Bradfield's Pet TaRANTula

You've got to be 'ducken kidding me

2010-11-26T23:02:00.000-08:00

The Bald Eagle is so... oh, I don't know... so last millenium. [Plus, Eagles look really delicious, and there's far too little of them. Mmmmm... Kentucky Fried Eagle...] We should change the National Bird to the Turducken. There's no greater symbolism of Capitalism and yankee-bullshit gone awry than a big fuckin' bird stuffed with the corpses of two smaller birds. It's perhaps the best symbol of over consumption ever conceived.

For those who might not know what a Turducken is - well, bless you, for starters. It sounds like a put-on at first. It's kind of like a Russian doll of fowlmeats. It is a turkey, stuffed with a duck, which is stuffed with a chicken. The chicken is stuffed too - with anything from pork sausage to fuckin' jambalaya, and all points in between. Apparently, the results are Capitalicious.

To me, it sounds fucking disgusting. But then again, so does a solid majority of Carl's Jr.'s burger menu. It demonstrates a serious lack of imagination when the only thing left to make meat even worse for you (i.e. more appealing to the over-bloated American foodhole) is MORE FUCKING MEAT!!!

It's apparently a Southern creation. You know, the land that time - and modern dentistry - forgot where values are simple, folks ain't queer, and your cousin is the prettiest gal on your cultist ranch. Only in a place where the collective tastebuds of the populace are so deadened from chewing tabacky and shitty beer can something like this exist. It provides vital proteins and tryptophan, which are essential because you've got a busy day of beating the shit out of your wife and watching NASCAR ahead of you.

WHO IN THE HOLY FUCK DOES THIS SOUND APPETIZING TO???

If, as Dubya asserted, the terrorists hate us because of our freedom, the Turducken might be proof that some of their hate might be justified. If I were living in a country where people barely have a pot to piss in, and I got wind of it, I'd bomb something too. As Marie Antoinette learned the hard way, the proletariat will only stand for that kind of inequality for so long. We live in a world that is simultaneously smaller and bigger than that one - so from a certain perspective, "terrorism" might just be a peasant upris...

Sorry - sometimes that happens.

The bottom line is that well... shit... please... for the love of whatever deity you bow to: CAN SOMEBODY EXPLAIN THIS TO ME??? I thought my ex's parents were from Mars or some shit because they had turkey AND ham for Thanksgiving.

Not everyone likes turkey, I've heard repeatedly.

My nuclear family, while I was a kid, hovered between damn near abject poverty, and vulgar wealth. No fucking shit. It would just kind of depend on... well, that doesn't really fuckin' matter. What DOES matter is whether or not we preferred turkey at a family holiday. I mean it matters to the rant, here, in that it didn't matter what the fuckever you preferred, you were eating turkey. Or in my case, I loved turkey, but hated ham. Nothing like a big rubber loaf with a healthy dose of salt to make you laugh in the face of death. Now that I think about it, Christmas ham must have been a way to telegraph to Jewish people that the holiday isn't for them. Crazy Gentiles!

I long for the early days of this millenium when a "to-go plate" was literally a plate. Now, my relatives go to fucking Smart & Final to get boxes I usually get at Canter's because nobody in their right fucking mind could eat that much fucking foo...

I'd hate to think what the plate from a Turducken-oriented household would look like. One thing I know - no vegetables. Just a big goddam pile of fetid meat - that's one plate; another plate of stuffing; and one and a half pumpkin pies. That's how we roll in this country. Nothing like celebrating the "little" things you've got by eating an amount of food that would make Henry VIII go, "Seriously, back away from the fork."

And seriously, it really is one of those, "only in America things," right? Can you tell me anywhere else on the globe -- well, besides Scotland -- where something like the Turducken ISN'T something you'd liken to the Jackalope? AND THEN SOMEBODY NOT ONLY FUCKING CROSSES THE FRANKENSTEIN EVENT HORIZON, BUT ACTUALLY FUCKING EATS IT???

Just on the basis of conceptualizing it, my colon has seized, and I've had a minor heart attack.

Somewhere, in Middle America, a man with a Turducken-polluted digestive system is thinking to himself: Yuh know, yuh could fit a cornish game hen inside that thar chicken...

Hail Chairman Mao.

NEW HOME FOR SNARK SIDE!

2010-09-28T13:14:00.000-07:00

The embedding limitations, and the need to keep my entertainment biz writings very, very, VERY seperate from my public self. Trying to sell a script while talking copious amounts of shit would be difficult to say the least.

http://dvinehamner.wordpress.com/

This Is NOT Offensive Because I've Got Black Friends [or "Notes on the Death and Resurrection of the Dreaded N Word"]

2010-08-18T15:42:00.000-07:00

Dedicating something like this is a pompous act, but this is a special occasion. Thus, I dedicate this rant to Professor Emeritus Tom Leykis and his tireless efforts to stem the tide of idiocy in this country brought about by "Doctor" Laura Schlessinger and her legions of fucktarded, turkey-necked followers. The fact her show continued while your show, nay, your whole station, was given the axe is proof of the kind of social injustice that got Marvin Gaye killed, and leaves Eddie Money alive, kicking, pumping out more mediocre albums, and having sex with ugly, inbred teenagers at county fairs. You probably hear this every day, but your presence, sir, is sorely missed.

I thought Mel Gibson was great, but this thing with Dr. Laura Schlessinger... HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

Whew... aaaaaaaah... nope... a-huh... A-HUH... AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

...and all this time, I thought a white person saying that word simply wasn't funny. Ever. However, If I've learned nothing else about this life, it's that it throws you plenty of curveballs.

I bet Michael Richards is really, REALLY fucking happy right now. Within the span of a few short weeks, he's lookin' a lot better in the opinion polls. He's already able to shop in public again. [So look out, Bed, Bath & Beyond!] In a year or two - and with any luck, a couple more celebrity bigot meltdowns under our nation's collective belt - he might even get another TV show. So I guess the moral of the story there is - I BEG OF THE CELEBRITY COMMUNITY, DO NOT, UNDER ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, UTTER THAT WORD!!! WE MUST STRIVE FOR MICHAEL RICHARDS-FREE AIRWAVES!!!

This might not make me the most popular person in the world, but you know what? I'm glad they said it!

Hear me out.

I've really missed... that word... not for me, mind you. For a guy like me... you know, I'm OC... "Original Conqueror." For a guy like me, that is to say, a couple shades whiter than "Lily," it's the shortest distance between two points: my face, and black folks' fists. And I'm not about to try to bend the rules of the universe. I say - why shouldn't it be that way??? Black folks have had to endure steaming piles of bullshit being heaped on them, day after day, in history (wink, wink) in the name of "that's just the way it is." Don't you think it's about time SOMETHING worked that way for white folks???

I really don't know what happens in the caucasian brain to make some think that saying it is okay, but I have a theory: the more racially tolerant and understanding white people become, the more some of us feel feel we can use that word. Silly, right? As if using the slur was a way to say, "Hey! I'm so beyond racism that I consider myself kind of like a black person. Look! I own a Kangol! You can call me that!"

Well, sure they can! But it's kind of like dancing with a relative. Nothing's really "wrong" with it, but it just ain't the same. The few times I've been called that, I've kind of considered it a badge of honor. Yet I didn't think it was finally my pass to call anybody that.

What do you think, Gene Wilder?

"I've got a golden ticket..."

Thanks, Gene Wilder!

All I know is that I haven't heard... the word... in a Beastie Boys song. Same with Eminem. Think about it. Further, I'd bet good money that if, say, Justin Timberlake turned to one of his dancers and said, "nig..." he'd be clobbered before he could even get the "...ga please!" out of his mouth. I can imagine Lindsay Lohan and Britney Spears saying it, though. One's a psychotic, substance abusing ridgerunner with no filter, and the other one's... a psychotic, substance abusing ridgerunner with no filter.

I blame phonecams, I really do. Well, and people like me who can't get enough of fucked up viral videos. It's not that I liked what he was doing with the word. Well, no I liked that... It's just, well, I've got a fucked up sense of humor. So I was hoping he'd just keep going, but not because he was mining comedic gold.

But it threw everyone into a crazy uproar. It was all over the news. Black people were furious about it. White people were even more furious about it. Or at least they faked it. Richards goes on Letterman, he blows Jesse Jackson... because everybody knows that if you REALLY fuck up, Al Sharpton gets to fuck you in the ass and give you a Tony Danza. The NAACP held a funeral for the word...

Now, a couple years later, the only people using the word are ghost-faced idiots - two of whom exceeded their relevancy expiration date with the turn of the century: an AM radio host, who isn't really a doctor; and a man who must have referred to Danny Glover's family as his "pride," or some shit. What can we do? Hold another funeral for it?

Okay, this time, we really mean it!

I don't think I've really explained why I say I'm "glad" that Mel Gibson and Dr. Laura are firmly entrenched in the "Bringing 'Nigger' Back" movement. It started with the Vietnam war, but I think it has to with baby boomer liberals' - usually white, baby boomer liberals - apparent belief that if they hold a couple protests, and get Richie Havens to show up, POOF!!! All social ills are cured, justice is restored, and the planet rotates on a smoother axis.

They figure one black president of the United States is proof of what they call, "Post-racial America." The pundits on Fox News alone are proof that Mr. Charlie isn't going to take this "minority insurrection" lying down. In other words, there's still much work to do. I don't give a French-fried fuck what you say, Moonbeam. It's going to take a lot more than singing Joan Baez tunes - but you could start by listening to Gil Scott Heron or something. He's from that time period!

Why do I say there's still much work to be done? Well, my favorite example occurred the day after the 2008 election. My dear friend, and occasional partner in crime, Simon Phoenix was in a Post Office when an older white person tapped him on the shoulder, and simply said, "Congratulations." Nice sentiment, Oldy Oldson, but just because the governmental wing of The United States of Advertising is being run by a black man doesn't mean that we're one nation under God yet. Sorry. Thanks for playing.

So in closing, I appeal to my black friends and readers:

I love you guys, more than I can ever capture in words. Both of you... ahem! Are you gonna let The Man take one MORE thing from you??? Bring it back! Use that word, and liberally. Fucking FLAUNT it. Now that I think about it, white people, you do it too! Because, to paraphrase Joseph Heller in Catch 22, there would be fewer wars if there were more bloody noses.

You Can't Un-Fuck A Nun With A Dildo Made Of Tadpole-Shit: Or Election 2010 - GO AMERICA!!!

2010-06-08T05:57:00.000-07:00

The ozone crackles brightly in my nose. Time to snort another rail of democracy!

My parents had a dalmatian named Daniel when I was a kid. That fucker must have been part goat, as he ate everything he could lay his psychotic paws on.

One year, they made a cake for a friend's surprise party, and that fucker Daniel ate a corner of the cake. My mom layered the frosting to fake it, and they called the recipe "Daniel's Delight." After all, how often are you at a party where the cake gets polished off?

Daniel sucked on a multitude of levels. The fucker bit me in the nose and though I was four and you can't quite see it, I've got a goddam scar to this day. I hope the family that took him off of our hands sent that son of a bitch - no relation - to the pound and after his demise, children from that "special" high school got to dissect him. Fuck that lousy dog.

Where was I?

So Daniel ate everything that wasn't nailed down. My folks built a little grow house for plants - ferns you fucking asshole. My parent's weren't that cool.

I got some Day-Glo Crayons, that fucker ate them too.

The Fisher Price peg people? Holy shit, you'd think that was a staple of the Dalmatian diet around our house.

Being a stickler for freshness, Daniel was always right at the ready, sticking his snout into our cat, Pywacket's, ass to get a little soft serve.

That fucker even ate about a quarter of the tire on my fucking Big Wheel.

With big and weird meals come big and weird shits.

I think a lot of people have kids so they don't have to pick up dogshit, but it's only a theory.

But the Old Man had a policy when he made us pick up dogshit: we could look around the yard, and select the turd that would most likely make us throw up. The first one between my brother and I to throw up could go inside and watch cartoons. If we were lucky, it was Fat Albert.

Now the week that Daniel ate the crayons, and the fisher price people, he also ate the shit out of Pywacket's asshole. So you'd think that the shit that was comprised of shit from another animal would be the shittiest shit of all the shit. Therefore inducing at least a LITTLE barf, and if you're lucky, a little shart. So my brother ran for piece of shit that was basically recycled shit, in hopes of making him throw up so he could go inside to watch Fat Albert.

But no! Sometimes running blindly toward the easy choice leads to ruin.

He overshot the shit, and merely stepped in the day glo crayon shit, which having not much shit to throw up on, only gagged.

So I not only picked up the shit that was made of shit, although it was technically my second choice. But I scraped the day glo crayon shit off of my brother's Tom McCann's and hurled a mighty load. We'd been to Long John Silver's the night before.

"That," my dear Pappy Vinehamner said to me, "is America."

As for me, I didn't send in my absentee ballot, so I'm going to Pasadena today to pick up dogshit and hopefully throw up fast. I need to get back to work on my opus magus recti.

It was a slow, rolling motion... DOOM!!! DESTRUCTION!!! THE END OF DAYS!!! Earthquakes in Southern California. [or "Isn't There, Like, A Fuckin' WAR On Or Something???"]

2010-04-04T18:33:00.000-07:00

One of the things that makes me a lousy Buddhist is that I'm not particularly big on complete silence, unless I'm reading. And as such, I leave the television on. Music doesn't work. I like it too much; I tend to pay attention. The endless drone of fuckwits trying to fill air-time, however, I can tune it right out. It's just like living with my parents again. Fuck comfort food, I need comfort noise!

TV has been my night-light of choice for many years too. I don't really sleep, so much as I pass out. If I'm in a dark, silent room, sleep just ain't happening. My thoughts will wander, and then it's only a matter of time before I'm up at the desk, working on new material.

It was more of an issue when I was in Corporate America. They kind of need you to be awake and productive, like, all the time. Jagoffs. I tend to work about 10-12 hours a day, on the average. It just happens to be during weird hours. What's your problem, fuck-o? No, I'll make sure I'm here at 9 sharp. I've got paper-clip springs to make and pointless e-mails to fire off so I can look like I'm working! Outta my way!

Anyway, so I watch a lot of television.You'd think this would make me a better TV writer, but anywho... A lot of the time, it's just white noise.

Currently, aside from the white noise thing, I use it to fuel my rage. In daily life, I've been trying to be a more accepting and forgiving person. It works about 5% of the time, but let's not split hairs right now. The point is, well, Popeye needs his spinach, and I need a multitude of things at which I can scream at the top of my lungs ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS???? So in other words, I'll cop to being completely aware of the fact that I can change the fuckin' channel.

Most of the time, out of habit, I start out watching the news. I figure if I'm going to torture myself, I might as well at least pretend to do it under the auspice of "being informed." I can't watch movies, or good TV shows. It's like music. I'll pay attention and stop writing.

Plus, the last time I skipped the morning news because I was nursing a hangover and had to get to work, some planes flew into some buildings and... you know the story. I haven't been over 50 feet from a television since 2001.

But since I'm not really paying attention to the TV, it's like...

It's complex.

So - the thing is, I watch local news. Mainly because - fuckifiknow. If I watch CNN, MSNBC or that cesspool of fuckwits over at Fox News Channel, I'm going to pay attention. Even if I don't agree with it, even if it's something I feel is bone fucking stupid and fills me with the rage with which to do another piece, it takes my eyes off the prize of finishing whateverthefuckitis that I'm supposed to be finishing in the first place. It's an ugly cycle.

Most of the time, I look the other way. More specifically, I look at my computer and the TV sounds something like:

BuzzbuzzbuzzbuzzBradPittbzzzbzzzbzzzIraqbzzzbzzzbzzz80degreesandsunnybzzzbzzzbzzz, and then, every so often...

EARTHQUAKE!!!!! EARTH FUCKIN' QUAKE!!!! RUN, YOU BASTARD SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF PIRATE WHORES!!! RUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUN!!!!!

Today was one of those days. At this moment earthquake coverage has been going on for about three hours. I didn't feel this earthquake. Not saying it didn't happen. But I'm saying that I didn't see THREE FUCKING HOURS of coverage on the fucking Haiti earthquake - AND THAT FUCKING WAS A GODDAM CATASTROPHE!!!

Three fucking hours of droning shitheads talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking and talking about NOTHING!!!

"Now let's go to the phones."

"Yes, Paul. This is Sally from Northridge. It was a slow, rolling motion and..."

Here's the deal: if your first impulse after a natural disaster is to call your local news outlet to report it, pull the news van over because somebody scooped ya, Walter Kronkite. This, I assure you.

Actually, you know something? If your first impulse after a natural disaster is to call your local TV news - just fucking kill yourself. Your priorities are fucked up and you don't live in a tangible reality. Those people inside the little glowing box are not your friends and/or loved ones. Yes, I know they come into your home every day...

Three fucking hours. Three. Fucking. Hours.

"Let's go to Bob Banfield in Riverside:"

[Note: a couple guys in UCR t-shirts are attempting to lift up Bob's rug.]

"I'm here at the Del Taco on University Avenue. Young man, did you feel the earthquake? How did it feel?"

"Uh, yeah. It was a slow, rolling motion..."

"If you're just tuning in, there's been an earthquake in MexiCali. This just in from Disneyland, all the rides are shut down and some people are trapped in elevators."

I've been on the Winne the Pooh ride - that would have been a mercy killing.

"On the phone, we have Richard Fader of Lancaster."

"It was a slow, rolling motion..."

And somewhere in space, Paul Moyer gnashes his teeth, curses God, and screams at his agent and producer about burying his expose of the Grecian Formula corporation: Getting Scalped.

Then they trot out Dr. Lucy, the Geology Slut, out at the Cal Tech podium.

"...it was a slow..."

"We're now getting camera phone images of some of the damage..."

CUT TO: picture of an end-cap of toilet paper spilled into the aisle of a grocery store.

"The paper. It fall off the shelf."

I am now praying for the sweet release of a follow-up story on the walking clown car that is the Octo-mom. I need a good hard news story.

Yes. Who Would've Thunk A 'Roided Out Biker Shithead With A TV Show And Celebrity Pals Would Be Capable Of Such...

2010-03-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

Disclaimer #1: I wish Sandra Bullock no specific ill - actually, I wish her no ill whatsoever. She's a celebrity who (up until now) has managed to steer herself clear of most of the tabloid horseshit - but most of her movies appeal to the Oprah crowd. I have seen, according to IMDb a total of one of her films. [Which shouldn't really count as Demolition Man was technically a Sylvester Stallone vehicle - but it brought her into the public eye.] But she seems like a great girl. She's a huge Howard Stern fan, and her appearance at the Razzies this year proves that she can laugh at herself. And finally, though she may not be the subject of debate on the Maxim Hot 100, [I only know of it - I could give a French Fried Fuck about the content of that parrot cage liner.] having seen her twice up close and personal in public, I find her to be extremely hot.

Disclaimer #2: I'm not a "nice" guy. I'm nice-adjacent. I am sarcastic and cynical, and delight at any opportunity I can get to hurl invective at those who deserve it. I mean, I'm a stand-up kind of guy. I'm a dependable guy. But I talk a lot of shit.

I say this up front, because, once I get into it, the last thing I want anyone to think that I'm some poetry-writing emo fuck who has an axe to grind with women because he's too much of a pussy to take a little initiative, and thus, has had few to no dates. Though I haven't exactly reached Wilt Chamberlain numbers, I've done ok when it comes to "the fairer sex," and - despite what one might think, with me being a divorcee-to-be - any gripe I had with women went away when I threw out my poetry journal...

Do I really have to say I was kidding about the last bit? I'd never throw away my poetry journal.

So here we go.

What I know about Sandra Bullock boils down to one movie (Demolition Man), and what I've seen of her on talk-shows. But she seems pretty cool. Having gone to acting school, that's as hard as it is rare for me to say about an actress - famous or otherwise. She also reminds me of a lot of my female friends - romantic and/or otherwise.

Maybe that's the thing here: it's not so much that friendships with women are better or worse than friendships with men, but I think we'd all admit that they're different - and tricky, if not difficult, to maintain.

But I digress...

Friendships with women. I gotta keep it short and get back to my beloved Sandy. Back in the day, I was ok at it - most of the friendships came from unrequited attraction, but in both directions. I either felt romantically toward a girl, but she didn't feel the same way, or vice versa. Ah! l'amour de la jeunesse!!!

I've kind of recently gotten back into the friendship thing with the fairer sex. However, although not impossible, friendships with people of the opposite sex are even trickier when you're married (even if...). I mean meaningful ones where you really get to know someone. Not Whatshername or Thatguy from the cubicle farm, that enjoys Dexter just as much as you do.

I've been in a weird position, though. Knowing that a split is inevitable frees me up to explore friendships with women - and that's about it. A verbal, albeit loosely defined, agreement based on our financial inability to split for right now keeps things from getting complicated - in other words, physical attraction, sex, yadda, yadda. I'm not fucking dead - or dead to fucking. It's just that, still being under the same (very small) roof, for lack of a better word - shoving things in another person's face is pretty cold. We put it this way: just because we're eventually going to be single doesn't mean we can or should act that way now. So, limbo has actually been rather liberating.

Imagine that. This whole fucking first bit is pretty much all disclaimer, isn't it?

I guess what I'm trying to say is that I really like women, love women, love being around them.

But I'm about to say might sound harsh. Before you, yes you... You too. And you toward the back trying to shrink behind your friend to avoid my line of vision... before any lovely, beautiful goddess-like fairy princess(es) I know (who's fecal matter doesn't stink; and who's pussy smells like flowers and looks "like a paper cut with a wisp of cotton candy on top") thinks that this is specific to them, I am talking in a very general sense, but based on broad experiences. And experience with broads.

I'll be here all week!

So... Let me set a scene. Sandy called me last night (Oh sure, true story), and just needed someone to talk to. Someone, as she puts it, "who isn't telling me to cut Jesse's balls off and go for the jugular."

Aw, shit! It's not like I thought it was my "in" line, it's how I feel, but... Fuck!

"All right, all right. But can we go to the fucking Edison this time? I think I need to go where people can't hear us. Plus, if you're gonna get thrashed, hate on men, and stumble around like a fucking hobo, I'd rather it be around me than someone from the Date-rape Brigade. Your fuckin' holding your own hair this time though. You puked on my fucking Doc Martens, you cunt!"

*I imagine she'd be the kind of girl who's cool with my sailor mouth, and knows that calling you very, very bad things is my way of saying "I love you." I'm complex, but pretty transparent.*

So we're at the Edison. off night. Early in the evening, so as to avoid gawkers. She's on her second absinthe cocktail. I'm alternating a nice Indian pale with water. Somebody's going to have to drive her drunk ass home. And here it comes...

"I wish he could be more like you! You're so good to me!"

Shit, if it had been a long time since I'd gotten laid - I'd be fucking pissed. Excuse me, pi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hi-hissed!!!

"Like" me. Of course. Nothing like the implication that you're perfect, save for one thing that makes crossing the attraction barrier impossible. And that she's legs to the sky with somebody that under any other conditions would make you want to vomit. They want you to get to know them, and then when you do...

Wait - I was back at the shrink's office again. Sorry.

I feel a little bit like a jerk now, but I snapped.

"Look, Sandy-kins, I asked you to come down here for a reason."

"Look, D., I just don't..."

"...feel that way about me. I know. For once, don't fucking flatter yourself. I brought you down here, because yelling at you where things are very loud is a lot more appropriate than in a quiet, hole-in-the-wall, meant for conversation."

"You want to yell at me?"

"Yes and no. But you're probably going to yell at me, and you've got a reputation to protect. I just want to know one thing:

GOD FUCKING DAMN IT GIRL!!!! HOW IN THE FLYING FUCK DID YOU NOT SEE THAT COMING??? THE GUY LOOKS LIKE FUCKING WALKING VD!!! BUT OH NO, YOU LIKE THE 'BAD BOY,' DON'T YOU??? BECAUSE HE TELLS YOU THAT NOT ONLY ARE YOU GOING TO 'MAKE A GOOD MAN OUT OF HIM' BUT HE WANTS YOU TO AS WELL??? OR IS IT THE OLD 'I'M GOING TO TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ALL OF THIS' ROUTINE??? TELL YA WHAT - IF TELEVISION IS TO BE BELIEVED, I HEAR THAT BRET MICHAELS IS LOOKING FOR LOVE. HE'S GOT A HARLEY!!! OOOOOOOOO!!!!"

She hits me with the doe-eyes. Goddammit!!! She's making this hard.

"You don't know him like..."

"Don't insult either of our intelligences by finishing that fuckin' sentence. But I guess I should be glad that I'm hearing it in a cool bar instead of the usual police station, hospital or planned fucking parenthood."

Aw crap! Now she's crying. I didn't intend for that to happen. But then, why did I holler at her like that? That isn't cool. Better pull it back from the brink of destruction.

"I'm sorry. Look, I shouldn't have said it so... um, passionately?"

She sniffles and lets out a giggle. OK. She's remembered she's amongst friends. A friend with a big fuckin' mouth, but a friend nonetheless.

"Are you apologizing?"

"Only for the way I said it. But seriously, for a really bright and beautiful girl..."

"You think I'm pretty?"

I give her the "Don't be a fuckin' moron" look.

"I'm not smart. I ended up with that... that..."

"Cretinous miasma of clownshit and hydrolic fluid? Come on, baby! Let me Godfather that stupid dog of his."

She laughs, but some "cryin' snot" comes out of her nose. It's not quite pig-tails or a schoolgirl uniform, but a grown woman crying like that has a girlish (even kinky) charm to it. I give her my napkin and continue:

"I know that it's hard to see the forest for the trees in this situation, but even before the award - which I hope you aren't letting all this tabloid shit overshadow what is still an amazing accomplishment..."

"I thought the Oscars were for 'Assholes who need Brownie buttons as a cultural barometer...'"

"You know, for a woman, you seem to not want to talk about yourself very much..."

I have successfully avoided the iceberg. She tells me so with a punch in the arm.

"...I was more referring to your production company, but if you want to obssess on your little trinket, fuckever..."

A couple more drinks and rebuilding the ol' ego later, we depart. As is the custom, she vomits on my shoes [My monkey boots this time. Hint: old shoes are best in these situations.] as I hold her hair. She gobbles a metric ton of Certs as we split a joint on the way home.

"I never realized these things were so crunchy before... There's a liquor store!!! I want Jack Daniels. I don't care if it's after two, I'm an Oscar winner!"

"Yeah, sure. I totally encourage you to tell them exactly that. Worked for Drew Barrymore."

"You're such a... thpblllllltttttt."

As I walk... no, as I drag her to the door, she pulls her keys from her purse, which true to a RomCom script, shoot across the lawn - yup, sprinklers too.

"You know, I've never hit a woman before, but you're apparently into that sort of thing, so just keep pushin', toots...."

She slumps in the doorway, giggling like a ninny. It's cute this time. She's had a hard week. I've said what I needed to say.

"I only let men abuse my reputation."

"In the words of Warren Zevon..."

We sing "Poor, Poor Pitiful Me." Badly. Where's David Lindley when you really need him?

RomComs have editors. I spent 20 fucking minutes searching for her goddam keys as she retched up her Campbell's Booze n' Breathmints Stew. She was face down, so I was sure she wasn't going to Morrison on me. What? Too soon?

I laid her on the massage table for two reasons: first and foremost, I'm an insomniac, but it's even harder for me to sleep in other people's houses. She might mistake it for actually giving a shit about her, and I don't need any complications right now. So if she hurled, she wouldn't do the Hendrix shuffle... Fuck!

Second, I'm just evil enough that, when she calls to ask what the fuck happened last night, and why the fuck she's half naked on a fucking massage table with her vomit-caked boots under her face, I can get that far away look in my eye and say:

"Jesse was sure a lucky guy. And I thought you were only versatile on a movie set..."

Punch in the arm. Fade to black.

Madame Tussaud & Her House of Suck-Buggery [Notes on the exploitation of Mannequin Americans]

2010-03-13T18:02:00.000-08:00

I don't really get wax museums. They're creepy. They've always seemed to do the exact opposite of what they're supposed to do. They don't evoke the warm memories of my favorite films. More often, as I wander through these Menageries of the Damned, I think shit like:

Does fuckin' anybody think It's A Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad, Mad World is funny?

And if so...

Will we dance on their bones when the Revolution comes? Or gnaw on their skulls?

and...

Who the fuck put Ernest Borgnine's head on Harpo Marx???

Further...

Did I say "Mad" too many times?

Through over three decades of my life, there were only two in Southern California. Only. Fuck. Only. Two is two many, if you ask me. In fact, my megalomaniacal dream for an Artistic Auschwitz in which all ventriloquists, mimes and magicians (except Penn & Teller) are locked up and gassed should really make some room for people who manufacture wax dummies, and the people who patronize the museums. But I digress... Only two.

Number one - the gold standard, if you will, was Movieland Wax Museum in Buena Park, down the street from Knott's Berry Farm. Just like Knott's Berry Farm. It sucked, and continues to suck. Just like Knott's, it's in Buena Park. And most of all, it's just like Knott's because it's where you take your friends who are new to SoCal (or the fucking country) to show them what American amusement parks used to be like. It is a sad and frightening place.

It was even worse in the 70's and 80's. For the longest time, they had a second building called, if my weed-addled memory is correct, The Palace of Living Art. [Do ya really call it an "annex" when the "main facility" has less entertainment value than a clown car? I'm grasping at straws when I call these unholy shitpiles "attractions."] Imagine all the crappy, backward art that your redneck relatives had on their walls, IN THREE FUCKING D!!!

The other craphole is only a memory now. The Hollywood Wax Museum. It was a big giant pile of suck with a roof on it. My strongest memory is trying to stifle belly-laughter as punks and cholos chucked their change at the table for The Last Supper - "It's not a wishing well, you fuck!" It bookended on one side by a shitty bar and on the other side, the Scientologists. You can't throw a rock without hitting one in this town.

[Not that I've actually tried throwing a rock in this town with anything BUT the intention of hitting a Scientologist...]

Wax dummies are a stupid art form. And a segment of the Tourist Trap industry that had no competition. But then Madame Tussaud rolled into town. Movieland didn't suffer, they're what you do when you realize spending every day of your Disney vacation might just drive you insane. Hollywood Wax Museum - not so lucky. Did she not know the French are unwelcome here??? Almost sounds like a Sherlock Holmes villain:

Tussaud!!!!

So naturally, I had to go. It was kismet. It's awful and sick, and my sense of humor is similarly awful and sick. And also, it is a multi-million dollar monument, nay proof of, on of my most powerful beliefs about this life: God hates cinema.

Point #1 - biggest point. $25. Apiece. That's right - $25. $50 to look at wax fucking dummies of celebrities.

I can't really call our first dummy a celebrity. You can't really call him a dummy either. A "Mannequin American," if you will. Barrack Obama. I mean, I voted for the guy. But really??? I couldn't even take my own picture. The register monkey at the door had to do it. I shouldn't gripe about the guy - he was just following orders. After all, a lot of people may really want to buy that shit later. The $17 dollar price-tag is totally worth it. The frame is made from the finest cardboard, made from the loving hands of 9 year-old Sri Lankan refugee children. Nothing but the best best for the American Auto Association Silver Level membership people!

When you go up the Red Carpet - i.e. the red stairs that lead to the elevators - you are first accosted by the Joan Rivers dummy. If you count the ill-fated Superstar Limousine at Disney's California Adventure, it's Joan Rivers' second appearance in a SoCal tourist attraction. Perhaps the point was to make you feel sorry for celebrities. That's what I took away from the experience. The only reason I knew it wasn't the real Joan Rivers is that she didn't look like the Joan Rivers Mummy, she looked like Joan Rivers... Aw fuck. She's kind of always looked like a goddam wax dummy, hasn't she?

Ordinarily, I could give two-tenths of a shit whether or not I offend someone, but I feel compelled to issue a disclamer here: I've got no gripe with people who don't speak English. Frankly, it's a stupid language and a fucking bitch and a half to learn. And I have no gripe with people from other countries. What I hate is tourists - and you know there's a difference between somebody who coincidentally "ain't frum here," and doesn't speak English and somebody WHO WOULD BE THE SAME SLACK-JAWED FUCKTARD IF HE GREW UP AROUND THE GODDAM CORNER FROM YOU!!!

"No. Please go ahead. We take a lot of pictures."

"Oh, no. No. It's ok."

AND...

Smile, nod, stand at (what you think is) the periphery of our picture and continue to eye the elevator as if you were incontinent and there was a fucking urinal in there. That's smart. See the reason that the two of us are STANDING HERE WITH PRO-GRADE CAMERAS AND TAKING SEVERAL PICTURES OF A JOAN RIVERS DUMM... MANNEQUIN AMERICAN IS BECAUSE WE'RE EXPECTING HER TO MOVE ANY OL' TIME NOW!!! WIPE THOSE STUPID SMILES OFF YOUR MORONIC FACES, COLLECT YOUR WATERHEADED CHILD AND GET THE FUCK ON THAT ELEVATOR!!! DIDN'T YOU HEAR THE MAN?! YOU'VE GOT A BONAFIDE HOLLYWOOD PARTY TO GO TO!!! PEOPLE WON'T BAT A FUCKING EYELASH IF I'M LATE - IT'S PRACTICALLY EXPECTED OF ME - BUT FOR YOU GUYS, IT'S BAD FORM!!!! GOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGOGO!!!!!!

*sob*

Just go... go... please? You're hurting me...

I have it on good authority that the elevator in Leonardo DiCaprio's home is just like this.

Onto the elevators - very immersive. Sort of. I mean, more pictures of celebrities on the walls of the elevator. A typical announcer voice (manufactured by the announcerbot 1550) drones on about living the movies in a thinly veiled attempt at immersing you in an authentic Hollywood atmosphere.

[Why God? Why? If I'm living a movie, can't that movie be a porno???]

Wow! Somebody sure hates French people!!!

So, just like real Corey Haim, you start at the top, and work your way down. Too soon?

Announcerbot: And now, you're the guest of honor at your very own Hollywood party!!!

And the doors swing open. Well, I mean you know, open like elevator doors. But there was an air pressure differential that simulated a Woosh. And just like a real party, George Clooney was sitting in the corner alone, strategically positioned near the elevator, should he have to beat a hasty retreat.

Question: If this is "my Hollywood party", then how come Beyonce's performing?

Shit - Jay-Z has really let himself go...

Actually, it was a lot like many of the "Hollywood" parties I've been to - packed to capacity with fake people who have nothing to say, and gawkers. Ba-dum-bum!!!

I felt a little uncomfortable being in the same room as The Pitt/Jolie's especially because somebody apparently neglected to tell them that Jennifer Anniston was coming too. Who's hosting this fiasco?

"What are you looking at, cunt?"

"Nuthin'!"

Far be it from me to come to the defense of a maudlin, terrible actress who has contributed nothing to the culture but tabloid bullshit drama and an endless shitstream of RomComs that seem like their only purpose on the planet is to destroy the careers of British leading men... where was I? Oh yeah, I'm usually the last guy to talk about "bad taste" but the placement of the Brangelina/Anniston dum... Mannequin Americans was at the very least a little fucked up.

But what was more fucked up was the placement of Zac Effron and Michael Jackson. I personally thought MacCauly Caulkin or Haley Joel Osment would have been a better choice, but those fuckers couldn't open an envelope these days.

"What's your name, sweet meat? Shake it, but don't break it!"

It's not enough that The King of Poo-Pushing's death set off a wave of nostalgia in half my friends, now I gotta look at it.

"I've seen High School Musical 3 over a hundred times."

"I don't understand. What do you mean I could be the next Corey Feldman?"

Just a couple more snarks before we move on to the next circle of Hell.

Some "up close" experience. You can stand next to them, you can even put your hands on their butts, but try to make out with them and all the sudden secturity has to get involved.

Look, ma! No Jews!

The second floor (which is really the third, but remember, you're on a Dante-esque trip downward through the 4 circles of Showbiz Hell) is dedicated to "Classic" Hollywood. I do kind of have to admit that it this floor wasn't so bad.

Don't cast aspersions - Woody Goldberg plays really well in the sticks. Just like Leno.

If nothing else, Whoever threw all that wax together made a pretty fair assessment of what a classic was. It's either that, or this idea that I know, and have good taste in, film is complete and utter bullshit. Hm. Maybe a little from column A and a little from column B.

Jimmy Stewart (left). Harvey the Rabbit (Right)

My favorite exhibit, piece, fuckever... was the Charlton Heston Mannequin American.

Just call me Moses, nancy-boy!

You're the boss, Charlton Heston! Just don't shoot me!

Note: this piece is not on the same floor as Mel Gibson

Ol'd Chuck-ster's... I mean, Moseseseses(?) presence was made all the better by a film loop of the parting of the Red Sea. [OK - time for th real film geek to come out: I think the footage they were using was from the silent version of the film. I want to say Cecil B. DeMille directed it...] As soon as the linoleum got to "full part" I ran across. and then the Johhn Grant Mannequin American gave me a plaque, declaring me Jew for a day.

Between you and me - that ain't wax work! It's taxidermy!!!

I went back up to the party.

"Shove this in your Jew hating pipe and smoke it, ya racist asshole!"

"Sir, you're disturbing the tourists. There's one family in particular that pantomimed to me that you wouldn't let them get on the elevator."

I'm always taken a little aback when people treat religious movies like fucking documentaries; and the people who star in them as if they were whatever religious character they portrayed. Well, except Willem Dafoe. David "Don't call me Pilate" Bowie, however, has yet to live The Last Temptation of Christ down. Poor guy. I wonder how he sleeps at night.

Well. And on a big bed of money!

You shut up, Charlton Heston. You had your say!

It is also on the second floor where I had a great idea. I mean, only like the best idea EVER!!! LESBIAN FETISH PICTURES OF CLASSIC MOVIE ACTRESSES STARRING "THE EX"!!! The big selling point to this shithole is that you're supposed to be able to get up close and personal with the stars, right? Too bad it was a cold day. Anyway...

Everybody's gotta have something to wack-off too. Even film geeks. At least I never asked her to dress up as Princess Leia in a slave-girl costume!!!

Another thing that struck me, as I made my way through "The Classics," - if the mannequins aren't in some specific scene from a movie, their arrangement on the floor was so fucking random. You'd have Sylvester Stallone in whatever the fuck nebulous Rocky sequel next to Woody Goldberg in Sister Act (nothin' like the classics, folks!) across from Billy Shatner in Star Trek. Coincidentally, you could actually lift Shatner's rug off of his head - just like in real life!

You know, Woody Goldberg is just as funny as a mannequin as she is in the movies. Maybe funnier!

I have a bizarre "tradition" of "meeting" celebrities on my birthday. When I turned 38, I was accidentally hit in the chest by Dustin Hoffman in one of the galleries at LACMA. Even on the day we went to Tussaud's, we bumped into, literally, William H. Macy at one of the bars in the Roosevelt. But I shall always remember the time I met Nicolas Cage. I thought the mannequin looked a little too real, so I went in for a closer look...

Nic Cage in, um... well... um... every movie he's ever been in?

"Ya know, they can say what they like about The Wicker Man and Ghost Rider, but the guy has an Oscar and he was awesome in that Bad Lieutenant remake."

"Well, thanks a lot, there, pard'ner. That means a lot."

"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH!!!! WHAT THE FUCK????????"

"Sorry, there, man. Didn't mean to spook ya. I just like to come down here and stand real still and see what the people have to say. I could give a damn what the critics say."

"Obviously."

"Huh?"

"Never mind. You take care of yourself, Nicolas Cage."

"Call me Fu Manchu! Check out Jim Carrey over there, he's havin' a great time!"

And he was right! Jim Carrey in... um... a movie... where he's, um... being wacky. Just look at him. Whatever the hell Steven Spielberg just said to Robyn Williams must have been hysterical!

No comment.

I guess the intent here was to - instead of evoke memories of your favorite movies, or simulate a Hollywood party with "Big Players" - show you how cool it is to be on a movie set with cut-ups and auteurs. This, to me, was the equivalent of the "movie about making movies" genre. But in wax. That's what we needed. You know what? Throw in a couple Teamsters standing next to a Craft Services table - and no wax food! I want real bagels and Doritos! And get me a fuckin' Perrier!!!

Yeah - Very wierd floor.

I call the third floor (actually the second floor - remember, we're on a Lindsay Lohan trajectory, here!) Testosterone Alley because it was where they shoved all the athletes and action heroes.

Ever since "Pussygate," Lance has one more ball than Tiger

I mean, FUCK!!! I don't know what to snark anymore. I mean, it's the same fucking shit floor to floor. Randomly arranged figures whose only affect on me at this point is making me want to go home and watch a Fellini to purge my fucking soul. Let's see. Yadda, yadda. There's everyone on this floor from Daniel Craig to the only two reasons to watch any of that awful Fantastic Four movie - and they were on Jessica Alba's chest! [Hey-yo!!! Up top!!!] Oh yeah - That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis was there too. I guess he was in a Die Hard or something. Fuck if I know, I was getting weary and there was still one more floor and the customary "trap 'em on the way out" gift shop to traverse.

"Hi baby. I know this would be creepy from another guy, but I'm famous. Let me ask you something..."

I guess I can say a little about the window displays here because that's all you can see from the street. Or the bar in the front of the Roosevelt. I've seen a lot of them from that bar... My main point, IF YOU'RE EVEN ENTERTAINING THE IDEA OF GOING TO MADAME TUSSAUD'S I WANT YOU TO GO TO THAT BAR, GET A WINDOW TABLE AND OGGLE THE DUMMIES FROM THERE!!! I FUCKING ASSURE YOU - THAT REALLY, REALLY IS ALL YOU NEED!!! SEE, AT THE ROOSEVELT, YOU HAVE A PRETTY GODDAM GOOD CHANCE OF RUNNING INTO AN ACTUAL STAR - AND STEPPING ON THEIR FOOT!!! AND THERE'S ALCOHOL!!!

Speaking of feet, the most useful part of the trip - I know have a pic of the Asics Tiger Onitsuka's I want.

Thank God, last circle of hell. Now part of it is the whole "Behind the Scenes" thing. Somebody in that organization really has a thing for Beyonce Knowles. I was reminded of a wax "sculpture" [HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! A-HUH!!! A-HUH!!! AAAAAAH - HAHAHAHAHA!!!"]

in the aforementioned Palace of Living Art which captured DaVinci painting the Mona Lisa, with the model posing.

Ye Gods! Where does reality end, and the fantasy begin???

Boy I'm glad I don't do hallucinogens when I do that kind of shit anymore. Just bad news in these situations.

Now, we've been across a broad pastiche, if you will, of (what people from "not here" think are) Hollywood experiences. But there's one more room between the "making of" bit and the gift shop. Think for a second. Doesn't it appear that I've left something out?

Time's up. Awards Night. Which award? Fuck if I know. Think those fuckers on the top floor were A-List? Now we're talking about those people who make imp-hor-tahnt films about seer-yus iss-ee-ewes. Morgan Freeman (the Easy Reader from The Electric Company) was there, looking solemn and contemplative. Halle Berry (star of Catwoman) was in a floor length gown, in order to hide that anomalous sixth toe. It was a very important occasion: it was the first time that two African Mannequin Americans were on the same floor in a wax museum.

"My next film will be about a mentally challenged Civil War soldier..."

I have a dream!

Jack Nicholson was there, in the middle of two empty seats, so you could take a picture that made it look like he was talking to you during the Oscars. But I had a good time thinking that those seats were empty, and he was just trying to make the cast of Precious uncomfortable.

"I'm just here to bag a good lookin' seat holder."

Tom Hanks was there with one of his haircuts, but oddly, no Rita Wilson. I wonder what Rita did to piss off Madame Tussaud. Maybe she didn't like Volunteers. I know I fucking hated it. Where was I?

Mary Hart was there, too. And a British tourist had a heart-attack at the very sight of her.

But we were getting weary of the excitement, and our buzzes were beginning to wear off. So before we left, I felt something need to be said. And fortunately, there was a podium right there. Yeah, that's right... podium. And I knew it was time for me to bore them, as they'd so often bored me, with a sanctimonious line of claptrap:

"Don't look at my face! Don't look at my feet, either! OH! Just look over there, ok?"

Thank you Miss Berry. And I don't care what they say about your toe, or the fact that you won't let your staff look directly in the eye, or that they can't address you until you address them, and that, while drunk and loaded on pharms you smashed your Mercedes through the front of a Hollywood liquor store and...

Where was I? Oh yeah!

In the immortal words of a very loaded John Wayne - "This is so unimportant."

Thank you, and goodnight!!!

On our way out, of course, our Barack Obama pics was there, suitable for framing.

I felt really bad for the guy behind the counter. I mean, we all gotta make a buck and you never know a person's story. But he had about 15-20 years on me, and he's still gotta squeeze me to buy that picture, and maybe some Marilyn Monroe or James Dean postcards.

You want a "real Hollywood experience"? Ask that guy what wrong path he turned down that he ended up as a till-clown in a shitty tourist attraction. It was probably that he was a writer/comedian and was just about to hit in his 40's when... Whatever story it is, that, my friends, is showbiz.

Musings On The Musical Abortion That Is "We Are The World, Part Deux." Et tu, Le Q???

2010-02-04T11:41:00.000-08:00

Those who know me l know that, about 99% of the time, I fucking hate remakes - but this rule applies mainly to film. However, the world of music shat an unholy ass-log of a remake after this year's Grammy Awards, apparently. Let it never be said that some dead horses are above a good beating - in the absence of relevance and/or popularity over the last 20+ years, Lionel Ritchie and Quincy Jones have gone back to the "We Are the World" well. Lionel's always been a little Aqua Velva for my taste - yes, even with the Commodores - but FUCK YOU, QUINCY JONES!!!

It's strange. When that song came out, I was mortally afraid of waking up to "Uncle Ronnie" on the television (my nightlight of choice for over two decades now!) telling me that he'd finally gone cuckoo-go-nuts and pushed the ol' button. Never did I imagine that, 25 years later, these walking, talking, singing wastes of air and food could, let alone would, release the same fucking song, with new "talent."

But let's back up a second. Back to the beginning. WHAT DO YOU SAY, JULIE ANDREWS???

"A very good place to start!"

I agree.

It's weird to think that many of my friends were toddlers when We Are The World came out. I can only imagine, in a pre-Radio Disney world, they were repeatedly bludgeoned over the head with that along with "Sing A Song" from Sesame Street. But I digress...

I held m' tongue in '84. I'll cop to enjoying the role of devil's advocate, even to the point of saying shit for saying shit's sake, but I'd consider myself to be a bit of a dick or a jerk (with a sweet, gooey center) - I'm no fucking asshole. There's a difference, believe me. Shitting on We Are The World at the time would have been like driving a monster truck through a South African shanty town. And as entertaining as that would be, [Believe me - I've tried!] it's just something you don't do. It's, mean. Goddamned mean.

But Quincy and Lionel opened up the door and invited my ilk to this party. See, like Christian rock, We Are The World, as a song, and by extension, it's creators; participants; or even the tone-deaf masses that bought that tripe, believe(d) the material to be above reproach. So after 25 FUCKING years, I can say with a conscience cleaner than Taylor Swift's pussy that:

WE ARE THE WORLD SUCKED THEN AND IT SUCKS 25 TIMES WORSE FUCKING NOW!!! IT'S FUCKING GARBAGE!!! IT SUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKED!!! IT SUPER-DUPER SUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-HUH-UCKED!!!

But for those who don't remember the connection, it was a rip-off idea even then. Bob Geldof (for those not in the know, wiki "Boomtown Rats" and do your own heavy lifting) had, the prior holiday season, put together a charity single called "Do They Know It's Christmas." Far from a revelation, but I mention it as more of a just-in-case measure more than anything else.

The problem with Geldof's team was the line-up, I guess. I'm just old enough to vaguely recall when performers like Sting and U2 were considered "fringe." [Cough, cough!] Other than Phil Collins, as far as the American record-buying public was concerned, the line-up was practically unknown. Maybe a couple Brits with modest Top 40 success, but the US is the only civilized nation on the fucking planet that thinks of Madness as a one-hit wonder.

Frankly, though I'm an admitted cynic, I don't really think that, as a project, WATW was really born of Yankee oneupsmanship. I truly believe it was a spur of the moment riff on something that existed. As a legend of jazz, Quincy Jones' life's blood is based on a lot of that kind of thing. And Geldof wrote a pretty goddam solid song, and I'm certain it was on the radar of the average American musician, if no one else. They weren't ripping off anything so much as - sad as it is to say - "Do They Know It's Christmas?" didn't do so hot.

OK - here's where I'll let the abject, hardline cynic jump out for a second: it's because the record-buying public in middle America - the easily led sheep that were conned into writing their congressfolk about dirty fucking lyrics were fucking...

Where was I?

Oh yeah! We Are The World was fucking terrible, and any friend of mine who bought that abomination at the time with their own money hasn't admitted to it to this day - and at this point, I wouldn't fucking want them to. Shit, I don't know many people who owned much, if any, music by anybody involved. Ok, Maybe Dan Aykroyd (yup, he sung on that shitpile) - a lot of us had Briefcase Full of Blues.

If anything, most of our folks had it, and (pardon the blanket statement) the vast majority of the Baby Boomers thought the band-aid was the panacea. I suppose Mtv had a hand in it with a constant rotation of that video. [Oooooooh! Huey Lewis!] After it fell off the charts, problem solved. Right? They had to move on to tackling the AIDS epidemic by purchasing That's What Friends Are For, goddammitt!

"Hear that? That's Africa!" they'd say, wiping a faux-Native American tear from their world weary eyes. After all, a lot of them saw footage of Vietnam and Kent State on TV dammitt!!! These were stalwart, can-do, people who...

But it was forgetable; it did fall off the charts; and I can only think of one time in the past 25 or so years since it became the footnote it should be that I've even thought about it. In college, my roommate was dating a semester-abroad student from Japan. The night before they had to vacate the dorms and go home, there was a party at the on-campus bar. We got to this party just in time for the last two tunes, one of which...

"There comes a time... When we heed a certain call... When the world must..."

Everybody slow dance! Confession: I wasn't thinking of Africa - Fuck Africa, motherfucker! My mind was squarely in Japan! I think her name was Momoko. Really nice girl. Good kisser. I smirked, but didn't laugh. It seemed to have some significance to the room [We really are the world, man!] and raining on someone's parade is a lot different than instigating debate.

And for well over a decade, I didn't give it another thought. Technically, the notion of a remake shouldn't really bug me, especially considering it was a fart in the wind, and it's bound to linger as long as it did the last time - after all, Celine Dion and The Jonas Brothers are involved.

I guess the main question here is why? USA for Haiti?

We have a rule in my writers' round table: you can't shit on something without being able to provide a solution. So here goes. How could Jones and Ritchie have done another charity single, and come out of it with clean souls? Three simple words. Zombie. Michael. Jackson.

Actually, two. New song. And I don't fucking mean doing the same old shit; adding some rap (which does anybody fucking recall that rap was maligned by many in the music industry - including Quincy Jones - when the original came out); and merely creating a version 2.0 with new, even more useless musical humps.

Imagine, for a moment, that instead of:

"Well, it was 25 years ago that we did it. So we thought we do it again."

[And fuck you twice sideways for saying that, Q!]

He said:

"Well, I wanted to do something to help Haiti, but I'm just an entertainer. I'm not an architect, or engineer or anything else that might be useful. But then, I remembered that I was able to do something to help Africa by donating my time and talent to create a single that made millions for the cause. It's an even more unique opportunity in that this year is the 25th anniversary of We Are The World. So I called Lionel, and the rest, as they say, is history. One more thing: please don't call this assemblage of talent USA for Haiti. It cheapens what we did for Africa."

But we don't live in that world, do we? We applaud the unoriginal - just like we applaud for runners-up in the Special Olympics.

Cabaret Of The Damned: "The Rory Sanchez Experience?"

2009-12-09T15:37:00.000-08:00

WANTED: Like minded, sick motherfuckers in Southern California to assist Bugs and me (and one other actress, won't say 'til I get the "yes") with an act we're going to do at open mic night, and if they get it, spoken word venues' comedy night. You don't really have to do anything either. We just really need as many friendly faces between us and the real audience as possible. We do have a couple people recruited to be straight-up blockers ["Silly" Simon Phoenix and "Jolly" Judas Booth], but if you want to do that as well, that would be great.

The only hitch is that, unless we book a spot in advance - most of this is a "you never know" thing, though with three people throwing the same name into the hat, it could up the odds a bit. You kind of have to be into this idea that you're part of our little "street theater" troupe, and you'll probably have to buy some drinks and definitely have to listen to some sad, sad, comedy. Fortunately, I/we know some pretty strange and wonderful people.

Why do we need blockers and friendly faces?

Now a lot of things come out of my mouth that, metaphorically speaking, regularly put me in front of firing squads. It's either a talent, a character flaw, or perhaps even an endearing trait of mine - but either way, it's something I do well. And often.

This act is fucking abhorrent. It's partially inspired by the Andy Kaufman tribute that Bugs and I went to last week. But it ended up being a way of fusing together two bits that Judas and I were working on: Rory Sanchez, the Diabetic Comic and The Worst Comedian in the World.

Now it's Guerrila Theatre - Performance Art. Sure! That's It!!!

I now present, in all it's shameful glory, The Rory Sanchez Experience? And I'm really, really fuckin' sorry. Sort of.

Let me set the mood:

It's open mic night at The Ha Ha Hole or The Chuckle Hut, maybe even an open-minded spoken word venue with a cool audience. If what I've seen so far is any indication, the crowd at the former is mostly other comics... well, and a couple neighborhood drunks hitting the post-happy hour specials. It's only slightly less depressing than a Bukowski novel. In other words, my kind of room.

Ladies and gentlemen, put your hands together for The Rory Sanchez Experience!

Rory Sanchez is a bad 80's-style comedian. I mean, she's not a "flashback" schticky character - in the grand tradition of other hack comics of using their ethnicity, gender, sexuality, and or disability for THEIR ENTIRE FUCKING ACT, Rory can't stop talking about her Diabetes:

You know what's funny about Diabetes? Nothing.

I just got out of a diabetic coma. What day is it?

She points to somebody's appetizer.

Is that any good? Yeah? That's death on a plate for me.

Then I start heckling her:

You're dying now!

Heh. Funny. (recovering) I just flew in from a blood sugar test, and boy is the tip of my finger tired!"

She holds up a finger with a band-aid.

Is this all you do?

No, sir. I take my shirt off for an encore.

Now that would be funny!

Now she's really fucking pissed. But still trying to keep it together.

Man, my blood sugar is low.

HOW??? LOW??? IS IT???

That tears it.

Look dude, I don't want to compete. Why don't you come up here and tell a joke?

I don't want to.

She steps aside.

Come on. You're so smart, you do it.

Other plants in the audience will badger me. So I get up to the mic.

I tell ya, folks. I'm just on edge. That's all. I'm sorry, lady. I just got fired from my job. You may not know this, but when you come to work with blood and semen on the Chuck E. Cheese costume, management tends to frown on that.

Groans.

While we're on the topic of stain removal, anybody know how to get the stench of toddler corpse and zima barf out of the back of an ice cream truck?

Groans.

It was better than my last job though. I was a playground magician. Know what that is? A playground magician is kind of like a street magician - only I made kids disappear.

Groans.

I should be feeling good. I'm in a new relationship, and that always puts a fresh spin on things. She's a model. She's only done Osh Kosh B'Gosh spreads, but I think I can get her on the back of a milk carton by Valentine's Day.

Groans.

What does a child see before it's drugged and shoved into a potato sack? Well, in my house, it's "Finding Nemo."

Now Bugs starts heckling me. She's on crutches. Not in real life, for the act.

You suck!

That's a good insult. You have another one?

You're a fuckin' retard.

Say - what's wrong with you, Speedy? You want the little Insulin girl back up at the mic?

She's funnier than you!

Why are you so uptight, Sugartits, you get molested or something?

As a matter of fact, I did! Make a joke out of that, motherfucker!"

Was he any good?

Motherfucker!!!

She charges the stage. I mean, she hobbles to the stage.

I get it, I get it. I'm sorry that he fucked you crippled.

She hits me in the nads with her crutch. Rory steps back up and shakes her hand.

That's when I kick the crutches out from under Bugs, knocking both of them to the floor.

I get up and grab one of Bugs' crutches - and start jabbing her with it.

Rory starts pounding on my back. I turn around.

I'll put you in a real coma, you fucking cunt!!!

I swing for her head. She ducks.

Then we all yell, "...And SCENE!"

Rory says, "Well! I think that went pretty well. What about you guys?"

Bugs and I agree.

Then we hold hands and bow - and I give the girls flowers.

My great-grandmammy Vinehamner actually wrote this bit. I have nothing to do with it.

Three Big, Steaming Piles of “Who Gives A Fuck?” [or "Fuck The Lawyers, Let's Kill All The Publicists!"]

2009-12-02T13:48:00.000-08:00

I’m not big on topical stuff. I’m not slamming those who do it - and I’m not saying I'm above it. Some people are better than others at the "So what’s in the news today?" format than others. I guess - and again, this is my opinion, so take it with a grain of salt - I’ve just considered it to be a lazy approach. The newspaper (or in my case, news feed) comes everyday. In the case of television and the Internet, it’s a ‘round the clock feed. And I don’t think being able to respond to news stories with a couple snarky quips is particularly unique. I'm pretty sure, almost everybody is good at it - if only to amuse themselves. But I digress…

So what’s in the news today? What’s going on?

You hear about this one? Tiger Woods has beeen stricken with Wandering Cock Syndrome. And it turns out that he had multiple ongoing affairs. Wow! A famous athlete with tons of money who’s been told, practically since birth, that his shit doesn’t stink had an affair? Good fucking grief! No way! Tell me more!

Yeah, he does seem like a nice enough cat. But people tend to forget that he was a golf prodigy, and even as a kid, was already in the public eye. Kind of makes me wonder if his old man was like Joe Jackson.

SMACK!

"Waaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah!!!"

"If you don't make that bogey, you little shit, I'm going to give you something to really cry about!"

But considering where that guy's life is at, I'm shocked only in that people are shocked. With that kind of money and (relative) power, I'm surprised he doesn't travel everywhere by parade. First, maybe a dozen or so dwarfs riding elephants; followed by 100 dancing girls; then, of course, some clowns; and the man himself on a chauffeur-driven Harley Davidson trike.

You see this one? Turns out a couple of star-fucking reality TV douchetards crashed a White House hootenanny? I guess it was a stunt of some kind to promote themselves, or their reality show, or... Holy fucking shit! Does anybody give a French-friend fuck about this? I guess someone does. Now they're having Congressional hearings about it. Let's see - the country is how many dollars in debt, the world itself is on the brink of fucking ecologic and economic meltdown and the people we elected to help run the country are wasting their time with what? Our tax dollars at work...

And Meredith Baxter (formerly Baxter-Birney) came out. The world stopped rotating for a split-second while a baffled nation paused to yawn and say, "Who's that?"

Now look, I know the totality of local news - praticularly in the City of Angles - makes The View look like a fucking MENSA meeting. Actually, though, it ain't a hell of a lot better when it comes to more "legitimate" news sources. You know, the "hard news" stations. I guess the main dividing line is that, every so often, when Anderson Cooper or Wolf Blitzer have to read fluff pieces as lead stories, you can see something behind their eyes...

"Today in the news, Britney Spears cooked her baby and put a turkey in a stroller and took it to The Grove. Sources close to the singer say that..."

Then Wolf pulls out a gun that would give Dirty Harry penis envy.

"I'M MAD AS HELL AND I'M NOT GOING TO TAKE IT ANYMORE!!! ET TU, GREY FOX?"

Then, a very sullen Anderson Cooper comes out and pulls a gun. He seems more like a Derringer kind of boy, though.

They both take aim at each others' foreheads, and scream "SIC SEMPER TYRANNUS!!!"

Freeze frame.

Cue the music.

Roll credits.

Now I know that the miasma of doom and death that is the world today isn't quite the thing most people want to wake up to. So I look the other way on clown-cars like The Today Show, or Good Day LA. I like an anchor team where Steve Edwards is the heavy news guy.

I think, however, Steve-ster's beleaguered routine is schtick. I'm not saying he doesn't do it well, I just think he took a couple night classes at The Adler Academy or something. If his "Why me, O Lord?" look was the real deal, he would have stabbed his co-tards in their throats by now, at the same time, with a couple of ninja tsais. His hair would spring back into its "magic afro" form he sported in the 80's

As the security guards jump, he'd scream, with a savage look in his saucer-eyes, "I'M RIGHT!!! I'M RIGHT!!! YOU KNOW I'M RIGHT!!! SIC SEMPER TYRANNIS!!! AAAAAAAAAAARGH!!! AAAAAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!

And with her last, dying breath, Dorothy Lucey asks, "Is that Spanish?" And croaks.

But you have to wonder if it's a chicken and the egg situation. TV is ratings driven, and I guess there's not a lot of commercial value to telling people how fucked up things really are and how, unless we really change how we do things as a planet and people, we're doomed. Well, not without doing it in the form of a History Channel doomsday prophecy piece. I guess mega-tidal waves and nuclear holocaust brought on by a character in The Bible are easier to process than the ramifications of climate change and global imperialism. I guess if we plunge into the abyss in a sexy, stylized, Roland Emmerich kind of way, we can say it wasn't our fault.

All right. There's a freeway chase on Fox I gotta go watch...

FUCK-MONKEY CUNT-TARD SHIT-BATTALION!!! [or "In Defense of Filthy Language" - part the first]

2009-11-22T14:29:00.000-08:00

I am all a flutter. I have finally contributed something to the global lexicon. Sure, it's just a humble definition (for UrbanDictionary.com), but I'm feeling accomplished. Finally! Immortality!

Guy Gravy

Definition:

In restaurants, it is "boy butter" mixed into the gravy on dishes for rude customers, or any other person the provider of the butter doesn't like.

Note: it can also be mixed into salad dressing, or dessert topping, or barbeque sauce, or condiments, or...

Example:

"Bonjour, Chef Pierre, comment êtes-vous?"

"Très bien."

"Bon. That woman at table 2 actually snapped her fingers at me and called me 'boy.' Can you believe that shit?"

"Then Chef Pierre will prepare some of his world-famous guy gravy!"

"Bon! Merci beaucoup!"

I love to curse. It's one of the many juvenille things about me that I've just learned to accept about myself. Sometimes, I just don't want to work too hard when it comes to making somebody uncomfortable. And people's response to my sailor mouth is a pretty fair guage of how uptight a room might be. If ya can't take, "clownfucker," my political and religious views are REALLY going to piss you the fuck off!

I'm good at it, too. I've had a lot of practice, after all. My parents were of the neglectful variety of wine-chuggin' suburbanites, the kind of people that they used to hype with a cover-story in Time Magazine, "Latch-Key Kids And Their Horrible Parents." Film at 11... But they weren't so bad. Just, um, distracted. And my desire to curse actually had a positive effect in that it made me want to learn the definitions of "big" words, to take my game to the next level.

Cursing 101: You fucking bitch!

Advanced Cursing: You fucking cretinous, myopic cunt!

So I spent a lot of time in front of the television. More specifically, my old man was a movie fan, AND he had cable. So for two exquisite weekends a month, I would fill up on movies and HBO comedy specials, returning to the playground with all the colorful language I'd picked up. In those days, I was prone to immitating George Carlin, Eddie Murphy, and Robin Williams. [Holy shit! Remember when Eddie Murphy and Robin Williams were the "dangerous" comedians??? Sigh. Me neither.]

I was pretty good at keeping it under wraps, at least in "official" settings. As strange as it sounds to me, I was really afraid of "trouble" as a kid. Strange how it didn't hold me back from doing a lot of stupid shit, but either way, getting sent to the principal's office was the sort of ignominy my parents simply couldn't bear.

Who'd have thought I'd be trying to turn it into a livelihood?

I have been "in trouble" for my fucking foul mouth a total of five times in my life:

1) In the fourth grade, a little girl kicked me in the nads. "Bitch," "balls," "shit," and "dick."

2) In the sixth grade, a boy punched me in the nads because my friends Lester, Ricky and I called him "goober." I guess on a level, I really deserved that. "Bitch," "balls," "shit," and "dick," were all there - but I'd added "cocksucker," and "motherfucker" to my repetoire. I got in more trouble because I laughed when the principal, Mr. Huling (?) was reading off the list of words my teacher had heard me say, which he now had to read back to my mother. He was a very dignified, stoic guy who kind of looked like Martin Luther King. But he also had a very slight speech impediment, making the really good words even funnier.

3) Seventh grade. The word in question... "fetus." That's right. Fetus. We were making banners in print class for Mothers' Day and, having gotten sick and tired of the usual greeting card shit, my banner read "Happy Maternal Parents' Day From Your Fully Developed Fetus." This is the one instance where I didn't catch it from both school officials and my parents. My mom thought it was funny.

4) Eighth grade. I hollered, "Shit!" after my friend Duane had slapped me in the back of the neck, as was the custom back then... Actually, this was the first time I pissed off a government official too. You see, if you scream fucking foul shit in front of George Slavefuckin' Washington's tomb (at Mount Vernon) - even if you've just been given a huge "pink neck" - it's perceived as being less than reverent. I wonder if Washington ever cursed. Well, if he didn't lie, he'd have to. Right?

5) College. The truth is that, to this day, I've got no fucking idea what I said. I know I offended an older woman who was doing costumes for a production I was in. I said something to another actor across the room, and she took offense. So I guess there were two times where my parents weren't called... Being the 90's, it's a fucking miracle that she didn't press some kind of charges. It was a little weird to me because, having spent a significant chunk of my childhood acting, everybody backstage had "Sailor's Mouth." Actually, I was more leary of the people who didn't curse a blue streak. And with good reason - they were usually motherfuckin' pederasts.

Actually, there's a sixth. And it was in a professional setting, so it's particularly embarassing. Still fucking hysterical, actually. I was working for SBC at the time, so much of my day was throwing on my headphones, "down periscope, silent running." I don't like to make too much "water cooler talk." I like to choose who knows things about me, and even one's taste in movies and TV does telegraph a little info about you. In this case, my screensaver was a Bill Hicks quote that I'd set to scroll, "Do you think I'm wearing all black in the summertime because I'm a #$%@&* ray of sunshine???" Seriously, I even blocked out the dreaded f-word!

Personally, I don't quite get it. Any of it. Shit, by now, it all just bounces off my ears. And it seems to me that most people are pretty good at code-switching. Everybody's got a grandma they don't want to curse in front of. But the comedians who make a point of telling you that they're above "working blue" are making up for the fact that they don't fucking have much of an act.

"You ever notice how hot dogs come in packs of eight, where buns come in packs of 10? What's up with that?"

I just keep thinking that a lot of censorship is unnecessary bullshit. Most people have heard the words, yet the conservatives act as if people would go apeshit if curse words made it on the air. For example, I always love AMC's versions of R-rated pictures. Gotta make sure that the "seven words" and boobs don't sully the delicate ears and eyes of the children who might be watching Sudden Impact.

So like I said, I'll cop to being just enough of a hack to take advantage of the wonderful gift the uptight people in the world have given me. If I'm really, really lucky, I'll piss the right people [or should I say "Right"?] off. See, cursing alone - feh. Eventually, everybody tunes out. Now when you have ideas that you get across with cursing, that's another thing altogether. You give them an easy "obscenity charge," and they'll holler about it for ages, which makes any intelligent person want to hear what you have to say. And you really can't buy that kind of press. Sure, it's a cheap tactic, but fuck it!

It's either that, or I'm going to have to develop a serious Blow habit...

The Misery Of Others Is Your Best Entertainment Value [or "Sympathy Porn"]

2009-11-06T19:55:00.000-08:00

I have a brief, "nutshell" review for Precious: Based on the Novel "Push" by Sapphire (that is the movie's actual title): File under "Things I'd really like to un-see."

The annual AFI film fest was in town this week. For one of America's oldest and most respected film institutions, they made a super-cool, down-to-earth move - they offered mass quantities of free tickets to the proletariat. YOU HEAR THAT, REDFORD??? PUT THAT IN YOUR PATCHOULI BONG AND SMOKE IT!!!

Actually, I like Robert Redford - and Sundance. But it's nice to know that a film fest held in what most people regard as the centerpoint of all things superficial might just be one of the most accessible this side of SXSW. There's more to the festival circuit than starfucking and schmoozing. But I digress...

I wanted to see Vincere - a movie about Mussolini's first wife - but Simon Phoenix wanted to see Mariah Carey in person... you know, why the fuck am I sugarcoating it? He wanted to check out Mariah's ass in person because he wanted to see if it's beautiful shape in pictures was a Photoshop thing. And I really didn't feel remotely bad about indulging that desire. Not one goddam bit.

A brief pronunciation guide before we proceed:

serious = sir-yus
important = imp-hor-t-an-t
issue = iss-see-ewes

But, brevity being the soul of wit (which makes me the biggest fucktard of all time when you really think about it) Precious: Based on the novel "Push" by Sapphire was, in a word, terrible. In twenty-two: one of worst and most gratuitously repugnant films since... I don't know, what the fuck was Tyler Perry's last movie called again?

I know certain folks love them some "serious" "imporant" films. Fare with lots and lots of issues.

And motherfucker! Did Precious ever come with issues. Let me break it down for you, in the span of one movie, nay, ONE FUCKING CHARACTER you had the following issues:

Teen pregnancy - Precious is pregnant.
Teen motherhood - Precious already has a child that her grandmother is taking care of. Her classmates are at varying stages of teen motherhood, too.
Incest - The father of Precious' children is her father.
Rape - I don't know, is incest ever consensual? What do you say, "Papa" John Phillips??? "Don't look at me. Ask the Gyllenhaal kids." You're a sick fucker, "Papa" John Phillips!
Poverty - Precious and her abusive mother live in the genre's requisite urban squalor. Naturally, they live on government aid.
Down's Syndrome - Precious' first child, Mongol (short for Mongoloid, ain't that charming?), has Down's Syndrome. Look at the bright side, she didn't refer to it as "Corky."
Illiteracy - Precious can't read, although she has enough skill at math to matriculate to an "alternative school." The one goddam good thing that happened to that poor girl in two fucking hours of celluloid!!! TWO!!!
Obesity - Precious weighs 350 pounds. Her abusive mother keeps her heavy to make her less attractive to her father.
Abuse - see above comment. Oh yeah - she beats the shit out of her on a regular basis, verbally berates her, and at one of the film's many climaxes, attempts to drop a TV on top of Precious and her new baby boy.
Prison - Daddy is in prison. But not for raping his daughter...
Drugs - Of course.
Absentee father-ism - You know, the mom really seemed to miss the man.

AND...

Take a guess. You know what I'm about to say, don't you?

Drumroll please...

AIDS!!! WOOOOOOOOOOO-FUCKING-HOOOOOOOOOO!!! JACKPOT, KIDS!!!

Precious is also tied to a railroad track by moustache-twirling villain, Snidely Whiplash, in the third reel. She's rescued by her father, who was walking home after being discharged from prison. So he rapes her AGAIN, not behind, but IN, a dumpster. But he hits her in the head afterward, and she loses her mathematical ability, thus costing her the scholarship to the alternative school. As she's going home from the meeting at the school where she loses her scholarship, she drops her first child in the gutter. The kid's puffy coat makes her a virtual life raft, but alas, poor Mongol is washed down a storm drain. While trying to fish Mongol out of the drain, she sets the newborn on the bench at a bus station. That baby is abducted by a man wearing a t-shirt that said, "Black Market Babies For Sale!!! Just Ask Me!!!" and an 800 number. As she's crying at the bus station, Corky from Life Goes On says, "You deserve to lose your babies you retarded cunt!!!" and kicks her into the gutter. The bus arrives, running her over, but NOT KILLING HER, and roll credits.

Feel-good movie of the year, folks! OF THE DECADE. Just ask fuckin' Oprah!

Does "SPOILER ALERT" really count when not a soul I know would see this for any other reason but duress?

I didn't see that last part of the film. Simon told me all about it. I was about to go into hysterics, so I left early. Laugh at Oprah, and that bitch will find you. She's friendly with the Scientologists, and you know what that means!!!

After the show, Simon punched me in the face.

"OW!!! Fuck was that for??? You could have left with me, you asshole!!! Mariah had already split!!!"

"It's because you're white."

And you know what? After seeing that picture, I knew he was right - so I went back inside and punched myself in the face. I caught Tyler Perry in the lobby.

"Punch me in the face!" I said.

"Nigga please. We may have a black President, but I'm still not hitting a white man in this town. At least not with cameras around. Now if this were Chicago... Call my publicist."

And then he went across the street to shoot another movie, Madea Turns A Trick. Only took him twenty minutes. Then another ten minutes to edit, and he did an about face, and went to its premiere BACK INSIDE THE CHINESE (packed house - fucking packed). Say what you like about Tyler Perry, but that dude is prolific!

Like I said, I love a good drama. I'm not so much as a film-snob, as I am a cinema nut. Yeah, there's always the "escape" aspect to a movie. But escape, for me at least, doesn't have to entail unicorns and/or laser guns. If nothing else, I simply prefer movies with unicorns AND laser guns. Get it straight.

But seriously, I love it all, genre wise. It's like music. I can't pick a style I prefer over everything else. The main thing: take me into a world, any world. You don't have to take me away, just get me into a mind that isn't mine. Deal?

To me, saying that a film is "great" just because it's realistic is a fucking cop-out. It's as if a story gets automatic street-cred simply because it's close to a reality people WHO DON'T LIVE SAID REALITY can believe about people who aren't affluent liberals. I'd love to say it's a white, affluent, liberal thing, but Oprah and Tyler Perry are on board.

Did anybody else see the fucking parallels to The Fuckin' Perils of Pauline??? I don't get a dramatic structure that just heaps shit upon shit onto a character only to give the character more shit in the end. Not too put too fine a point on it, but it feels like torture.

It doesn't have to have a happy ending. But I guess that's the other problem. No matter what, and here's where I'm going to be a purist, every good drama (in the general sense) involves three things: goals, obstacles and the achieving or failing at those goals despite or because of the obstacles. It's just how it works.

If I want to see the reality of a tragic and sinking situation that just continues and continues, well, I can step outside my door for that. Fuck, somedays, all you have to do is stay home for that!

I was talking about this with my friend, Double E, and she coined a term that I think is particularly appropriate: Sympathy Porn. And this is without any knowledge of the horror sub-genre of "Torture Porn," the term and the films. I'd love to take credit for creating it, but I'll certainly exploit and disseminate it with no problem whatsoever. It's true.

Obviously, "porn" here isn't referring to hardcore sex movies. [But I want to state for the record that I really, really, REALLY love that kind of porn. I'm watching some now. Real deviant shit. I should fucking be locked up.] It's more an issue of exploitation. More specifically, it's the exploitation of emotion to cover up what appears to be total lack of artistic intent. Silence of the Lambs and Hostel both scare the holy fuck out of you, but the latter goes for the jugular, while the other has emotional beats that lead to crescendos, choices and moments of serious jeopardy.

And I'm not saying one is "better" than the other. "Better" is a useless term. I've got no issue with exploitation pics. Sometimes, ya just need that, you know?

Same with porno-porno, right? But then again, that's the one where I think the more exploitive version is the more honest one. I have one word in the other direction: Skin-emax. Seriously, when those folks try to act... Well, it's beneath all of us, I think. And I mean the entire human race.

Sensuality as a dominant theme in a movie-movie is more difficult. A lot of the time, it comes off as pretty retarded. Henry and June and 9 1/2 Weeks were pretty good. But then again - goals, obstacles, yadda yadda.

So to me, Sympathy Porn, entails those stories that basically play on the heartstrings in absence of real story. "I can't do this artfully, so I will clobber you over the head with a sledgehammer of woe." You know: pretty much anything that has the words Oprah Winfrey or Toni Morrison attached to it. Fuck - The Color Purple is the trifecta of this genre! You've got Spielberg's suburban white guilt and inability to empathize with black folks mixed in there! There are plenty of movies that play pathos artfully. It's all in the pacing.

Now let's keep this between us. I'm scared of very little in this world. The Wrath of Winfrey is one of them. She has a pack of wild dogs that she's raised on nothing but human flesh (milk-carton kids, you know), testosterone shots, and pure fuckin' hatred. I saw it in a conspiracy theory 'zine...

Stuck on Fuck [or "How To Talk Dirty and Make Somone Squirm"]

2009-11-01T12:30:00.000-08:00

I've spent a substantial portion of the last couple days on lines. And since I've managed to fucking forget some portable reading material each and every single fucking day, I've had a lot of time to think. Ordinarily, I'd just be thinking about sex on its own, but in light of the "Baby, I wanna fuck you so bad..." bit, I've been thinking a lot about sex and violence.

Try this experiment - if you dare!

The ideal place to do this would be work, unless you're a K-12 teacher. But regardless of what you do, it's probably not the smartest thing in the world to do. HR people are more superstitious and cowardly than entertainment industry people. It's just that the perfect "control group" would be a bunch of individuals who know you, but in the most vague way possible. It may or may not work with close friends, it just kind of depends on how deep your conversations go. The shallower, the better.

Why? This experiment has two phases.

Phase I is easy. I guarantee you, if you did this at work and left it at that, you wouldn't be in hot water. At all.

Just discuss an injury with somebody. You don't have to use my "script." Feel free to do anything you want with it. The main thing is that the injury can NOT, under any circumstances, involve an injury to your "naughty bits." No crotch shots, no hits to the tits, and so on. But lay it on thick.

Example:

I nearly lost two of my toes when I was a kid. [Note: true story, for the record.] I was riding a Honda "Kick and Go" scooter. It was like a Razor scooter, but a little bigger, and it had this little pedal at the back you would pump with your foot to make the scooter go.

There was a decal with "rules" on the handlebars. One of those rules was "no bare feet." I'm a fuckin' kid! Think I'm going to pay attention to your silly rules?! Bah!

So I'm laying in the middle of the hot-ass street, in August, with the second and third toes on my right foot wedged between the tire and the chain. Now the chain, being a moving part (and greased up) was gradually slicing into my toes - went all the way to the bone, incidentally. I don't know which hurt worse - my toes, or my ass and legs. I don't know if you really can fry an egg on a hot sidewalk, but I know you can braise a seven year-old!

I'm screaming my fucking head off, trying to get the attention of my brother, friends and/or babysitter - who were all inside the trailer, [That's right! At my roots, I am very much "trailer trash."] watching cartoons. That's right. Screaming. Not yelling, "Help!" - a nice, high pitched, co-ed being murdered scream. I was seven, and I think the last thing I was worried about at that moment was whether or not I'd take some shit for "screaming like a girl."

After what seemed like hours, an old lady came out. Say what you like about the elderly, but that woman was FAST! She ran out, assessed the situation, dashed back into her place, and a couple seconds later, was out in the street with her toolbox, taking apart the rear wheel. It had to be like diffusing a bomb or something - one wrong move and she'd have had a toe-less hysterical seven year-old on her hands!

But it didn't end with a visit from the paramedics. At the hospital, they had to give me a local anesthetic and sterilize the area. Having a dirty chain saw into your fucking toes is like setting up a bacteria colony.

Now I wasn't a particularly skittish kid when it came to injections, but fucking SIX of them into an already injured area on a little foot - OH THE FUCKING AGONY!!! I know the doctor thought he was being helpful when he told me not to worry, it would just feel like a bee-sting. However, being a little alergic to bee stings, that really was no comfort. At all.

Now give it a couple days.

Phase II is where you'll get into trouble. It's going to be like riding a mechanical bull. I'm pretty sure you'll get "thrown" in a matter of seconds. Again, you don't have to stick to my script. But this time, you have to discuss an orgasm with the same person. Try not to lay it on thick this time. Even straight-up lie if need be. But don't pull any punches, either.

I was with a girl, briefly, I called "Planet Janet." This is because being with her was like being in another world. Free-spirited, "hippy-adjacent" kind of girl. Super-cool when it came to movies and music. Didn't own a TV. Not a college girl, but she read.

She went with some friends and I to a Santana concert. The guy riding in the back with us must have sensed the chemistry, because I shit you not, he chose to ride in the trunk all the way from LA back to Riverside. Maybe he thought she was going to give me a handjob underneath my poncho... In any event, we were passionate, but not exhibtionists - so we made out all the way home.

During the show, she grabbed me by the back of the head and just planted one on me. I'm not a timid guy, and I was working my way around to it, but I really have to say that I love a woman who takes charge! Fuck yeah!

Oh yeah - I'm not so narrow as to say "she was the best I'd ever been with." That's frat-boy bullshit. BUT SHE IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE PLANETS IN THE KNOWN UNIVERSE. I loved being on her. And her on me. And to the side. And up against the walls. And on pretty much every stick of furniture in our apartments. I mean, I'd read some of the Kama Sutra in hopes of blowing somebody's mind, but she walked me around the fucking block.

Do you know I actually lost count once? Not hers - mine. Lost. Fucking. Count. I was so there, I actually forgot how many times I came. Sure, we were baked like cakes a lot of the time too, but I swear that weed has never really affected my memory that adversly...

Did you stop reading yet??? I rest my case.

Baby, I Wanna Fuck You So Bad That I'm Going To Kill You!!!

2009-10-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

This is hardly a new song.

I've been watching a lot of AMC this week. Actually, I watch that channel a lot, period. It's mostly white noise as I'm writing. There are very few movies in their rotation that I haven't seen at least once, if not, many times. For a guy with basic cable, that and Turner Classic Movies are the best I can do.

So of course, the week leading up to Halloween is packed full of horror movies. Not a bad thing at all. I mean sure, they're going to be censored and all, but "bleeps" and dialog drops don't even phase me anymore. Trust me, I know what "fuck" sounds and looks like when somebody says it - it's my favorite fuckin' word after all...

But something occurred to me just now, and it all boils down to "fuck." In word and deed. Censorship - more to the point, what we in the United States of Advertising choose to censor and not to censor - says some pretty crazy shit about our culture. Apparently, showing the eating of entrails; shoving pencils into throats; eviscerations, guttings and decapatations is all kosher. Show some tits, or say the "f word" and our society will fall fuckin' apart at the seams.

I'm not judging horror films, or film violence in general. Hey man, I fucking LOVE film violence! Love, love, love it! Real violence, not so much - BUT THAT'S BESIDE THE GODDAM POINT, ISN'T IT???

And I love cursing.

And I adore nudity. The one thing that's great in real life, AND in film. There should be more of it. Well, except for about 90% of confirmed nudists. Those people give me the fucking creeps - and fuck is it with all the "Chili Cookoffs"??? But I digress...

Let's just agree that I'm not talking about porn here, ok? I'm not that fucking shallow. I mean I am that shallow, but I'm just not talking about porn right now.

And I am a fully functioning adult, and cinema fan, who's seen pretty much fuckin' everything when it comes to film, and managed to get through this life without imitating anything in a movie - even as a kid. Good, bad, and unholy - I feel that I'm far from unique when I can say in all sincerity, "That's just the movies."

Two thirds of the above, "questionable items," are, by and large, censored pretty much across the board in this Great Land of Ours. [Unless you pay for your tits and "fuck."] And it doesn't take a fucking media analyst to determine which two. Strides have been made in the cursing and violence departments - and don't get me wrong, I am grateful. However, nudity remains elusive.

A lot of it has to do with the FCC's decision that showing it on TV means that we endorse it as a society. The "Parenting of (Adult) America," I guess. But then it says something really fucked up about our governmental parents. If nothing else, it's pretty obvious nobody's getting laid over there. I don't know why. If current shenanigans in The House of Representatives are any barometer, I have to believe that Washington D.C. (home of the Free Communication Censors) is just fucking crawling with hookers.

I'd say "whores," but that I have a lot of friends in "the industry." II'd like to be back in myself. Do you understand how much swag one can... It's un-cool.

So, what we're to infer by these practices is that, as a society, all shades of fucked-the-fuck-up violence is cool, cursing's fine, as long as it's between midnight and four o' clock in the morning, but one nip slip and Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake have to go on an "apology tour," as if they'd just worn swastikas and read "The Communist Manifesto" while having anal sex ...on Sesame Street.

Meanwhile, in a substantial portion of the rest of the globe, most people were going "Yawn... so?"

I'm not a parent, but I think I'd be a little more upset with my kid seeing decapitations than I would them seeing full frontal nudity. At least I can explain full frontal and say, "Trust me, what you're feeling is a very, very good thing. When you're older..."

I can say that about drug usage in movies too! Not that I'd want to have that conversation as the result of my kid watching a Cheech and Chong picture, mind you. If anybody's going to expose any child of mine to either of those, it's going to be ME goddam it!

You can't fucking say that about eviscerating a co-ed, now can you?

Fuck me! Where the fuck did this paternal side come from? That must be tabled.

But then again, I was raised in a polar opposite environment. By the time I'd hit puberty, I'd seen Porky's almost as many times as I'd seen Star Wars. Stripes too. Oh man! PJ Soles full frontal in the shower! I didn't know what the hell to do with them, but I sure as fuck knew I liked girls.

And cursing! It's a talent, really. Learning to lead a double-life started early. A toe-headed, cherubic exterior, a mouth like a sailor and a contempt for pretty much everything authoritarian was practiced on the playground and embellished with "fuck" as many times as I could work it in. If the powers that be knew what I was REALLY thinking about them, they'd have put me in that special class with the kids who burn shit.

I still proofread my stuff to make sure there's just enough cursing, for the record. Now, I see it not only as a talent, but as an art form, too! It really is! That's right kids! Get a degree in Communications, and you can back any daffy shit that comes out of your fucking pie-hole with RESEARCH!

In the Vinehamner home, violence was definitely off the menu. Nudity and cursing weren't a problem when it came to comedy. But they were pretty strict about that stuff when it came to heavy adult drama. I think it had more to do with the "heavy adult drama" thing than it did with tits, ass and fuck. In word and deed.

We had the first Beta Max on our block, so my parents' friends would come over. A lot. This was when VHS movies were completely unbuyable because they cost a hundred bucks a pop. You know - the stone age. I also had to walk uphill, both ways, to and from school and my lunch was rancid meatloaf in a bucket. We used to sing for nickels in front of the local Five and Dime to earn enough money to buy combs for my sister, Marie's beautiful hair. But I lost my voice doing it. And it turned out that she had sold her hair to a wigmaker to pay for my voice lessons. O cruel fate!

...so the Beta Max was a big thing amongst my dad's friends. A lot of times, it was a whole bunch of people, kids and adults, crammed into our living room to watch bootleg copies of Star Wars and Bugsy Malone. But every so often, it was "Adults Night."

No kids to play with, just, "Go to your room," and "Because I said so, that's why!"

And it wasn't even racy shit - my parents weren't cool enough to be 70's swingers. It was usually shit like It's Alive, Alien and even One Flew Cuckoos Nest. If it wasn't for the fact that we didn't have ONE bootleg copy of a cartoon (except for Fritz the Cat) I'd say that it was because of a real understanding of what's "good" and "bad" media for kids at certain ages. As it stands, I think, with regards to violence, it was that I was so skittish with horror as a little kid, they had to stay up with me for a week after I'd watched The Mole People.

This incidentally, is how I became a big comic book reader. Pretty much the same story telling method as movies, but something that I could read that wasn't a dreaded "words book" while banished to my room. The Star Wars wallpaper only got my imagination so far.

My brother and I would have to do GI crawls across the foyer floor, just to make it to the kitchen for water.

What the hell do you think you're doing???

Gettin' water.

Get back in your room!

But...

I'll get you your damn water!

This is about the time that the alien would burst out of John Hurt's chest or Nicholson would go on a particularly "salty" rant.

Aw goddammit!!! Room! Now!

But I guess there's fallout when anything goes when it comes to being cool with cursing and T&A, too. It's just that the fallout isn't as bad as, say, letting a media that tells your kid that violence is ok, but that sex is verbotten and unspeakable, babysit your child and wondering why the only outlet for their emotions appears to be blood and...

Wait, I got confused. You see, I was writing a letter to my local PTA and, well, shit happens.

The most that happened to me was getting sent to the Principal's office when a girl kicked me in the nads. The playground monitor came over because I was grabbing my crotch and cursing like a sailor. "You goddam bitch!!! My balls!!!" (it's a bloody good thing I hadn't discovered "cunt" or "fucktard" yet!) and so on. Forget the fact that the little sucubus had field-goal'ed my cobbles before the fuckers had even fucking dropped!!! I'd said dirty words!!! Oh the ignominy my mother most have felt during that phone call.

What happened?

Your son has quite a mouth on him, Mrs. Vinehamner. He said pretty much anything you could imagine in an R-rated movie. He seems to be fixated on girls a little too much for a kid his age, too, but we're mainly worried about the cursing.

Oh lord. Did he curse at a teacher?

Well, no. A playground monitor heard him saying things like well, "shit," and, "bitch."

Why?

A little girl kicked him in the testicles. But we're mainly worried about the cursing...

This wasn't the first time my mouth got friendly with a bar of soap. This I assure you.

I wonder what the fuck ever happened to Pe'le... I hope her trucker husband gave her syphillis and they had to amputate her labia.

The REAL California's Gold is an Ex-Marine with a Pair of Elephant-Trunk Sized Guns [or: "Meditations on The Zen of Huell Howser, part the first."]

2009-10-25T20:14:00.000-07:00

To quote my good friend, Drago, "Huell Howser is like the comfort food of television."

I'll cop to it - I'm a dark personality. That isn't to say I'm a depressing or negative person. I kind of pride myself in being a really nice guy who wears a black t-shirt, even I'm not wearing a black t-shirt.

It's just that as a rule - and especially when it comes to entertainment - I gravitate toward the alternative, some might say more sinister, side of things. I like movies that don't end in a nice, tight fucking bow. I like music that you're supposed to wear black jeans when you listen to it. I think that Jeff Dunham should be hit with a big mallot - by, not Gallagher, but his imposter brother - for each and every stage he's shuffled his stupid puppets on where the great Bill Hicks (God rest his soul) stood.

So given the choice between, say, Steely Dan or The Velvet Underground - the fuck you think my CD buying money's going to fucking go???

But this is not really a hardline way of being for me, either. I'm a big Twix bar - sure, I'm a little hardened, but there's a bit of gooey sweetness in there too.

Case in point: my unabashed love of Huell Howser. I'd say "California's Gold with Huell Howser," but that's just one show. Sure, all the other shows are pretty much the same, but there's a difference in Huell's mind, and that's what counts, isn't it? Sure, if it's "Visiting with Huell Howser," "California's Neighborhoods with Huell Hoswer," or even fucking "California's Green," it's all pretty much going someplace in California (most likely in Los Angeles), but to Huell, that fuckin' show, fuckever it is, is a horse of a different color. And you better recognize!

Let's be clear, too. I'm not watching the show(s) looking down my nose, giggling at him going, "Tee-hee-hee! Look at the bumpkin!" I really, really, REALLY fucking love Huell Howser's show(s). I get and appreciate what the cat is doing. I can't make a joke like:

"Ahr latest adventure [Everything's an "adventure" with Huell - a point of view one really has to admire!] is Jeannie's Clam Shack in beautiful, scenic Pismo Beach, California. "World-Famous" for thayr chowder, made daily, by Jeannie hersaylf. But the only clam Ah was interested in was between Jeannie's laygs. She appeared to not have experienced the touch of a man in a very long tahm, and Ah was only willing to oblahg. Ah gave her a 24-karat bar of California's Gold!

We started in the kitchen, where Jeannie and Ah made the kahnd of chowder you don't serve to the tourists. Cameron waited in the dahning room, getting footage of local yokels. Ah don't thank they knew what Ah meant when I yelled out, "HOT SOUP COMIN' THROUGH!!!" However, Ah couldn't help thankin' that Cameron dee-id.

You gettin' this Cam'run! Don't worry, you wee-ill. But you'll be getting California's Silver!"

...without having watched A LOT of footage. And I couldn't watch that many hours of anything if I didn't find it entertaining. I mean, I'm willing to commit to a bit and everything, but I don't have enough time to get the things done that I want done. Huell's my "me time." True story. One of my favorite things to do is park it on the couch with some "California's Gold" of my own, preferably a sativa, and get down to the fact that somebody out there doesn't think the whole picture is as bleak (yet still, strangely wonderful - for the record) as I see it.

I shall break now. But welcome to the tip of a very, very large, Titanic-sinking iceberg.

I SHILLS WHAT I LOVES!!!

The excellent bevvy of the Huell Howser stable of shows can be seen weekdays on Southern California PBS at 7:30 p.m., and it is repeated at 12:30 a.m. Those in The City of Angles can time it such that you can avoid That Fucker Jimmy Fallon's Corporate TV Clusterfuck by watching Huell and Comics Unleashed: with Byron Allen. But that's another passion for another day.

There's also an hour block of the show(s) on Sundays at 7:00 p.m. Come witness one of the few positive-angled shows that brings a smile to the face of The Clown Prince of Doom and Gloom.

[Just made that up. Not a bad schtick, when you put it that way!]

Those on the East Coast will have to check Huell out on Youtube.

Well - Those Candles Won't Exactly Blow THEMSELVES Out, You Know!!!

2009-10-21T19:42:00.000-07:00

Kink is a tough thing to judge. After all, one person's shit is another's shinola. And then some people want you to rub the shit on the shinola; stuff it in their mouth; and punch them in the gut while you ram a rusty flashlight up their ass. I have a term for it - Thursday Night.

The inherent danger in casting aspersions is simply - where in the bloody fuck is the line? And for some people a bloody fuck is, well, Thursday Night.

I really try not to judge. I'm not a conservative guy at all. And I respect innovation, ingenuity and imagination in a partner. And sturdy furniture.

But sometimes, an idea just seems so goddam left field to me that I feel I should just hang up the handcuffs, park it on the porch with a glass of Fresca, and let the kids use the sand box. Although, if this is a generational thing, you know what? Give me 50cc's of Geritol shot into the vein on my cock, immediately, for I'm apparently in a wheelchair headed for the abyss.

But I wasn't writing about my cock. At least, not today.

Try rolling the following words together in your head for a couple minutes: cake farts. Cake. Farts.That's right. Cake. Fucking. Farts. I wonder if that's what Mr. Reese was thinking when he coined the phrase, "Two great tastes..."

But I'll get back to cake farts in a second.

I really used to think it was all kind of a matter of taste. That whole "as-long-as-nobody-gets-hurt-who-doesn't-want-to-be-hurt" thing. For some, doing it from the side is a wild time. For others, it involves a transvestite and a Little Bo Peep costume, but enough about Marv Albert. I didn't really think there was such a thing as a threshold. Something that I find so deviant - nay, fucking repugnant - I actually wish they still had those "special" hospitals to lock up the "socially unfit."

But those joints are where the Puritans locked up gay folks and girls who liked to be on top.

Then I worked in a comic book store in LA for a couple years. Pasadena, more specifically. It was actually a good shop, but the thing that finally pushed me to my limit was a section we called "The Cage"; the material therein; and especially the consumers of the aforementioned material.

It sounds kind of weird to say, but Oh sweet God do I wish we had porno! Porno, I can live with. Humans, with other humans, doing normal (or even kinky) human shit - whatever. As long as you don't try to show me rape, snuff or scat - fuckever.

But what about Furries? For the two or three people who don't know what a "Furry" is, in a nutshell, it's somebody who's sexually attracted to animals. Not in that beastiality way. They like "anthromorphs" - that is to say, animals that display human qualities. More to the point - cartoons. That's right. There's a lot of them. The person in the cubicle next to you, on any given weekend, might be hanging out in the "West Ballroom" of a Holiday Inn near an airport, getting all hot and bothered over a Donald Duck cartoon with a gaggle of like-minded pervs.

"You know, if I were that guy, I'd make Daisy get some marmalade from the fridge and we'd make some Duck a L'Orange! Hold her down! Hold her down! She ain't waddlin' off to nowhere! I'd tie up his nephews and make them watch while I she shits in my mouth..."

My grandmother had a vivid imagination. She called that last one a "Chuck Berry." Strange, I didn't think she liked black folks very much. Life is a mystery.

I can only say one thing about those Hentai freaks (animated porno from Japan). I've said it before, and they'll have to pry it from my cold, dead vocal chords: There is little in this world more heartwarming than the story of a Catholic schoolgirl and her tentacle monster. *le sniffle*

So let's get back to cake farts. Perhaps I should establish a baseline for my own Puritanism. I, like so many people at the time, heard the legend of "2 girls, 1 cup." I thought, "Aw bullshit! I've seen some pretty weird shit. Big deal....

...OH FUCKING CHRIST!!!"

So when an old friend wants to tell me about a site he's found - as he was doing some chop-monkey work for dating sites in the Eastern Bloc - called "Cake Farts," I just don't want to know. Even if it's one of those things that you hear described, but wouldn't believe in a million years that anyone would do that to another human.

[See: "The Dirty Sanchez," "The Tony Danza," and "The Filthy Priate."]

Do I really need to mention, at this juncture, that cakefarts.com, or whateverthefuck the URL is, is a fucking fetish site???

"Is it what it sounds like?"

"Well, yeah."

"Then I don't want to know. All it's going to make me do is turn you in to Interpol. And Amnesty International."

"Bah! It's not that bad! They just..."

"I don't fucking want to know!"

"It really isn't THAT..."

"No, you bastard son of a pirate whore! No! Cake is the one thing I have left, for fuck's sake!"

"Dude, don't drag my mother into this. That's uncool."

So tonight, he's pitching me out on an idea. A good idea.

"Well, it's not cake farts, but I think it would be relatively easy to produce."

I should NOT have opened that door again.

"Did you check it out?"

"No, you goddam degenerate! I have all I need to know from the fucking title. Thanks to you, every time I pass by a 31 Flavors, I fucking shiver! And it ain't because of the ice fucking cream!!!"

"All they do is..."

"No!"

"...these chicks rub their asshole around on a cake."

"Goddam you!"

"And after a while, they fart on it."

"Oh yes. That was MUCH better than what I was thinking!!!"

But now that I'm musing on it, I do have a birthday coming up in a couple months...

The Witty Protection Program

2009-10-20T15:36:00.000-07:00

To paraphrase Batman, "People in the entertainment industry are a superstitious and cowardly lot." Thus, I use nom de plumes, not only for myself, but for my friends, too. I change the names to protect the... um, I don't think "innocent," really applies to any of my friends... Let's just say nice people who have something to lose. Plus, I don't want people clamming up around me for fear that they might be quoted.

I'll cop to it. I say a lot of goofy shit. Sometimes, I rant like a street preacher. I'll exaggerate, embellish and even bald-faced lie just to get a laugh. Here, in a public forum, what I say is most definitely for effect. It really should go without saying, but I'm not to be taken seriously. I mean about a tenth of what I say, maybe even less sometimes.

Sometimes I might just say something because I like the way the words sound. I'm flighty that way.

I do two things well: tell stories and talk shit. And I speak the truth when I say that I set up this blog more to do the former more than the latter. The latter, well, that just kind of happens. The problem is that, well, living in this city and doing what I do, I come across a lot of famous people, and know a lot of people who know a lot of people, and so on.

The City of Angles (yes, I meant to spell it that way!) is an incestuous burg.

So, even while I'm not doing "D. Vinehamner's Celebrity Hatefest," shit will come up. And I don't want people like That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis to come after my friends and their employers.

I'll give you an example: take for instance what I just said about That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis. People Google. Now I'm not saying that That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis is so narcissitic that he'd regularly Google his own name. Actually, underneath all my shit talking, I think he'd probably be an all right cat to hang out with and I like a lot of his movies.

You know he knows his way around a bar, and even though his album sucked, I know for a fact he's at least heard of the fucking Staples Singers - and that counts for a lot. He's probably got a band room in his mansion, stocked with the best axes and sound equipment, and he probably wouldn't bust your balls for wanting to play the good guitars.

It's just that if I were a woman, and I were drinking with the man... and I were to pass out, I'd do everything I could to make sure my butthole was facing a goddam WALL!

But let's say for the sake of argument, that I've written the story of how I found out that That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis is so into posterior piracy (which I'm sure is all with chicks, by the way). And say I named names or anything else that might clue That Assfreak Bruce Willis' "people" into, not so much who I am, but who my friends are.

Best case scenario, That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis' "people" find an obscure entry in a blog (or perphaps an off-the-beaten-path magazine), and tell the site to have me rip down the entry about el hefe being a rump-ranger. [Although I'm positive that it's with chicks and chicks only - That Assfreak Bruce Willis is all man I tells ya!]

Or I'd write a retraction to the effect of: That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis isn't so much of an ass FREAK, per se. He's just like most of us - he likes it when he can get it, but a "no" isn't a deal-breaker in a relationship.

But let's also say, for the purpose of illustration, that That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis takes it personally, can't see that what I write here is tantamount to the maniacal rantings of a homeless person, and that it's probably not true and that I'm a drop in the bucket. I call it "The Tom Cruise Effect."

Now if I'd written, at some other time, about having lunch with my completely fictitious - not even remotely real in any way, shape or form - friend, Sy Rabinowitz, an assistant in the publicity department at Fox. Well, in order to get to me, "Senor Culo" might call up Sy's boss, to put the screws to Sy to cough up my name, or even worse, poor ol' Sy gets fired simply for being associated with the likes of me. And say that Assfreak Bruce Willis goes even further, tracking down MY source, getting this person fired from their gig?

Don't balk. I know some pretty frightening firing stories. It's a weird industry.

NOTE: I only used That Huge Assfreak Bruce Willis as a place holder. I was really talking about Frank Stallone.