!

When the atom bomb was first invented, there were well-educated folks who predicted it would trigger some kind of doomsday chain-reaction into motion. Hasn't it?

Who knew I'd give myself a shit-fit being more green. I put all my empty bottles in a plastic garbage bag in the kitchen – once a week I can make a single trip to the recycling area with my big bag-o'-bottles. One problem: the bag eventually gets too big, and I get too lazy to haul it downstairs. Those bottles aren't exactly designed to stack well. And they make the darnedest whack-a-pow on a formica floor. You know what the favorite time is for a pile of plastic bottles to shift and tumble? Strange question, sure – but with a definite answer.

Two-fricking-fifteen in the a.m. Twocka-bucka-kapow-poppa-bang-doo-dup-dup. I'm in bed, tryin' to get my nightly 'old guy with work in the morning' snooze, and suddenly I'm jolted awake by what sounds like a midget wearing clogs who's decided to jump out of hiding and trash the kitchen.

I was cleaning my fridge one night (gawd I'm glad those 3-month old apples were in a tied baggie) and there was something big and black, squashed, stuck to the back wall. I jumped. Ow my head. What the shit is THAT!

Whatever it was, it had died horribly. And had been preserved by the cold. Some mysterious dark brown roadkill, had met the Reaper while foraging in the frozen white alternate universe that is the fridge, and was defiantly still holding ground in grim repose.

I wadded up a mighty ball of paper towels, to grab the creature without its icky inner ooze grabbing me back. I reached forth. Crackle. Crunch.

A frozen round of brown wax paper – that had once held a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

I rose, looked at myself in the reflection of the microwave oven window. Slack-jawed, worthless, pouty-lipped, girly-man.

Now I'm listening to a radio ad for one of those psychic hotline scams. "The tarot tells me that this man you've been dating can be stubborn and hard to deal with?" Yes, the woman caller giggles. She asks how the online psychic could tell that? Well, I think, possibly it's because everything he does for you is judged against the advice of some astrological shit-heel with pat answers for every conceivable bird-brain scenario you insist on letting her be a third-party to?

What they see in that crystal ball is your Visa card, putz.

Just letting the thoughts blow through my head like old pillowcases through a dry cleaners. Leaves through an alley. Bologna through a puppy's tummy.

One political note: as I write this, the Republican Convention is in full swing. It's performance art, you know. All these people really care about is hanging onto their earmarks, their perks, their private jets and reserved parking. Cuff links aren't free.

It's bedtime. That means that another workday is about 12 hours away. I wonder what I'll dream about tonight? I hope it's the Swedish women weightlifters team again.

August Randomness

Just about anyone can beat me at chess. I don't play poker enough to know how bad I am.

Does Batman ever eat nachos while working in the batcave on a slow night?

The world's first biologist was the caveman who took a crap, looked down at it, and thought, "what IS that shit that keeps coming out of my ass!!"

That couple in the restaurant with well behaved kids – they deserve a medal. Both them and the kids.

Irony is nearly destroying a suppository getting the foil off, finally getting it inserted, then having a sudden involuntary fart attack.

Don't marry any metropolitan woman who does "Hillbilly Night."

Send me twenty dollars and I'll send you a shiny new penny!

What does it mean exactly, when through the wall, you can hear the landlord crying?

Roger Ebert's movie sucks!

Just because it rhymes doesn't make it a poem.

What ever you do with another consenting adult is yours to feel guilty as hell about the next morning.

Can you listen with the same intensity that you dominate the conversation with?

The Old Rover Boy

Executive privilege is not a license to have fun breaking the law. We are currently plagued, however, by quite a number of governmental types who seem to think that's exactly what it means. Recall one of Richard "Tricky Dick" Nixon's famous quotes: "When the President does it, that means that it is not illegal."

Only Karl is not the President (there is a God). In fact, he's not even a certified member of government anymore. He's a private citizen who somehow still believes in his federal immunity to his own past.

His business card now just says the truth, plain and simple: Karl Rove, Motherfucker.

One of his dreams was a permanently established republican majority in Congress. Sorry, but that not only isn't how a democracy works, it isn't even how a REPUBLIC works.

He still has his ensconced friends, whose skirt tails he predictably runs behind, in these last few months of an administration that he used as a giant personal dildo upon the American public. Only the clock is ticking. Day by day, more of his pals will abandon him in their own mad dash out of the federal whorehouse. It will get difficult to keep washing his hands harder and harder and still smell that lingering trace of butt lube on them.

If 9-11 was indeed a covert government set-up foisted upon its own people to create an excuse to re-invade Iraq, here is a leading candidate for one of its masterminds...

Outing government covert agents – endangering them, their families and other federal agents in doing so – all to keep a lid on the cauldron of lies concerning the Iraq War. A nobler nation would call that high treason.

Tampering with the Department of Justice to promote party agendas. That's called malfeasance.

Scapegoating cronies. (Can you say "Scooter?")

High-up monkeying with voter counts in the presidential elections, not just for his boss, but quite probably to insure his own continued power base. Well, alright, Karl isn't the first to do that one.

Firing 9 U.S. Attorneys simply because of their personal politics.

Destroying incriminating e-mail evidence regarding all of the above. That's a felony if you or I do it.

Casting all blame for federal inaction in the wake of Hurricane Katrina upon the local (Democratic) officials whose homes and livelihoods were annihilated along with those of their constituents. That's like the fox blaming the chickens for being in the coop in the first place.

And let us not overlook... flagrantly ignoring a Congressional Subpoena and... skipping the country (!!!). Didn't a few Nazis try that after Germany surrendered?

Everything listed here has already been reported on, exhaustively, by the media. Could anyone scan the previous decade's résumé of this individual and not see an unwavering career of festering deceit and criminality? Yet in each grandly staged photo-op, there he is, unaware that his immense evil is telegraphed to the lens with even the slightest shifty eyed grin. He is polished, speck-free, possibly even "bright." In the way that the sheen on the skins of wet dog turds may be said to be "bright."

He makes Richard Nixon look like Henry David Thoreau.

A hundred years ago, such a person would face a firing squad.

But no – he will likely get away with it. All of it. He's untouchable – at least in his own twisted mind. He's a higher species than you and me – unshackled by mere morals or ethics, he's that uncaught bird, flying away to some branch too high for any predator – legal or otherwise – to reach. But always certain that the chosen perch is suitable from which to freely crap on those below daring enough to look up.

It will be truly amazing to watch. This living embodiment of everything wrong and ugly about the current condition of government, will continue to be coddled, championed and in some cases sainted by a league of tunnel-visioned loyalists – in the halls of politics, the private sector, and even the media – and his fetid, flatulent influence will continue to spread like mold in the forum of public opinion, as he takes his place among the talking heads and pundits. He did get them to write him his own Rap song, remember?

Then he'll write his obligatory tell-all bestseller, in which he will betray every former ally, and smugly claim victimhood. His controversial past in high office will guarantee him a publishing deal – rather than any discernible writing talent. He'll hire some flunky to check commas and semicolons. There's no way to hook a book to a lie detector. He'll be assured of a continued life free of all money woes. He'll never have to use a time-clock. He'll never wait in line for lunch. And all us tax-payers, with anuses still hurting from his days of unelected, undeserved privilege, will only be able to stand and watch his limo roll by.

But even then, let us never forget, this is that special brand of fiend, whom acquired a high seat of power and used it for every wrong purpose. This is the guy who took a shit in our plate, and told us it was chili.

No Way To Treat A Lady

All she ever does is stand around, with her back turned. Even on her birthday. She keeps a lid on her emotions, too. No smiles, no tears – even when betrayed. Not so much as a raised eyebrow. Ever. That can't be healthy. She must be ready to burst inside. But no, she's impossible to read, at her face.

Hers should be the first name on every Top Ten Babe List. All we ever seem to do, however, is fantasize about her death. After all she's been through. What kind of sick, demented relationship is that?

Whenever Hollywood has needed to show how bad a catastrophe, an alien invasion, or anything monumentally disastrous really is, they draw upon her image to provide that one shot that says-it-all. No movie about global destruction in any form is complete without a scene depicting her as the ultimate damsel in distress.

The most righteous thunder of indignation came from Charlton Heston, who was the very first to 'find the body' in "Planet of the Apes."

"God damn you all to hell!" That's probably what I would have said, too.

Her specialty is dramatic death scenes. I can't help but wonder if that tablet tucked in the Statue of Liberty's left arm isn't really a big driveway-size SAG card.

Her most recent cameo was in the monster flick "Cloverfield." Why, she's even on the movie poster, post-decapitation. In the film, her indifferent noggin bounces off skyscrapers like in some gigantic pinball game, to finally skid to a street-demolishing halt right in-frame of the kid 'documenting' everything with his handy-cam. The auto-focus zeroes in on her balefully staring eye, which looks eerily like its about to form a tear.

She is continually referred back to at intervals in "Day After Tomorrow" to show us the terrifying progression of a planetary pole shift. First she is drowned by an incoming high tide of Biblical proportions, then later shown shoulder deep in an ocean of ice. She made the poster for that film as well.

By that time, she was already quite the veteran of the New Yorker's view of the Apocalypse. In "Deep Impact" a comet plunges the city under water nearly up to the eyebrows of the Twin Towers – which were still standing when that movie was released – and the only things still standing of the Big Apple when the fictional flood recedes. A mighty suspension of disbelief, that, in our post-9/11 world.

Once again, our Lady's lopped-off head, floating to the bottom of this new inland sea serves to lick the envelope closed on the magnitude of the devastation just witnessed. I may not recall correctly, but did she reprise the scene for the Bruce Willis sci-fi actioner "Armageddon?"

She peeked up from the depths of a post-modern ice age in "A.I."

She parodied herself in the yock-fest, "Strange Brew," where she not only served her standard role as New York's only post-doomsday landmark, but became the Barbie Doll size yardstick by which we measured how huge the atomically radiated McKenzie brothers had mutated.

How many other films have set her up either as victim of worldwide calamity, or at least vigilant in the face of one? A Google search provided a partial list of additional titles:

"Saboteur" (1942)

"Beneath the Planet of the Apes" (1968) Recreating her scene from the original film.

"Escape From New York" (1981)

"Remo Williams: The Adventure Begins" (1985) ... and never goes much further.

"Independence Day" (1996)

"X-Men" (2000)

"Godzilla: Final Wars" (2004) – She is destroyed by Rodan. Sheesh.

I'm sure that's not even half of them.

There must be some rational explanation for this pattern. Psychoanalysts have documented countless cases of harm fantasized about, or actually inflicted, on loved ones, out of some deeply rooted issue that expresses itself as violence. Some serial murderers reportedly have seen their own acts as an ultimate form of possession and control – that they imagined lacking in their above-ground lives.

Well, nobody else can have her, that's for sure. Is it that we'd rather see her toppled by some act of nature, or monster attack, than willingly give her up?

Another well-documented issue is male inadequacy. That lingering dread that we have landed a relationship with someone out of our league, and it's just a matter of time until our beloved realizes what phonies we are. Could our continual replay of Lady Liberty's demise be a grand-scale case of erectile failure, brought on by subconscious sexual intimidation? Our last desperate reflex of self-loathing being to put her in her place with an impulsive bitch-slap?

Lastly, the most obvious inner conflict is simply that loving her is a burden. She stands for so much on our behalf. Symbolizes emotions that cut so deep. And she has never complained, or sagged even slightly, in the face of our shortcomings. Her love is unconditional, and that is the heaviest love of all – that tests our faith in our own ability to love in return, and love fully, equally. She makes us doubt what we can do for her. Can we? Have we? The question hurts just to ask.

She's the ultimate woman. Living with her is hard. But living without her is hell. If only something would lift the load, without leaving any guilt... like a galactic armada, or a huge atomic beast from the sea, or an immense cataclysm of nature... or a...

Unthinkable, yet ours to dream. It seems too typical a post-modern relationship; no matter how all-consuming, it is embroidered with dysfunction.

But of course, we aren't serious. Just funning with ya, sweet thang. Give us a kiss. Mmm-sugar.

July Randomness

What do you do when the stream of consciousness bottlenecks?

Be careful what you wish for. Hillary wanted someone tall, dark and handsome who would "rock her world." Look what happened.

When I was a kid, I never knew any adults who needed things explained to them on a third-grade level. Now as an adult myself, I can't escape them!

That guy who always wears short-sleeved plaid work shirts that won't stay tucked – he didn't go to Harvard.

You never ever hear of an alien abductee shitting their pants. That may be the one clue that proves they're faking. They never say, "then I blew butt-chili all over their spaceship!" If that was me, we'd be talking hot Thai rectal-reflux.

Okay – here's what I wanna know: How the hell did they time the motorcade to pass by the Schoolbook Depository right at Oswald's lunch hour?

I want a network anchorman named Hymie Schlitz. "And now here's the news, with..."

The pervert Marx brother they kept hidden in the cellar, and never let in any of the movies: Spermo.

For the most part, buying Girl Scout cookies is about as close as any of us will ever get to banging that sexy mom keeping an eye on the till.

We all have our faults. Mine runs down the center of California.

Hot Times

All it takes is a simple inconvenience, of sufficient magnitude, to see daylight filtering through the cracks in the armor of the arrogant, elitist pseudo-intellects – when the issue becomes large enough to affect not just the lives of the common folk they hold in contempt, but something personally symbolic to them.

The inconvenience could be anything, like the heat. And the dry grassland. I give you the upcoming Independence Day, 2008 Edition. Not just any July 4th – but the driest, and potentially most dangerous in years. Let me not be misunderstood; as Americans, this day should be "personally symbolic" to all of us. But when it comes to those who see value only in terms of dollar signs, we all risk getting burned.

This past week, Governor Schwarzenegger made an urgent request to the state's populace that smacked of an uncommonly high level of common sense, for a politician. He didn't mandate it – he didn't ram-rod it through the legislature and make it a surprise new law – he ASKED us. For that simple favor, we owe it to him to at least listen.

The combination of the heavy dry season, nearly 1,400 wildfires ravaging the state, and the July 4th holiday bearing down, prompted 'Ah-nold' to appeal to the press, with a plea for us all to refrain from lighting fireworks this year.

A blatantly opportunistic "liberal" swipe at our fundamental patriotic traditions, cried the talking heads! (Our republican 'Governator' accused of liberalism?) Why should Californians bear such sacrifice, they asked? The driest summer of a decade? Fires raging up and down the coast? So what??

One such raging mouth, on a local radio program, argued that the Governor's call was a baseless overreaction. There was "no hard evidence" that fireworks cause fires. Huh? Huhh???

True, nearly all of this year's blazes were the result of lightning strikes – those odd, warm thundershowers that pop up sporadically during dry spells, bring sudden downpours that make everyone think the hot spell is breaking, only to dissolve and reappear elsewhere. The part of California where I live had a few. Yet the fires continue. Each morning breeze smells of a gently burning chimney. It's actually kind of nice until you realize that it is everywhere, and actually some huge expanse of acreage – maybe even someone's livelihood – going up in smoke up or down the coast. The evening sun casts a stunning red aura, filtered by the neighboring county's pyre. Radio reports assure us that the blazes are now partially contained. But still very present.

Contrast the percentage of fires caused by lightning throughout the year to those caused by fireworks that are only a factor one day of the year, and sure, the "evidence" probably looks minimal, if not absent, that fireworks are a threat during a dry season. But think slightly deeper. Lightning is an unpredictable force of nature. Fireworks are an unpredictable force of humanity. We're talking about flame-spewing tubes of cardboard, in countless backyards and suburban lots, intentionally set-up and lit by amateurs, likely snookered, whose judgment is probably not that stellar when they are sober.

Those things can, and do, tip over, becoming randomly aimed firebombs launched into neighboring yards, engulfing whole blocks with smoke. I've personally witnessed a few "innocent" backyard fireworks displays go awry and get scary fast. Picture a neighboring house's foot-high hedge suddenly become the Burning Bush of Moses, and our less-than-sober host trying to stomp it out with his bare foot! That is just one image forever emblazoned on my memory from a July 4th celebration past.

At another such Independence Day bash, Yours Truly was loaded enough to walk through a closed screen door without realizing it. Aren't you glad someone else had the matches?

With a "probable event ratio" of 365 to 1, it stands to reason that a pompous erudite could glance at the statistics and conclude that fireworks have been wrongly condemned.

Don't get me wrong. As a child, I enjoyed picking out badass looking planet-busters at the local fireworks stand, begging my parents to buy them, then wiggling with impatience that evening as they were finally lit in our backyard – to either flare up mightily and layer my nostrils with that hoary belch of intoxicating sulphur... or fizzle like a lost erection in an overpriced motel room with a pissed-off hooker.

I grinned wide, zig-zagging, twirling and figure-eighting sparklers against the dark evening shadows, and poked a finger in each ear, with delight, for that small yet mighty king of all fireworks, Piccolo Pete. Each backyard became a mini Los Alamos, and perhaps we should have sported broad-brimmed hats like little Oppenheimers.

I've just described a slice of Americana that perhaps not every future generation will learn to appreciate.

But recall if you can, the huge San Francisco area wildfire of 1991, which cost millions of dollars in lost homes and acreage, not to mention a few lives – and was caused by a tossed away cigarette. Hundreds of residents lighting up cardboard flamethrowers hotter than a thousand cigarettes should not be taken flippantly in a drought year like this. Brittle grass, usually green, pliable and difficult to smolder during a year of normal humidity, might go up like oily cigars in 2008. Yet still they keep a'bitchin' and keep a'burnin'.

"WE'RE SACRIFICING AN AMERICAN INSTITUTION FOR THE RAVINGS OF SOME ENVIRONMENTAL CHICKEN-LITTLES."

Well, this year... yes. I'd rather not be chased out of my home in my underwear, by police enforcing a mandatory evacuation, because some Budweiser burping moron set himself ablaze joking for his tribe of little bastards, holding a lit Red Devil "Fire Fountain" to his crotch – shouting "Hey looky everyone I got me a flame shootin' prick!" – and toasted the whole flippin' neighborhood down with him. Thank you very much.

And let's not forget that small-in-number but large-in-stupidity contingent of July 4th revelers who smuggle in those celebratory WMDs from across the border. Can you say "fuego grande de la muerte?"

Anyone who has read Jean Shepherd's "The Great American Fourth of July and Other Disasters" knows exactly what I'm talking about. Shepherd was the author and narrator of "A Christmas Story," and if you loved that, then you gotta read his equally hilarious send up of Independence Day, which continues the adventures of Ralphie & Family. It was made into a TV movie in 1982, but I've never seen it on VHS or DVD since. A young Matt Dillon plays Ralph, a bit more grown-up than the role immortalized by Peter Billingsley in "Christmas Story." Find it. Rent it. Buy it. The point is, Ralphie's dad is just as big a nut
about July 4th as he is about the Yule Season, and one of the running jokes in the film was that the blasting sirens always found their way to the Parker residence.

"THE LOCAL CIVIC GROUPS WHO DEPEND ON FIREWORK STANDS AS A SOURCE OF ANNUAL REVENUE ARE PENALIZED UNFAIRLY OVER A KNEE-JERK FEAR!"

You mean those groups that lobby local government to impose new taxes on us non-members the rest of the year? That won't let us walk on the grass... that restrict us from parking along the coastline to sight-see – unless we're their personal buddies? Those same people who would probably sue a local bar for putting potentially dangerous people out on the street at closing time? Cry me a river. And route it into the valley!!

I don't want to ban fireworks. I get the All-American Tradition of Proud & Patriotic Fun thing, just fine. Trust me. But instead of moaning about rights and traditions, can't we just look ahead to next year, and hope the weather doesn't make our entire state a potential cinder box again. C'mon, you're getting the day off anyway. Nobody has asked us to ban the barbeques!

In the meantime, here on the coast, July 4th at sundown, we still have a huge city-produced, state-approved, fireworks display that lights up the sky for miles around, out over the bay, lit by professionals who know to count their fingers both before and after the show. It's visible from countless front lawns, from the city park and the beach – where thousands gather to picnic and enjoy the day. It's crowded, sure, but no end of excitement.

And you can tell the difference between them, and the people who still insist on homemade firework shows. Just listen which direction all the sirens are going.

Humbly I say, three cheers for the Governor.

A World Without George

George Carlin died this past weekend, and it seems almost surreal, like entering an alternate universe. I'm sure even now the web is peppered with tributes and essays about him that will tower over my humble little collection of words in memorial. On his own website, the standard digital tombstone was already in place, even moments after I heard the news. But let me share a few thoughts from my own perspective – someone who dabbles in comedy myself, and who grew up under Carlin's influence.

First, let's get these rolling, in George's honor: Shit. Piss. Fuck. Cunt. Cocksucker. Motherfucker. Tits.

George had a couple of qualities that were possessed by only one other, Richard Pryor. First, he could utter any taboo without the slightest hint of the hatred connected to it. "Rape is funny. Picture Porky Pig raping Elmer Fudd. Why do you think they call him 'Porky,' eh? I know what you're going to say. Elmer was asking for it. Elmer was coming on to Porky. Porky couldn't help himself, he got a hard- on, he got horny..."

Second was his immense magnetism – you hung on his every word, even when he was bombing. His command of the language, the ideas connected to words, and all possible abstracts connected to those ideas, held you spellbound. It was something more than a stand-up act – it was a college lecture given by the hippest professor on earth.

No comedian today possesses those attributes. There is no one left to pass the torch to. Sure, this or that comedian's fan base may protest that their hero is Carlin's successor. I beg to differ. The Whoopis, Ellens, Robins, Eddies, Chris's, Carlos's, etc. Sorry – they're all pale. None of them really get the entire formula that Dr. Carlin administered.

Please don't bring up Mitch Hedberg. I know he's dead too, and let's show a little respect, but I've heard Hedberg, and frankly am still mystified as to what his cult-like fan following saw in him.

Bill Maher? Maher is to political-social commentary what Jeff Foxworthy is to redneck jokes – the best current practitioner.

Bill Hicks? Well, alright, perhaps Hicks came the closest. Done. Granted. I'm not here to rate your favorite comedian, but to pay homage to mine. Motherfucker.

George Carlin got it. Fully.

The torch was lit by Lenny Bruce – that stand-up comedy demanded to evolve. It could be adult, as opposed to just vulgar. If vulgarity alone was the revelation in stand-up, then we're honoring the wrong guys. Let's dig up the raunchiest burlesque comic and erect a statue to him. Let's canonize Redd Foxx.

Foxx was performing at the same time as Bruce, with an act ten times as dirty, yet it was Bruce whom the police harassed, cuffed, threw in jail, hauled before a judge with Irish red hair and a glass eye. Foxx himself even commented, "Why they keep bustin' that white boy all the time?"

He knew the answer. First, those white cops wouldn't go near the clubs that Redd performed in. Second, Bruce wasn't just saying dirty words into a microphone, like any of a thousand drunk Rotarians at an annual hooch & hooker fest – he was reaching into their world with ideas they couldn't handle, with words that made them feel like he was exposing their darkside to the rest of humanity. Revealing their duplicities. Pulling the skeletons out of their closets and rattling them on the front lawn at the neighbors. "Adult" humor wasn't necessarily dirty, but too honest – it felt like being made to own up to something unsightly, perverse, just wrong. And that's exactly what it was. The fact that it was laced with potty-mouth, was what connected the dots. Sold it as an idea worth examination, to an audience who came to laugh.

The real, untold reason that Bruce was arrested for saying "cocksucker" on stage, was that none of the policemen could get that at home from their wives. A word becomes truly offensive when it brings the sting of the truth home to roost. When it rubs a scab off.

The trick was to divorce the sting, without sacrificing the truth. Bruce blazed a huge trail. Carlin paved it, put up road signs, built onramps and overpasses – made it a legitimate road that we all could navigate on, if we had the guts.

Carlin had his share of detractors, and in the beginning a smaller taste of the bullying from the police, the morality brigade and the censors, that Bruce had taken the full brunt from. But Carlin kept sculpting a new reality, and the new generation embraced it. And embraced him. Because they heard something real – not the cover stories that their parents' favorite comedians were still babbling.

In 2004, I wrote and co-produced a stage show that was a tribute to Lenny Bruce, called, "Mr. Bruce, Do You Swear?" In the program notes, I wrote something that I'm sure made the feathers of a few ruffle.

If Lenny Bruce were Jesus, that would make George Carlin his Paul. From Jew to Gentile. From Gentile to the world.

I'm glad I can say I saw Carlin perform in person. What made the show more than special, was that he was breaking in new material, and hadn't fully memorized it yet. He had a sheet of crib notes on stage, that he placed on a stool, and would quite visibly refer to glancingly throughout the show. Did it slow him down? Not a step. Did it dampen any of the humor's power? Not an atom. It was a thrill just to get to see his wheels turning. A 60s Corvette revving with the hood up. And after he'd given us two hours of rib crunching laughter... he asked if we would accept, as compensation for the "rough" quality of that night's show, another 30 minutes of "classic" stuff from his arsenal. Did we turn him down? Wipe your mouth! No. We sure as fuck-shit-piss did not!

There are a few ironies. George spent his last few years roaring against religion, and died on a Sunday.

George passed away mere days before receiving the Kennedy Center's 11th annual Mark Twain Award for humor – an honor of which he should have been the very first recipient. In my opinion. The cocksuckers.

He left us during the final months of the presidential administration he hated most. George will miss seeing a "world without George." Something you gotta believe he was probably looking forward to. It's a bit like Moses; leading the Israelites to the Promised Land, but not getting to enter it himself.

He had a memorable routine about death, called "Two Minute Warning." I wonder if he got one? Or if he got his movie? The movie of your life, that flashes before your eyes seconds before you go... the movie of course must include the moment just before you die and see the movie start, then cycle through again and again... endlessly. "Thanks to the movie, we can never die!" You'll never really die, George.

And finally, allow me to show-n-tell my one genuine connecting point to George, my official degree of separation. In 2005 I won the Aristocrats contest, with my cartoon slideshow, "Ball Sack Follies." You can see it on the "Aristocrats" DVD. In this documentary, about the world's dirtiest joke with its lineage going all the way back to vaudeville, Carlin goes back to his own roots, and actually tells a joke. A set-up, and a punchline. It's the very style of humor that he, and Bruce, and Pryor, evolved stand-up comedy away from. You'll never see it anywhere else... and elsewhere on the DVD, I get to tell the same joke. So at some brief moment, along an edge almost microscopic, my world and Carlin's overlap. We never met, but it's something.

He would have seen me as a rube, with little if anything to say. But I hear he was a nice guy in private. We could have talked about his dogs.

R.I.P.

Disastrous Dining

SURVIVING DINNER DATES AND OTHER LITTLE SLICES OF HELL:
A GUIDE

Dining mishaps come in all forms. I don't mean using the wrong fork for your salad! Spills, slip-ups, unsightly smears, projectile vomiting; these can turn a delightful dinner into a bit of a nightmare. Here's a guide to make the best of some messy situations.

The Spew 

Chatting while chewing is never desirable, although sometimes it's unavoidable. When breaking bread with those who never learned that talking and eating are two separate activities, it's inevitable. If you accidentally spit some "collateral" on your company, it can be mortifying, but that's putting it politely. We refer to jerks who get the sudden dysfunctional urge to interrupt you with a "hilarious" backhanded comment, to derail the point you're trying to make. While masking their insecurities, they thoughtfully hock up a frothy mixture of root beer and masticated scrambled eggs all over themselves, and unfortunately, you, and the dessert you were still working on. Classy.

Toss a napkin at them and playfully flip them off. A laugh and a shrug do wonders! If they don't happen to notice that spot that landed on their sleeve, gesture to everyone else that happens by to see. When your companion asks to know what is so "fucking funny," reach over, touch their arm gently and say "certainly not your jokes."

Also, remember to stay alert while chewing! Avoid a pause in processing that mouthful of spinach, even if an electrifying point of conversation is made by someone else at the table. Keep going! Swallow thoroughly before launching a retort. No counter-point, however valid or well deserved by your douchbag dinner companion, is aided on its mission by an accompanying blast of slimey green blowback.

And ladies, that same pause can spell disaster, socially, should it occur just as you bite into a 7-inch kilbassa, or a foot-long hotdog at the ballpark. Providing your boyfriend's parents with a stunning simulated visual of yourself mid-fellatio, will lodge deep in their psyche, and even the sight of your flowing snowy white gown on your blissful day-of-days will not erase it from memory.

The Whole Tooth 

Poppy seeds, fresh ground pepper, and shredded lettuce are top threats to your dignity – much like your poorly developed personality and barbaric social skills. There's nothing like enjoying a delicious meal and leisurely conversation only to discover you've had a ribbon of green stuck around your tooth for the last hour. Even more ingratiating is a still-intact triangle of rich gooey pizza topping, grafted to the front of a white pinstriped dress shirt. If your date points it out, laugh it off and graciously excuse yourself to remove it. Don't try at the table! Walking calmly to the restroom, with a slice of pizza on your chest like Superman's "S" emblem sculpted out of melted cheese and Ragu sauce, will ensure your street cred at that particular restaurant. If you discover it on your own, like that mile of damp toilet paper stuck to your shoe, let it slide or make a light joke of it when you return to the table. If it's a date, blame it all on your ex for "seriously messing with your head," and that you "haven't worked it all out yet – that satanic skank!" Your date will understand and immediately suggest that your relationship skip over any sexual tension that may have existed, and proceed straight to "just friends." Congrats, you're on her inner Post Office Wall – all in one night!

The Spaz  

You lift your fork to take a bite of tomato basil linguini and then SPLAT, it's all over your lap. That is called premature ejaculation, and there is therapy for it, but you can handle the aftermath with grace. Nah, joke! Of course we're talking about a food related stain – wink, wink, Monica. Just smile and say "whoops," then gently wipe yourself off with a napkin. If the spill calls for a more hardcore anecdote, excuse yourself to the bathroom to wipe it away with soap and water. It's better than feverishly scrubbing at the table – though far more interesting to watch.

Remember, no matter how magnificent your companion's pectoral presence, eyes-front-and-center when you raise anything to your mouth at the table.

A powerfully distracting dining miscue is a sudden 4-alarm nose bleed just as you begin your salad. The spicy fumes of a Thai delicacy are usually good for this. Sechwan mustard. Your companion's overzealous use of Sarah Jessica Parker Lovely. There is no, and I mean NO easy way out. Jumping up to dash for the bathroom, leaving an axe murderer's crimson trail in your wake, is certainly an option, though not a good one. Otherwise you can sit there with your life's essence plop-plop-plopping onto your plate, and down your front, vainly trying to halt the red tide with a tiny napkin that is all but useless in this situation, and signal a waiter to call 911. Your date sure as shit won't. She'll grin awkwardly with "wow, what a doozy" and subtly scan the building for a quick and stealthy escape route. Ever wished to know where you stand with your companions? Start bleeding in their presence and see how hard they rush to help you.

The only thing to do is play it up! You might as well, because nobody else is going to help you play it down. It's your blood being lost – be proud. Look across to a neighboring table and proclaim, "Did you know that if you order the giant lobster, they make you fight one to the death? I'm lucky to be alive, but damn it, chow's on!!"

The Drop Out 

If you drop a utensil on the floor, call the waiter and politely ask for a replacement. He or she will generally retrieve the fallen item, so you don't end up diving under the table. If it's a fork, stomp the pronged end with the toe of your shoe, to see if you can make it flip into the air to land in someone else's plate across the restaurant. Handle it as a non-event and move on with your meal. If you're at someone's home, subtly retrieve the item and go to the kitchen to rinse it off, keeping select cusswords to a whisper. Please don't drop it while using the utensil in a fashion it wasn't designed for – like picking at a scab on your wrist. Not only does this clue your date that you are a blazing freak, it tells her you are a clumsy one too.

If you happen to be on the losing side of an argument at the table, a good way to turn the situation around in a hurry is to deal your opponent an explosive euphemism. Try "fuckface," "shit heel" or that old reliable workhorse "asshole." Then bring the utensil – knife or fork – down hard on the table-top, and leave it there, sticking upright to accentuate your rebellion like a gleaming metal exclamation point! The argument will end abruptly with them shutting the hell up for the rest of the night, and remaining skittish and extra cautious not to provoke you further. Garnish this new reality by staring at them blankly at intervals, to add an air of unpredictability to your commanding presence. You win. Eat your dinner in a relaxed, carefree manner – the final word on any subject will be yours for the remainder of the evening. And you'll have the same table all to yourself next time. Peace at last.

The Food Face  

Even for the most cautious diners, certain foods are always a bit messy; extra saucy calzone, barbecued chicken, double-decker burgers, or that platter-sized goat cheese and hollandaise omelette you ordered a while back – holee-gawd-on-rubber-crutches – for instance. If a speck ends up on your cheek, no worries. Delicately wipe it off. If you aren't aware of it, and your companion points it out, wipe it away with a good-natured laugh and a "what the shit are you looking at?" When your dinner date is the one with a little stray sauce on his or her face, a simple "you've-got-a-little-yummy-right-here" is code for "I've got a little yummy down here," as you point below to your own crotch. It will let them know in an amusing embarrassment-free way.

The Royal Flush  

We've all been there. There is really no perfect or completely delicate way to handle it. You're at your sig's house, dining with the parents, watching your manners, on your best behavior, when out of nowhere, deep down in your gut, you get that low boiling rumble that means you'd better excuse yourself from the table NOW. Dinner was excellent, but it somehow took a short-cut to your colon, and now it wants to see daylight again.

"Where's the mensroom?" Wow. That will sure tell her parents what a clueless dick you are. This is a family residence, not a Shell Mini-Mart.

"... the little boy's room?" Never mind the gay undertone; you've just demonstrated your utter bankruptcy of any trait remotely masculine. Might as well ask her mother if she can spare a tampon. While you're gone, both parents will plead with her to "get rid of the putz." This means YOU.

Rise, pat your stomach thoughtfully, grin wide and state "Well, looks like it's good ol' Take-A-Turd Time." Bingo, playah! You'll soon be back on Match.com with a revised bio, like "seeks relaxed gal with no petty hang-ups." Translation: I fart holes in wicker chairs – I need a woman who's okay with that.

Of course, there are exceptions to the rule. If her dad quips, "mention my name, you'll get a good seat," then there may be hope. Her mother married a true barroom diplomat, so that could mean that your mate is used to "the life" herself. But don't overplay your comical retort, however grand your relief, as you do the Cheek-Clinch Cha-Cha down the hallway. Some examples:

"If I'm not back in 45 minutes, call the bomb squad."

"I'm going to see if the Navy has launched the fleet yet."

"I need to go release a flock of blackbirds."

"The chef just called – a loaf is done."

and

"They need me at the carnival – the roller coaster is stuck again."

Ladies, we know how delicate your system is, too. And we know how much better you are than we, at excusing yourselves to the powder room with charm and modesty. It isn't always what is said when rising, but the follow-up remarks uttered upon your return. That kindergarten giggle may suffice when Jocko tells one of his trademark bar jokes, but it isn't nearly fresh-enuff to glaze over a sudden involuntary bodily expulsion. "Goodness, I frew up in there. Anyone got a mopsy?"

Sorry, no dice.

"Couldn't get them undies down in time, if ya know what I mean."
Yes, we do. Classy little baglady, you.

If you're stuck for a closing line, make it impressive. Don't sweat the gross-out factor – that battle was lost the moment you got up from the table and scrambled down the hall, with the seat of your skirt wadded up in your panicky little pink fist.

Go for the gold!

"Just call me Lemonade Lucy!"

"Wow, that brownie would've won the bake-off!"

"Hershey's don't make Kisses THAT big!"

"Good thing I had extra tissues stuffed in my bra!" ( A double-whammy! Let Mr. Right know that you not only take bowl-filler sized craps, but you're flat-chested!)

So now you are set! Stop pondering the dining what-ifs with a trembling brow. And if you need any more advice, I'm free after lunch!

The Summer Blows

Where to begin. How about a general question. Does anybody make real movies anymore?

I have now seen most of the 2008 summer blockbusters, with the notable exception of "Sex In The City," a cinematic experience that Donald Trump couldn't write me a big enough check to sit through. So far only "Iron Man" has managed to live up to its own hype. The rest have chugged their own Kool-Aid. Hard. After each of them, I groped for the handrail toward the door, with the same uncanny phrase on my lips: "Holy shit, what were they smoking?"

I imagine that somewhere, George Lucas is phoning up Steven Spielberg, hoping to score some of that killah hippy-lettuce they were burning, the night that the concept for "Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull" wafted into their hazy minds. The conversation must have been something like...

STEVEN: Y'know what, Georgie? Y'know what?

GEORGE: Pass the jay back, man, you're Bogartin' again.

STEVEN: We gotta do another Indy Jones, man.

GEORGE: Huh?

STEVEN: Yeah! YEEEEAAAHH-HAH! That's what we gotta do, Georgie. Another Indy! ANOTHER FUCKIN' INDY JONES!! Gawdamn!!!

GEORGE: Yeaahhhhh, another Indy Jones! We gotta. We gotta. Sure thing.

STEVEN: Yer with me, right?

GEORGE: Oh shit-yeah, all the fuckin' way! Another fuckin' INDY! Yeah. Only, what's it gonna be about? I mean, like, Harrison's collectin' Social Security by now, right?

STEVEN: We just make that a part of the story – Indy's gettin' old. But he can still kick ass. Yeah, only now he has a son! And... and... and and and, his son is all tricked out too. Like Indy's a throwback to the 30s and all that shit, so his son will be all, aallll, you know.... Brando! He's all Brando – the fucking Wild Ones Brando! Yeah, andandand, he'll have his own style apart from his dad's, but yet indentical – like Indy uses a whip, so his son is into... swords!! Whips and swords – it's a ZORRO reference! FUCKING-A, man, I'm so fucking brilliant with this shit!!!

GEORGE: Ants!!!

STEVEN: Huh? Where!! You getting the DT's on me, Georgie??

GEORGE: No – ANTS!! Fucking bigass ants! We have a scene where they have to haul ass from a gawdamn landscape covering swarm of killer ants!! Right after a fucking car chase and a sword fight. And dig it, a sword fight with an S&M nazi-ass amazon bitch with a deep voice.

STEVEN: Georgie, you're a genius! I see it! This fucker is just flying together!! Pass the reef, dude, I need me another whiff.

GEORGE: And, andandand, dig this...

STEVEN: Yeah?? YEAH???

GEORGE: In the last reel, when they finally figure it all out, whatever it is, they end up at some temple like a pyramid, only it's an ancient fucking spaceship!!

STEVEN: Oh. OOhhhhh. OOOhhhh fuck yeah!! FUCK ME, YEAH!!!!

GEORGE: And what ever it is they fuckin' do, it reawakens the fucking aliens who've been dormant! Extra-fucking-terrestrials, man, and –

STEVEN: And... fuck. FUCK! We fucking tie-in the Indy Jones loop... with Close Encounters... Fuck... Fuuuccckkk...

GEORGE: You alright, Stevey?

STEVEN: I think I just came, man...

GEORGE: ... and at the very end Darth Vader shows up, and –

STEVEN: No no no, that'd be a little too much.

GEORGE: It would?

STEVEN: Let me think about it. Any Twinkies left?

GEORGE: Dude I could scarf a whole box of Twinkies right now.

Twinkies, which brings us to THE INCREDIBLE HUCK.

First, a preamble: I'm a comic book nerd of the 70s and 80s, so when I hear that a big-budget movie of one of my classic hero faves is in the works, my heart skips a little beat and I count the months, weeks, days, to opening night. I want a little more than entertainment – I want vindication. I want to be justified for all that time spent sprawled on the couch absorbing a latest issue, or holed up in my room sorting through my ever growing collection of pulp-paper treasures. Time that I now realize would have perhaps been better spent... I dunno... learning a job skill or two... expanding my social network... planning for a future... dating...

I've got a lot of resentment to wash down.

Staggering in the darkness toward the glowing red exit sign, as those endless credits crawled up the screen, having endured an opening night screening of "The Incredible Hulk," I knew I'd been owned. I knew it. And I'd paid for it. A feeling not dissimilar to limping home after an especially rough session with a dominatrix who doesn't quite realize she hits just a bit too hard, and who sometimes confuses my safeword with someone else's.

I'd heard it all. I should have guessed it was too good to be true.

"But this time it's got Edward Norton..."
"But this time it's directed by Louis Leterrier... "
"But this time they're gonna... this time it's gonna be... they're... they've... it's... "

It didn't matter.

It stunk. Just like the last one. It didn't work. They threw even more money at it, and it just sucked it all up, and kept right on sucking.

A number of woeful problems plagued "Hulk," in my not-so-humble opinion. First, was it a sequel to Ang Lee's 2003 Hulk movie? Or was it a mega-million dollar do-over? A reboot? Shouldn't that just shoot all of Marvel's street cred down the toilet? Do they now think all moviegoers were ADD kids? That as long as Hulk's all big and green and kicks ass, we'll just happily shovel our money into their pockets?

That's drug dealer logic.

Secondly, is it my overloaded imagination, or was the 2003 Hulk a better "grafique?" The Hulk is a special effect – duh. CGI. The Lou Ferrigno method just isn't "big" enough for the cinema's new-millennial era. I'm sorry, but the 2008 Hulk just seemed... not as well rendered as the 2003 one. He looked "hurried," unfinished – more like what he was, a glorified cartoon.

No amount of soulful, misty-eyed interaction with Liv Tyler could counter-balance the Hulk's cloying unreality. It may not entirely be the CGI crew's fault – she couldn't connect with Edward Norton either. A scene where they trade gazes of wistful longing went on for what seemed an entire reel – the whole film ground to a wincing halt for this silent – pisshole-at-midnight silent – moment of unspoken desire. Only the desire was out of the room. They both looked like they wanted to flip out their cellphones and ring their agents. You could almost hear Leterrier whisper, "okay, now stare at each other like a pair of shit-for-brains ghouls, in love, but... da time ain't right."

Thirdly, I have a real bone to pick regarding the script, and most scripts these days. It seems that the craft of screenwriting has dwindled down to the science of the hard sell. Movies just don't stand alone as stories, anymore. Ultimately it dawned on me that this entire film was a sales pitch – a 2-hour trailer for its own sequel. No closure. No satisfying crescendo note.

"Incredible Hulk" begins with a blink-and-gone montage of the Hulk's origin – a quick "highlight reel" to get everyone up to speed. It's a fast, easy to digest concession to the rubes who never read the comic-book, never saw the TV show, or the cartoons, or the freaking 2003 movie, and are therefore clueless how Mr. Big Green-N-Mean was birthed.

For those who took Screenwriting 101, the Hulk's appearances are timed to stop-watch perfection. The textbook final-reel showdown tableau is established efficiently. The Hulk lets the Abomination (the Anti-Hulk) open a jumbo can of green whup-ass on him just long enough to create a sense of edgy doubt as to the film's outcome, but we all know the Hulk is "doomed to succeed" as Roger Ebert would say. Hulk bellows his signature line, "HULK SMASH!" and delivers the victory blow of super-heroic finality. Fight over. Villain vanquished. But wait! A late development, plot-wise, bursts on the screen right at the very last minute... black out. TO BE CONTINUED IN THE SEQUEL, SUCKERS!!!

So we have a quick hand-job of an opening... followed by two hours of overscripted foreplay... then just as we sense a mad rush to a big messy green climax... the movie PULLS OUT. No afterglow. No cigarette. But a cryptic promise of more to come... later. Way later. Gotta go, babe.

I remember when one of the hallmarks of a great movie was the presence of a beginning, a middle, and an end. "Incredible Hulk" has no beginning, and no end. It's just a big MIDDLE. And that's why 300 people hit the exit doors wondering...

Did I spoil it? Awwww. Boohoo.

Movie no good. Gotta-go weewee. Me want go home now.

June Randomness

A neatness freak is someone who can't stop rubbing.

Recently I began writing a list, entitled, "Complete Idiots Who Somehow Make More Money Than Me." I had to stop. It got scary.

Be loyal, hardworking and demand excellence from yourself and others, and some day you'll look back and wonder where the hell your life went, and why everyone hates your guts.

I just threw away all my porn, and drank an entire six-pack of diet soda. Does that make me a better person?

Talent is your ticket to fame. Fame is your ticket to money. Money is your ticket to getting laid. Getting laid is your ticket to marriage. Marriage is your ticket to being stuck with someone who sees your talent as evidence you're queer.

My bad haircut is worse than yours, because it is on ME!

Those of you who have it all figured out are annoying the hell out of us who still view every day as an adventure.

Bikers only age well in the movies.

When in L.A. you see someone in a Mercedes convertible, wearing a neon colored baseball cap, that is likely someone ripping off someone else who has legitimate talent.

I'd like to see one of the national news anchors use the adjective "fucking" just once, or sternly refer to some group in the news as "the fuckers."

Never, never insult a drunk midget with a pair of pliers in his chubby little free hand.

"Your results may vary" is ad-speak for "but you, my friend, are screwed."

Funny is a corporation handing out free pens with "Shop Local" printed on them.

I once held romance sacred. Now I think the self-centered little twats can have it, too!

Dubya is closing out his presidency with a big chug of the ol'e Kool-Aid.

Diet Chocolate Cherry Dr. Pepper. My gawd, my gawd, what have they done!!

Great Bachelor Recipes!

No wife? No problem. (No decent woman would walk barefoot on your kitchen floor anyway!)

SOUTHWESTERN TORTILLA WRAP
1. Tortillas
2. Any pre-cooked meat item in fridge
3. Kraft BBQ sauce
Spread meat onto tortilla. Pour BBQ sauce to taste. Roll tortilla into a tube. Microwave 3 minutes. Eat over the sink.

TURKEY-CRAN SALAD SANDWICH
1. Canned turkey meat
2. 1 bottle of Ocean Spray Cranberry Juice Cocktail
3. Lettuce
4. 2 slices of white bread
Soak turkey meat in Cranberry Juice Cocktail, then microwave 5 minutes. Put on bread, add lettuce. Spit out. Gawd, it's disgusting. Are you nuts or what?

WHOLE-WHEAT ENGLISH MUFFIN PIZZAS
1. 2 whole-wheat English muffins
2. Leftover pizza – not too old
3. Butter
Put English muffins in toaster. Take leftover pizza from fridge. When muffins pop, glaze with butter. Put leftover pizza slice between the muffins and eat like a sandwich. Chase down with gulps of grape soda! This is your house – you are king!

FILLO DOUGH SPINACH POCKETS
Search all over supermarket. Eventually ask a clerk what the hell "fillo dough" is, and where in the damn store it is located. When asked why you want it, say "I'm making Fillo Dough Spinach Pockets for dinner, nosey whore – shut up." Search around supermarket some more. Stare blankly at spinach in produce section. Give up. Buy a whole box of frozen burritos.

HAWAIIAN CHICKEN PITAS
Nearly same procedure as for Fillo Dough Spinach Pockets above, only a little easier to think through without the aid of the filthy skank clerk. No, Hawaiian chickens don't cluck with a Hawaiian accent. "Clook-clook, brah." Think about it – it's chicken and pineapple, Junior Space Cadet. Cook it up, and put it in a pita. Yes, pita bread... you know, that goofy round bread that splits open like a flat football, and you can put stuff in it. Like at Jack-In-The-Box. Only from the supermarket. Yes, they have it here.

CHEF JON'S COOL FRUIT SOUP
The gayest recipe in years. No need to go into detail. Suffice to say, you may want "Waiter Shaun's Hot Meat Rod" for dessert.

PROSCIUTTO & GOAT CHEESE CROSTINI
This is either a dinner entrée or a strange medieval weapon.

BROCCOLI & CHEDDAR PASTA SALAD
Need this one explained to you? Gawd!! Well, alright. Put broccoli, cheddar cheese and pasta together. Nuke 'em. Take out when cheese melts. Eat and burn a hole in your throat. Have soda ready, in case.

PBJ & MORE!
Oh give me a break. Okay. Make a PBJ. Your PB. Your J. Your bread. It doesn't matter what brands, you obviously made that decision already when you bought them. It's passed. It's over. Deal with it. Now... have something IN ADDITION to the PBJ. That's the "& More" part. Got it? Awwwrriiighhhhh.

CHEF RON'S CREAMY DIRT CAKE
Someone is out to get you. Do you have any enemies? Any names come to mind off-hand? Well, this is what you'll be dining on at their house if you're stupid enough to accept the invite. Chow down! Don't spend too much time thinking about what the "creamy" ingredient is.

My Power

I have an uncanny power to control people. My most offbeat whim is their command. On my cue, they put important errands on hold and abandon even the most meticulously prioritized assignments. And I need not give them a glance.

There are those who envy this gift of mine. Everyone harbors a fantasy to change people with only a thought – to never compromise with family, friends or, well, anyone. No more to settle for second choices, or a backup plan when the original falls flat.

"Never Again" would be their personal mantra to everything bad that has ever happened to them in life – and their escape clause to every imaginable bad thing still waiting to strike.

Admit it, your attitude would take an upswing if you could count on everything going your way, every single day.

People would wonder where you get your uplifting outlook, your energy, your positive aura, your ambient joy. "It's because I control everyone," would be the secret answer behind your gregarious grin.

I must start practicing that grin. For if you ever see me with it, you may also see that it's forced. I can control people, but in ways that I can't control.

No, I can't make the guy turning right on the red light without braking, yacking on his cell phone, see me in the crosswalk. But when I'm driving and want to change lanes, I can make every driver in that lane floor it to get by me.

My power can't suddenly make that cute supermarket cashier charge me half-price for my groceries with a twinkle in her eye. But by simply deciding that I'm tired and want to go home, I can make every other shopper in the store suddenly logjam the check-out lines. Those same check-out lines may even have been completely empty, with bored cashiers, just moments before. It doesn't matter.

I perform this feat of mass mind control on a regular basis. Sometimes I even make the shopper ahead of me try to pay by check, minus a usable I.D.

I may just as easily make them request something that forces the cashier to phone for a manager and hold the line up – long enough for my cold sodas to get warm and my frozen dinners to thaw. Have you ever wondered about this phenomena? Look behind you, it's me. Asshole.

I can't make my coworkers the least bit interested in my personal life. I get the usual "how was your weekend?" But do they listen as I regale them with the requested tableau of my adventures? No, they're already on the phone, or rushing to get their turn with the copier.

Yet by simply taking a moment to check my personal email, I can cause all office activity to stop cold, and everyone within eyeshot of my screen to lean in, as if on spontaneous coffee break, and chime "say, what'cha reading there, hmm?" Suddenly I am my company's official ambassador to all things fun and distracting, despite not being worthy of a yawn, one minute prior. Such is the immensity of my power.

If I could bottle it, I'd be worth millions. Any live telecast would become like nothing ever seen before when I picked up the remote. How about an entire half hour of involuntary flatulence at the anchor desk on tonight's news? It could happen. Or for that obnoxious DJ that everyone else likes at work, how about a sudden bout of Tourette's Syndrome? On second thought, no one would really notice a DJ with a potty mouth, would they? It's too commonplace.

I'm the one fighting off a sudden outbreak of Tourette's, here. It's been that kind of day. A day ruled by... my power.

If I ever find out how to control how I control, the world will become a nicer place for me. Selfish? No, because you'd do the same thing yourself. Now answer me.

May Randomness

Red punch always makes me forget I'm not thirsty.

Everything you know means nothing, if you can't present it well.

Only a Vietnam veteran with a club foot and tattoos up both arms can get away with saying at Carrows, "Can a limp-dicked turd sniper get a cup of mud from one of you clap magnets?"

It's time you knew the truth. So go find it!

There are some guys who could use a good panic attack.

"Big glass of milk" is a phrase that sounds right. Correct and good on a cosmic level. Serene. It brings on an enveloping sense of peace and calm. "Small glass of milk" just sounds wrong, almost perverted.

Behind every man there are two ex-girlfriends who have coffee together and talk crap about him.

If I never risk offending you, we will never truly communicate.

A speed freak is someone who stops to eat the roses.

"Have a great day" is the new "eat shit and die."

Everything today is worse, but packaged way better.

An all-midget TV network would be fun. Admit it.

Starbucks Makes You Stupid

DECAF CASH COW

Each and every one of us can be proven to be a total idiot, in some area of life or another. But Starbucks makes idiots out of staggering numbers of people, every day. Maybe they're idiots to begin with.

If you purchase a Starbucks "grande" size coffee drink at approximately $4 every day, that's $28 a week, not counting sales tax.

You can purchase a 12-ounce bag of grounds of the same coffee, or one that's practically identical, at most supermarkets for between $8 and $12. You get about 6 full pots of coffee to that bag of grounds. Each full pot equals about 8 regular cups, or about 4 "grande" paper cups of coffee.

If you're going to argue that it's the TASTE that makes the difference? Please. You probably also still believe that M&Ms have different flavors. It's all psychological, and the makers of M&Ms know it. They are all just SUGAR-COATED CHOCOLATE... every color. The colors are just vegetable dye – no flavor. Nothing more.

And if that designer coffee tastes so wonderful, Ms. Gourmand, why all the add-ins? Milk, honey, cane sugar, nutmeg and powdered lhasa apso urine?

The only real difference between Starbucks coffee and homemade – besides the sucker-bait prices – is that you must make the coffee yourself, and be denied the 10 minutes of STANDING AROUND while a lanky, uncombed music major with jagged bass-player's fingernails handles your order and chats up the female employees with his rapier-wit and charisma, while "processing" your expensive, chic coffee THEMED beverage. Sometimes you even get to witness his finesse at flipping the fridge open with the grungy toe of his sneaker, making the coffee maker gurgle oh-so bubbly and juggling a gallon milk jug with his pinky. A honed machine, this t-shirted champion. Your money at work, oh connoisseur. And you can even get your coffee with some LEFT OUT. That rip-off is cleverly called "room for cream." Putz.

You also get your coffee in a tall paper cup, with one of those clever wrap-around cozies to keep your special little multi-tasking fingers from getting burned, you workhorse you, and don't forget the plastic lid... and the wooden stir... don't let all those trees die in vain, Mr. Greenearth.

When you make coffee at home, do you use such trivial accessories? More than likely not. And if you do... what kind of trend-whoring moron... nevermind.

And then the paper packet of Equal... and the cinnamon... and nutmeg... and the dab of honey. Test the spirits to make sure whether you feel like whole milk or half-n-half today. Oh, I forgot, it's milk on workdays, half-n-half when you "splurge" on the weekends. This all qualifies as obsessive-compulsive behavior, did you know that?

Damn the torpedoes! This cup of colored water with heaping dairy and spice additives is visual proof that you are hip. 21st Century. You've arrived. Now back to some more WoW on your $4,000 laptop! Worth every penny when you're a Level-70 Dwarf Priest and Hand-to-Hand Battle Shaman! A back alley encounter with a drunk Marine would do you wonders, oh mystic warrior.

Wow, am I bitter. Anyway...

A decent travel mug costs about $10. It holds about 2 regular cups' worth, or about the same as a "grande" size paper cup. Maybe a bit more. If you want to go further, a stylish metal thermos will run you as little as $20. And it's the SAME COFFEE, Sherlock. It really is. Don't "oh contrairé" me – get over it.

So, are you ready for this? A $4 Grande size coffee every day for a year comes out to $1,456.00. No I didn't misplace the decimal point. You're pouring a part-time McDonalds employee through your bladder every 4 years – with room for cream.

On the other hand, a travel mug of coffee, yes, coffee made by YOU (sorry), is... nearly twice as much coffee per day as a single Starbucks cup, with a price that figures out to about $2.50 per pot, or 41 cents per travel mug. Or $179.65 for the whole year. That's the 41 cents, times 365 days a year, plus the 1-time $20 and $10 costs of the thermos and travel mug.

Let's see now. $1,456.00 vs. $179.65. Again... $1,456.00... $179.65. PUTZ!

But wait, you didn't just buy a cup of coffee. You got a decaf double-espresso latté frappiola with fog grass germ and extra foam. You can't just whip those up at home, now can you?? Well, alright, you got me. (Pardon my nit-picking, but what the hell is the flippin' POINT of a decaf espresso? And isn't foam just AIR? Sorry – those are such nagging concerns.)

Could such an otherworldly beverage be proof of your sophistication? Would Bach or Voltaire even comprehend a double-mocha soy-caramel machiatto with sprinkles? Where were such drinks before Starbucks? In the minds of crazy people, that's where.

Yes... yeah... okay... the other case for coffee is that it's a medicinal herb and that the coffee-culture is really our health consciousness raising its head triumphantly at last. I ask, if you drink coffee for health reasons, why aren't you matching that robust self-heroism with an equally sound financial sensibility? And where was all this health-consciousness before Starbucks came along? Dennys?

But you can't afford not to look cool – got it. Don't let me block your determined path. By the way, if you've ever seen a prostitute strut up and down the boulevard, you must know that all whores consider themselves cool.

Tonight On Showbiz Moments You'll Love

YOU'D LOVE IT! ADMIT IT!

Ann Coulter flees up a dead-end staircase... from zombies.

Babs Streisand discovers the secret trap door onstage, mid-song. "People... People who need people... are the luckiest pe –"

A swarm of hornets is released in the studio, on-air, as Rusty Humphries rants about himself. "And the other thing I find bemusing is – SSHHEE-ITT!!!"

The American Idol judges get up on stage and perform their version of "The Aristocrats."

Dick Cheney has his final heart attack, at the wheel of a golf cart rolling toward the lake, with a 50-year old bleach blond "masseuse" trying to unzip his fly with her teeth.

Garrison Keillor has an off-moment. "And that's our show for tonight, bitches."

A sudden change in Bill O'Reilly's voice mid-sentence, as intense rectal itch syndrome (IRIS) strikes.

On a dare: Nancy Pelosi. Condi Rice. Rush Limbaugh's spare bedroom. H.L.A.

Katie Couric, on her last CBS Evening News broadcast, pops top, hoists her jigglers and shouts "Can't find Bin Laden? I got your OSAMAS right here!!"

Danny DeVito runs as fast as his stumpy little legs will propel him, from a marauding giant robot yelling "DESTROY... DESTROY..."

Charlie Rose has sudden convulsive diarrhea, mid-question.

CNN suddenly cuts to something else – the weather, sports, an old scratchy "Mayberry RFD" rerun from Nick-at-Nite... shit, anything – as Larry King and guest Whoopi Goldberg discuss producing offspring together.

During an interview, Oprah casually gets up and puts on a strap-on dildo.

Maury Povich confronts Dan Rather in a trucker bar.

Alan Colmes admits on camera that he hasn't defecated since age 10.

Bigfoot on the Hollywood Squares! Oh wait, it's Al Roker, nevermind...

The President closes his farewell address to the nation with "and now, my fellow Americans, fuck this shit!"

Time Marches On!

Have you ever contemplated that everyone on "I Love Lucy" – including the audience that's laughing – is gone.

When I watch The Benny Hill Show, I have to remind myself that most of the men, from Benny to Henry McGee, are all dead – and all those nubile female dancers are using walkers now.

I always have a moment of sad pondering when I watch "Young Frankenstein" because Marty Feldman, Madelyn Kahn and Peter Boyle are all in graves somewhere.

I have stood at Feldman's grave.

Nearly everything that gave my childhood a sense of wonder or joy, has either faded, or been labeled obsolete by the current generation of frenzied tail-chasers, and trampled into the dust by their hurried, circular advance over the cliff.

Nothing illustrates the slipping away of time like each new Monday morning. As I age I realize a few things that help me not to worry so much – there are truisms in life that we should all learn to just accept, and move on.

1. You'll never really have enough stuff.
2. There will always be the risk of fucking up.
3. You can have anything you want in life, but you won't live long enough to have ALL of it.
4. Nobody knows everything. Few people truly know anything.
5. The final word will not be yours.
6. You'll never be too old for acne.
7. The survivors of Armegeddon will all get together afterward at Dennys – and they'll get the same service they got BEFORE Armegeddon.

Quotables Heard This Week

THESE WERE TOO GOOD NOT TO JOT DOWN

"That movie was the first sequel... they had never seen anything like it before!"

"You know, like... like... like like, y'know."

"Well that's why YOU are the captain, Ken."

AT DENNYS:

"And is there just one of you?"

Waitress to couple: "Can I get you started with something to drink?"
Woman: "I'LL SAY you can get him started with something to drink!"

Special Report: Zombie Voodoo Scream Party

WHO WOULD GUESS THAT A GORILLA SUIT IS SO COMPLICATED?

"Zombie Voodoo Scream Party" is the brainchild of writer, director, impresario Rider McDowell, whose wife invented Airborne herbal cold tablets. The show is an Ed Woodian cross between Rocky Horror and the Marx Brothers. Scooby-Doo on acid. The plot is quirky-on-rye, the laughs are as cheap and fast as a microwave pizza, and all glued together by lively R&B tunes sung mostly by Keta Bill as Dr. Dierdre; Janis Joplin in a lab coat, and love interest of Cosgrove, Monster Hunter, played by Cal-Shakes veteran James Carpenter.

THE STORY

Cosgrove needs one more monster for his collection of caged horrors, to win this year's Monster Pageant. With his worthless lab assistant, Neetroy the wunder-tard, he vows to find such a creature by show's end, and win the heart of dear Dr. Dierdre before she leaves him, to seek her lost love, Rockmanikanofski – whom, unknown to her, is really Cosgrove, prior to being cursed on his last expedition, to an existence as a forlorn ghoul-scientist by evil Egyptian spirits.

On the verge of his greatest triumph, however, Cosgrove's monsters break loose and wreak havoc. Among them are the hypnotic vampiress, Madam Draculana; Mr. Hillbilly, the mummy-faced redneck cannibal; Babyhead, with the head of an infant and the body of a Tollbooth Attendant; and Garganta, the giant man-eating gorilla from darkest Borneo!

Neetroy also has other plans besides helping his cadaverous employer round up stray monsters – he longs for stardom as a talk-show host, and daydreams of sharing clever banter with touchy celebrities like the sneering, cretinous Elvis clone, Teddy Corn!

Still with me?

Along the way, the show finds time for the exposed butt-crack adorned exploits of Pat, the fay techie and necromancer from Dingleberry Electric – and Sy Fabersham, the expert on poisonous snakes, whose habit is to handle them carelessly, get bitten, panic and then fling the deadly serpents into the audience.

The show's finale is a rousing tap-dance extravaganza featuring the entire cast, monsters and all, and a real dead body is given away to one "lucky" audience member. I fabricate nothing. All true.

THE SHOW

ZVSP premiered Friday, April 11, 2008 at the Golden State Theater in downtown Monterey, California. It played only one weekend; a pair of test-drive performances to iron out a few bugs before heading to New York in '09 for an off-Broadway run. The house sold out both Friday and Saturday nights, with box office revenue benefitting the Monterey Hospice Foundation, and Carmel River School. By the following Monday there was already talk of the show's return in October, appropriately around Halloween.

KSBW Channel 8, the local NBC affiliate pulled the show's ads after a whopping three viewers phoned in to complain about the "real dead body given away free" line. It wasn't a total loss as the ads were on other stations too. The local papers picked up the story as well, so the ban by KSBW resulted in a kind of publicity that can't be bought.

Even after Rider leaked a spoiler to his own show, admitting the "dead body" was just a frozen chicken, the Zombies of Taste prevailed and the station wouldn't budge. The Monterey Hospice, for whom the show was a benefit, thought the gimmick was hilarious. They received no complaints. The ads never said it was a "human" body.

THE CAST

James Carpenter (Cosgrove) is an award-winning San Francisco bay area Equity Shakespearean, whose blog of this show (calshakes-jimsrichardiiiblog.blogspot.com) is far more deliberate and day-to-day than the windy overview offered here. Like all pros of the stage, he took the role seriously and served it well. I found his character charming for a ghoul; a bit reminiscent of John Carradine.

Keta Bill (Dr. Dierdre) brought the house down with her electrifying performances of "I Was Made To Love Him" and "Shoorah Shoorah," to name just two of the numbers built into the show – backed by our three sensational doo-wop ladies: Dania Akkad (also the show's Producer), Sarah Nichols (also Madam Draculana) and Donna McDowell (Rider's step-mother, who shakes it just as hard as the two "young'ns"). Besides being a stovetop-hot knockout, Keta has a mighty impressive résumé in tow, having worked with the likes of Van Morrison and the Grateful Dead, as well as her own groups, Big Bang Beat and the Zasu Pitts Memorial Orchestra. Her singing has also graced the films "Beverly Hills Cop II" and "Rent."

The third lead, Neetroy was Equity actor Sam Misner. Sam's background includes Shakespeare Santa Cruz. He seemed familiar, as I know a few others who've worked with Shakes-SC, though I'm not sure he and I had met before. To near-extreme contrast, Sam also plays a smooth-as-silk guitar and sang some Hank Williams between a few rehearsals.

Rare is the show where I'm not the biggest or tallest member of the cast, but this was one of them. Brandon Peterson is 6' 10" and that's before he puts on the Frankenstein boots! He also played the Jersey Devil in a costume that increased his height to over 8 feet – check out the photo. This was Brandon's very first show, and I think the theatre bug has bitten. It will be interesting just to see how a man of his height and uniqueness is put to use by other theatre groups. Meeting his charming family was also one of the show's highlights for me.

Another cast member with a noteworthy musical legacy was Rudy "Tutti" Grayzell. It was ironic, or maybe apropos, that Rider cast him as Teddy Corn, the evil Elvis clone. Rudy sang for Sun Records in the 50s, and knew and worked with the real Elvis. It was the King who first dubbed him "Tutti." Rudy is a Rockabilly Hall of Fame inductee, whose hit recording from that era was "Ducktail" on the Starday label. The logic of the Teddy Corn character in this show is a bit puzzling – to everyone but Rider McDowell. At one point, Teddy walks onstage, to fill an awkward gap while costume-change panic rages backstage. He tells one of the many long-whiskered jokes that pepper the show, waits, points to someone in the crowd and snarls "you wanna piece of me?" This surreal little slice never fails to earn a huge laugh. Partially because of Rudy's opaquely deadpan delivery. Teddy then exits offstage with the same sullen determination he entered with. Again, only Rider really truly "gets" it. But the audience seems to love it, even if they may not comprehend the momentary detour into the Twilight Zone.

Pat, from Dingleberry Electric, was Howard Hinkley. Howard has been a mercurial presence in the Monterey peninsula theatre scene for some time. He's also had bit parts in nearly every feature film shot here in the past 20 years. A unique personality both on and off stage, Howard has basically created his own category of actor – that only he fits. Everyone knows Howard, and almost everybody has worked with him. His costume as Pat, which he reveled in, featured a pair of enlarged rubber butt cheeks flowing out of his trouser-tops, complete with a brown skidmark blazing up the taut center of his underwear. From backstage, when Howard was on, the audience reaction told you whenever Howard dropped his screwdriver and bent over to pick it up. Who said this wasn't a classy show?

Rider's 8-year old son, Errol, and yardstick-tall stage diva Ardrian Tidwell served both as Cosgrove's junior monster hunter volunteers, and as the two "planted" kids in the audience that the Jersey Devil kidnaps at mid-show (Brandon taking his life in his hands, descending those narrow stairs in the dark, wearing hooves).

Then we come to my pal Jody Gilmore. If you have visited the Planc Productions link on my website, you know that Jody and I go back a-ways. He has been a remarkable associate, and a staple of some of my own productions, including his triumphal starring role in our tribute show to Lenny Bruce, "Mr. Bruce, Do You Swear?" In ZVSP he played a role he probably wonders if he invented: "The Cast of Thousands." Constantly switching costumes backstage, Jody assumed the persona of Mr. Hillbilly, then the police officer pursuing the Jersey Devil, then a stagehand on Neetroy's dream-sequence talk-show, then a theater manager being chased by the escaped monsters, and even an anonymous screaming victim in the audience. Jody bought a pair of running shoes for his part in the show, and left a worn trail on the Golden State Theater's lavish carpets.

Who did I play, you ask? I can only repeat what I said time after time during rehearsals, when nights ran long, or technical glitches brought dead zones of waiting: "Don't ask me, I'm just the guy in the gorilla suit."

Like Jody reprising his trademark "thousands" role from his formative days, the "shtick" of my early theatre career was Wearer of Stuffy Costumes. The tree, the big rabbit, etc. I've logged over 100 performances as Winnie the Pooh, in children's theatre. In ZVSP I too returned, in a way, to my roots.

You must understand that Garganta's costume wasn't a wholesale Halloween slap-job. When I first saw the Garganta suit, it looked familiar. I'd seen this gorilla design, or one similar, in films and TV shows. Rider sought out a professional maker of Hollywood-level feature film gorillas, and had one custom tailored. Garganta is a $10,000 work of beauty, by gorilla suit specialist Steve Myers, whose furry, fanged masterpieces can be seen, admired and purchased at HollywoodGorilla.com.

Garganta's lower jaw is hinged; the mouth can be made to open by the wearer's jaw. The hinge was a bit stiff, though, and during a rehearsal I strained my neck muscles practicing with it. We're talking pain akin to whiplash. For days I had problems turning my head side-to-side, and driving was difficult. Luckily Jim Carpenter is a massage guru of sorts, and loosened up my neck and shoulders to where I could move again. It wasn't the suit's fault, it was just part of my learning curve with this level of costume.

Wearing the gorilla head meant using black eye makeup so that my skin wouldn't contrast with the color of the gorilla, when seen through the large eye sockets. I had to blacken up from brow-line down to about the upper lip. After the show, when the head came off, and sweat poured as if from a pitcher, I looked like a Picasso painting of Tammy Faye!

The suit's most obvious feature – it's a portable sauna. I think I lost ten pounds playing the big monkey. Rider bought an icepack vest for me to wear under the suit, so I wouldn't melt like "Fosty" the snowman. It's a Velcro girdle with tube-pockets all around, and twelve form-fitted gel ice packs. It stayed in the dressing room fridge until needed, but during the hours of start-n-stop rehearsals it warmed up to the suit's temperature, and became simply dead weight. Since most of Garganta's business happened in the second act, I decided not to use the vest until intermission. The first act was an endurance test, but I kept my movement to a minimum when offstage. In Act II, wearing the vest nearly caused hypothermia under all that sweaty fur, but it was a welcomed shock to the system. Also at intermission I shoveled additional freezer ice down the front of the suit. It was "winter in the cellar" in there, and the wooly insides were soaked by final curtain, but oh sweet lawdy-lawd was it so frosty-good!

Along with the vest, I had to wear a battery pack and a wired lavaliere mic taped along my jaw line, to my upper lip, so Garganta's roars could be heard over the theater sound system. Without a mic, my roars were muffled by the gorilla head, hardly audible to those even in the second row.

Garganta's role included flatulence humor – fart cues. The gorilla swipes Neetroy's dinner, defiantly eats it right in front of him, then adds insult to injury by hunkering down and birthing a vicious gut demon. The farts were sound effects courtesy of the techboard operator, but eventually Rider determined that there weren't enough farts on the soundtrack. Since my face was hidden by the gorilla head, and I could do pretty much anything in there without the audience spying it, he instructed me to add incidental farts throughout the show – enhance key moments, and punctuate the dialogue of other actors, by letting rip whenever I felt the urge – with some Poot-of-the-Loom jockey bisquits. For some reason the mic wasn't picking up my fart riffs very good, so Rider had me and the sound technician do some audio tests before the show – a "fart check."

This was one of the more surreal moments of my acting career. The Golden State is by far the most ornate and historic performance venue on the Monterey peninsula. Built in 1926, it has been painstakingly, expensively, restored to its original opulence. Top acts play here; Willie Nelson, Tony Bennett, B.B. King... Emmylou Harris and Los Lobos are due this summer. The dressing rooms beneath the theater are from the days of vaudeville. As an actor, working this stage is a treat; it lends a feeling of having "arrived" as a performer. Here I was... center-stage, in a spotlight, before an empty house, save the director and the sound guy... auditioning farts.

Shows, events and celebrities will pass through this old theater for years to come, but the spirits that reside here will remember me.

The night before opening was a near-disaster. Because of the heavy load of tech effects that had to be perfected, the actors still hadn't done a complete run-thru (with less than 24-hours till opening curtain – yes, insanity). The suit was unbearable by the third hour, so I went backstage to get out of it. That's when I added my contribution to the chaos – the gorilla's zipper broke! I mean, off! It's in back of the suit, out of reach and impossible to work by myself. I'm thankful Rider didn't give me some other part that meant a costume change, because there was just no way. The shaggy fur was constantly jamming the zipper, and it was only a matter of time before someone tried too hard – which the person assisting me did, and... SNAP! Luckily our local costume expert, Adrianna Wellisch, dropped by the theater on some other errand. She took the suit home, and brought it back on opening night with a brand new stealthy black zipper with extra surrounding material, which gave me about 2-3 inches more breathing room, and made for an easier zip, too. A third-party zipper may have shot the suit's value down a notch, but it was absolutely necessary.

My biggest test in the suit was the finale dance number. It was hard enough learning the steps – dancing is fun, just not exactly one of my strengths on stage – but to do them in a wet gorilla suit yet! The moment I dreaded was the lead-up to the final bow. After running around in 75 pounds of soggy fur, then barreling through a big dance finish, I was suffocating! Inside that head, I just couldn't draw in enough air to sate my lungs! My heart was pounding! And I still had to bow, wave and generally frolic around as if this was an ultimate moment of consummate joy! I thank God it was only 30 seconds. A giant murderous beast who spends most of the show terrorizing the cast, then drops dead after a tap dance, just wouldn't fit the show's continuity. (Or maybe it would have fit a little too well, for my preference anyway.)

When that curtain rang down for the final time on Saturday night, I quite literally ran out of gas, at that very moment. Shuffling backstage, flopping down in a chair, and slowly emerging from the gorilla hide like a sweaty, exhausted caterpillar who couldn't figure out the butterfly trick, was all I could do. I had to take an early leave from the cast pizza party... too pooped.

If the show really does return in October, will I endure Garganta all over again? Yep, probably will. "Man In Gorilla Suit" is, afterall, one of the iconic roles in all of entertainment: Hamlet, Tibalt, Atticus Finch... Gorilla. Can I get an amen.

AFTER THE BOWS

Wow – one long mother of a blog entry. I should not sign off before acknowledging a few others owed supreme gratitude. First, Carey Crockett, whose work in Monterey theatre has often gone under-heralded and under-appreciated. His set designs and creative contributions added just the right balance, between scary and funny. Because the man knows his shite. So many performers (including this one) around the area, owe their start to Carey, whose own theatrical company, Unicorn Theatre, thrived here for over 25 years, holding its own among the larger, better financed companies like Pacific Repertory and the Forest Theater Guild, both of Carmel. (And those companies owe him a rose bouquet or two, as well.)

The backstage crew was top-drawer, and brought together one of the most tech-heavy shows I've seen in years. Jeff Barrett, Pete Hoegemeier, Brandon Rubin, Mike Berge, John Brady, Mark Shuler, William Birch, Dania Ketcham and – c'mon, I know there were more...

Two more. Our choreographer, and unofficial co-director, Walter White, was a pleasure to work with, talk to, and be whipped into shape by. A pillar of patience, tower of talent, hero of hoofing, and a nice chap on top of it all. Thanks, Walter.

Lydia Lyons – she is almost too much for words – a treasure. Our unsung Stage Manager took up the job when Betsy Longoria, the official SM, left to go give birth to her first baby (an event that overrides any mere stage show). Quite simply, I always cherish seeing pros at work. Not just people who happen to get a paycheck doing what they do, but real-deal individuals who "get it." She held ground, kept schedules, calmed tempers and even knew the dances better than any of us! She did all, and was a pal, too. I'd work with her again in a heartbeat – and hope to. She also happens to be a damn fine singer and actress, who takes it seriously enough to make it her profession. Hey, anyone who can pay bills with acting jobs is a force to be reckoned with – no lightweight, this lady. Have I said enough? Oh yeah... and she's hot.

The regular staff of the Golden State Theater must be honored here too. Thanks folks for letting us nearly destroy an historic California landmark – former vaudeville house, purveyor of classic cinema for near a century, and in 2008, harbor of fart-joke laden monster musicals. I think the act to follow us in late April was the Kingston Trio. Hoo-boy! Guys, don't slip in the puddle of gorilla sweat during "Scotch & Soda."

And let me not overlook the obvious: Rider McDowell. He's not enslaved by poverty, to say the least. He could sit in his recliner, in any one of his fine homes, with his equally entrepreneurial (and lovely) wife, and beautiful family, count his riches, and tell the world outside to go screw. But does he? No. He uses those riches, to enrich others, in his own offbeat but purposeful way, with entertainment and quirky humor, and a need to affect the world around him with something unexpected, and positive. There are so many nabobs of negativity running rampant on this tired old planet of ours – I consider it a rare pleasure to meet a Rider McDowell, and use my own talents in concert with his. Here publicly... Thank you, Mr. McDowell, for more than just "puttin' on a show."