You've got to be 'ducken kidding me

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!

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"]

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!!!

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???"]

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...

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]

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.