Stir Crazy

I've been alone in my apartment all day. It's been self-imposed; I'm trying to finish writing this script I've been busy with, and I have a ton of paying work I need to catch up on.

I tells ya, there's certainly nothing like being alone in a somewhat dark, relatively tiny apartment; listening to local Sports Radio and caressing your hips while wishing you were a woman.

Earlier today, I was visited by my super. He walked in, slapped me in the face with a halibut and began to do the mashed potato dance. When I asked him what he was doing, he told me that "I am human and I need to be loved, just like everybody else does". He then took off a face-shaped mask and revealed himself as Morrissey, lead singer of The Smiths. I found this odd, because I'm pretty sure my super is a Cure fan.

Later on, Jesus stopped by and we had some drinks. After about half a bottle of wine, he said "you're drinking my blood!". I was mildly upset, but not as upset as I was 10 seconds later when I thought about the heaping glass of whole milk he brought me.

He called it Jesus Juice. Actually he called it "Jesus Jews", but I didn't catch the pun until after he laughed at it for a few seconds. Forced to pretend I got it immediately, but just wasn't polite enough to laugh, I said "puns! I love puns! They never make me laugh out loud, but you gotta love puns!" Dodged that bullet.

Then I had some Elks over and they brought Elkahol. We got massively drunk and spoke ill of moose and their faggy antlers. I said mooses, but they quickly corrected my grammar...the Elks never looked at me with the same respect again.

After 6 hours of solitaire scrabulous, I got into bed and played another 6 hours of solitaire scrabulous. Then I shaved racing stripes into my cheek hair.

I live a highly fulfilling life.

Polls Find White Obama Pulling Away From Black Obama

With voters’ increased confidence in his ability to serve as commander in chief, as well as a majority who now believe he would do a good job as president, White Barack Obama has opened up his biggest advantage over Black Barack Obama in the latest NBC News/Wall Street Journal poll.

With two weeks to go until Election Day, White Obama now leads his African-American counterpart by 40 points among registered voters, 70 to 30 percent, up from 65 to 35 percent two weeks ago.

The top concerns those polled had about Black Barack Obama were his "Socialist Liberal Agenda" and his "Concerning Ties To Terrorist Organizations".

"I just can't trust that Black Barack Obama," said Marylin Schunk of Columbusville, Ohio. "He's an Arab who pals around with terrorists. I don't want him taxing me and giving my hard earned money to homeless drug dealing gay black Communists. As for White Barack Obama; well, I feel like I know him; he's been on the campaign trail for over two years and he seems like a nice, even-tempered guy who'll cut my taxes. I'd love to grab a beer with him, you know what I mean?"

White Obama supporter Norman Stills of Darkiekill, South Carolina says he is most concerned about the economy: "Black Obama is going to tax me. I only makes 42,000! Now, White Obama, he's out for people like me...because he looks like me."

In the survey, White Obama also holds commanding leads on the issues — especially economic ones. He has a 39-point advantage over Black Obama in handling health care (59 to 20 percent), a 21-point edge on improving the economy (49 to 28). Black Obama still leads in "who I'd want on my basketball team" (65 to 29) and "who can dance better" (74 to 12).

As for the electoral count, White Obama leads in every state, especially in the South, where, for example, he's carrying Alabama by a 93-4. Black Obama still leads in Washington DC, 90-10.

With no clear policy differences, analysts are struggling to determine the cause of the giant spread between the two candidates.

"I guess when that hole in the fabric of space time opened up, White Obama brought some of that good old fashion alternate-universe charm about him. People really get a sense like they know him, as opposed to Black Obama, who they still have many questions about, especially in relation to his dubious, America-Hating associations." Says Dr. Arnold Rimmer of Lancaster, PA.

"Personally, I'm not voting for him because I hate black people".

Just remembering...

Just watching a piece on Obama's grandmother reminds me of my own. Here is a blog post I wrote 7 months ago about my grandmother, who had died the day before. Her absence was underscored in a Bat Mitzvah I went to on Sunday...the first major family function without her.

Below, you'll read a little about my feisty grandmother and jazz celebrity great uncle:

My grandmother passed away yesterday (3/24/08) at the all-too-young age of 98. I say "all-to-young" (with grammatically dubious dashes), because she never seemed like she would die. I remember when I was a child and she was in her early 80s, I assuredly thought she'd still be baking me gooey Apple Pies and scrumptious Chocolate Cakes well into her 120s. Even towards the end; as she was sick, frail and bedridden, her spirit remained strong and I had no doubts that Willard Scott would be announcing her 100th birthday on "The Today Show" in 2009. Her spirit was just THAT strong: she was the definition of a tough old broad and will forever be missed by those that knew her.

Anyway, I attended the funeral this morning. It was sad, funny and beautiful. I was most effected when my Aunt played Sophie Tucker's "Some Of These Days" on a little portable boom box. Lyrics like:

"And when you leave me you know it's gonna grieve me
Gonna miss your big, fat mamma, your mamma some of these days"

Seem to be written about my big old fat grandma.

While at the funeral I saw my dad's cousin Charlie (or Charlsie! for short). He's a gregarious, funny, amiable fellow that you immediately take a liking to after hearing a single burst of his humongous laugh. His parents were also first cousins, which is neither here nor there.

He told me this amazing story about my great uncle Lee Myles (my grandmother's brother). Lee was a big-band leader who was a contemporary of Irving Berlin and had articles written about him by the likes of Ed Sullivan. He started his own automotive transmission store aptly named "Lee Myles". It's a chain today that's located mostly around the northeast. His store had a big billboard with his name on it, smack in the middle of the Long Island Expressway. It had a big clock, so people who waited in traffic could check the time. Can you imagine people driving around without knowing what time it is?

Charlsie worked for Lee (and later ran one of his stores) and recounted a very funny story to me. Sometime around 1959 or 1960 Lee was contacted by General Motors. They wanted to pay him 7 Million Dollars to buy his stores and another 500 thousand a year to run the place. 7 Million bucks is a lot of money now, I can't even conceive how much that was back then.

Anyway, Lee was excited and was about to make the deal. In the final meeting GM told him and Charlsie what they wanted to do: take Lee's name off the billboard on the expressway and replace it with a GM sign. After all, it would be great advertising; all those motorists checking the time with a huge GM clock. This was a major thing for them.

Lee walked out of the meeting, looked at Charlsie and said "Fuck them!". Charlsie tried to convince Lee that he could maybe negotiate and have the sign say "GM presents Lee Myles", but Lee would hear nothing of it; no damn company was taking HIS name off the L.I.E. He turned the deal down flat and nothing was ever mentioned of it again.

He's my new hero. What a wonderful stubborness! Nanny was special, but obviously she came from a special family: and I'm glad to be a part of it.

Uhh...what was I talking about?

Alas, it's been too long since I've updated. A lot has happened in the past week;

I...uhm...actually I haven't really done jack shit. I am taking a brief respite from blog writing in order to focus on my crying and self pity. That well is almost dry, and I do believe I will have something new and interesting before the week ends.

Why is it that I cannot focus on anything for more than 5 seconds anymore? I pop up a web page and within a few moments, I open up a new tab and am looking at something else. I don't finish articles, postings or even a coherent sentence. I mention this because over the course of the preceding 2 paragraphs I have opened up a new tab at least 5 times. But, I'm stopping myself.

No more! Oh wait...Obama's grandmother is sick. Just gotta check that one out...

bonheur de la mort

NOTE: To give context, this entry was written at 4:30am in a dark, silent room.


Wow. These days are going by fast, no?

Every day I wake up, I blink, and then I'm back where I started; except it's cold and black. I'm pretty sure some stuff happens in between those moments, but I can't for the life of me tell you what it would be.

Of course; since we age, each day becomes a lesser percentage of our life, so we perceive each day exponentially shorter than the last.

Basically, it's like starting your Geo Metro and waiting for it to get up to 60 miles an hour. It might take 85 years, but at least you're heading for a brick wall that will kill you instantly. Ahh, sweet, delicious death. I hope I'm drunk or wearing a tuxedo.

I've often wondered why I'm so obsessed with death. I guess it's the contradiction; It's really the only certain thing in life, but it's also the most mind-bogglingly uncertain. Do I get to meet my childhood dog for that teary eyed game of catch that I miss so dearly; or am I brutally raped by a various consortium of damned souls, fire-breathing monsters and those people who call you up during dinner and ask "are you happy with your current bank?".

Or, does nothing happen? Vast, blank, empty nothing? Eternal nothingness devoid of space, experience and graham crackers? It's like when they used to put you in "time out" during elementary school, except there's a lot less humiliation slash vicious beating when you're dead.

And therein lies the problem. I'll never know and yet I'll spend time worrying about it for the next 60 odd years. What a waste of time life is.

At least I'm not on the Mets.

Here's a good song off an album that hasn't been released yet that you should listen to. It's not as interesting as the complex questions that surround death, but let's just say it "kills" some time. Buh-dump-bump (VOMIT!)

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

Professor Hevana

Professor Hevana liked to smoke Cuban cigars, which is why his students gave him the nickname Professor Hevana. He taught English at a local public school in Los Angeles.

He was 65, acted 25 and complained like he was 85: to him, he was still that 14 year old playing stickball in Brooklyn, but, "oy" did his back hurt, and "what's with that noise? you call that MUSIC?".

One evening, while smoking some pork ribs (he had run out of cigars), he saw the prettiest girl he had never seen in his life. 5'10 with perfect chestnut hair, a statuesque figure and a beauty mark in the shape of France; he knew that he was too old to pass this opportunity up.

But what to say? He had been out of the game so long, he wasn't even sure he knew what "the game" meant. "Fuck it!", he thought. "I'm going to wing it like John McCain is winging his campaign!"

He walked up to her.

"Hello, I'm 65 and scared of death. I teach high school English and have never met a Welsh person. What's your name?"

Sandra was immediately impressed. Not by his honesty, but by the fact he was her teacher 10 years ago and obviously didn't remember her. She'd play along.

"You're mighty forward".

"Well, I come from a long line of forward people. My father was forward; I called him father forward, or was it forward father? Either way, he'd beat me while reading from the bible."

"Are you religious?"

"I go to synagogue, church, and an Atheist meet up weekly. I try to cover my bases."

"But what do you believe?"

"I believe that believing is for suckers. Whatever is going on, we'll never know. I'm not stupid enough to believe in an all powerful deity, but I'm not naive enough to believe in nothing".

"Oh yeah? Well, I'm a pantheist."

"Really? That's noble".

"Let me clarify; I'm a frying pantheist. I believe only cutlery goes to heaven. The rest of us are fucked."

Hevana was in love with that sentence. So in love that he fell in love with the mouth that spoke those words and, by extension, the woman whose mouth spoke those words.

She looked at him.

"You really don't remember me?"

"Should I?"

"Sandra Cosby; class of '98? I had AP English with you. Remember?"

He didn't.

"I don't, but I should, right?"

"Probably. You told me you thought I was one of the best in your class."

"I guess I was lying."

In that single moment she reflected upon her entire life; all the teachers she remembered, all the classmates: They were frozen solid in time; ageless; unchanged despite the years that separated them.

Hevana must have taught another 500 students over the last 10 years; so why on earth should he remember her?

She studied him; a few more gray hairs, a few extra pounds, more pronounced crow's feet. This wasn't her English teacher, this was some 65 year old guy that she'd never met. She wanted to keep her frozen moments intact.

So, she walked away.

"Hey!" he called after. "If I pretend I remember you, will you go out on a date with me?"

She walked away pretentiously: in slow motion, set to a 60's rock song with a pronounced acoustic guitar. She really hated Wes Anderson movies.

FADE OUT.


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hevana is misspelled on purpose. If you don't get it, reread the first paragraph.

Obama, McCain And A Bunch Of Swiftboats

Well, I can't say I'm surprised by the fact that Obama (or, more aptly, his people) have funded a "documentary" about the Keating 5. I put documentary in quotes because it's more like propaganda. Perhaps bordering on truthful, but it's still almost "swiftboat"-style politics.

Yes, McCain did some corrupt shit back in the late 1980's, and perhaps the voters should be informed about it, but I really was enjoying this "even tempered" Obama who was focusing on what HE could do for the economy, not railing on McCain about something he did 20 years ago.

It's true that McCain is about to launch a basically racist "he's not like us" attack campaign which was started by academician Sarah Palin's remarks on Saturday, stating that Obama likes to "pal around with Terrorists". Did she mention he was Black too?

Anyway, I am disappointed that Obama needs to stoop to the low levels of McCain's attacks to fight back. I know it's more germane, and definitely more TRUE then the bullshit malarkey that they put Kerry through in 2004, but it still feels very "Rovian" and that is almost as bad as "Nazism" in my book. That fat fucking bald asshole.

In the end, I think this will probably do 1 of 2 things: either help Obama break away from McCain by shitting on his chances of convincing people he actually can do something with this necessitous economy; or it will backfire due to McCain's people attacking Obama for "swiftboat style politics", which McCain will then use to call Obama's character into question through "swiftboat style politics". Sounds like Confusing Bullshit? Welcome to politics!

Oh well, if it helps him win, I guess that's OK. Here's hoping it's not just one term. The economy is going to be shit for a while and I can see John Thune or someone similar attacking Obama in a 2012 debate about "making things worse". Let's hope Obama isn't a Jimmy Carter (or Al Gore, for that matter).

I'm reminded of this wonderously awful song by Brian Wilson called "Life Is For The Living" (if you want it, go get it Barack)...that has never been officially released. Full of Vegas Schmaltz horns and lyrics about putting down the "grass", getting off your "ass" and doing "push ups and sit ups" and eating "three times a day", you KNOW it's fucking amazing.

Have a listen:

Music Playlist at MixPod.com

Conversation with Sleeping Person

Here I am, sitting in a doctor's office; chilling, relaxing: chillaxing, if you're so inclined.

I notice a 20-something year old girl sleeping deeply in the other side of the waiting room. I don't want to disturb her, but the 4-month-old Newsweek is calling and I'm bored as hell.

I walk over and her eyes open;

"you wrote a note about being fat" she mumbled, while looking at me.

I figure she's talking "crazy talk", so I lean over to pick up the magazine and begin to walk away.

She calls after me: "I thought you were going to go get pizza."

This required a polite response: "What?"

Then she gets angry: "YOU SAID YOU WERE GOING TO GO GET PIZZA? WHAT'S SO FUNNY ABOUT THAT?"

She's talking but her mind isn't working, kinda like Palin last night.

She continued: "you said you had a very serious slow-down disease".

Figuring there's nothing I can do, I walk away. Her final words to me before she fell back asleep: "I thought you were going to work".

She was definitely wrong. Ha.

Next time someone you're next to someone who's sleeping, start a conversation; it just might be the most interesting one you have all day.

Sarah Palin Popped Our Cherry

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

I Make Ice Cubes Out of Tears

This heat is getting to me.

It's about 90 degrees in LA, and with humidity, it's 197 degrees: which is actually the point in which a Jew's blood begins to melt.

What does melting Jew blood look/smell like? Well, kind sir, I would assume that you probably don't want to know. But in case you're curious, the answer to both questions is Altoona, Kansas.
My only relief is to close my eyes and stick ice cubes down the front of my trousers. Once the ice cubes melt, I begin to cry, which I then put in a tray and stick into the freezer to make more ice cubes. I call them "Cry Cubes", or Crubes for short. I like to put them into drinks of aquaintances so that they can taste my pain.

It's bad. It's so bad my rabbit actually spent the entire day writing poetry about sunstroke. His masterwerk, "I Wandered Lonely As A Baby Carrot" brings a tear to my eyes (which I then put in the freezer).

The only brief respite I have gotten lately is the complete and utter incompetence of the mainstream media. Even forgetting their coverage of the inane minutiae of the current political cycle (did we need a solid three days of "lipstick on a pig gate"?), they show no compassion or understanding in their reporting. Let's take a look at the top 10 stories on CNN.com the other day:

Hmmm...one of the greatest actors of his, or any generation has passed away due to a long, painful illness, but hey! At least Abe Vigoda is still kicking around, being the punchline to oh-so-many of Conan O'Brien's jokes.

I think it's time for some Cry Cubes...

Shempkin hates Shempkin and Pornography

When Mrs. Shempkin was finished...she knew it was finished.

After all, she had written a list of everything she hated, which ended up being about her husband and his particular habits. These habits were not weird, maybe a little perverted, but not weird. But, she hated them; hated like a Frenchman hates an American Tourist. Hated like a handjob hates a blowjob.

That last metaphor made her think; there's something totally and utterly wrong with me...

So, she went to a shrink to figure out if she actually hated her husband, or if she was just a tad bit queer.

Sitting on her therapist's couch, she spoke softly.

Mrs. Shempkin: It's strange, you know. After 15 years, Ralphie's still a mystery to me. I really don't know all that much about him, and that scares me.

Therapist: How so?

Mrs. Shempkin: Well, just yesterday I asked him what he was thinking about and he said "nothing". Nothing? What the fuck does that mean? Nothing. If you're thinking nothing, you're fucking dead, like that vegetable in Florida those Republicans tried to make a scene about. Thinking nothing!

Therapist: How so?

Mrs. Shempkin: Well, I mean, it's a silly thing to say, "thinking nothing" because you're obviously thinking about something. 15 years of "thinking nothing" and it just convinced me that he's thinking something that he just doesn't want me to know.

Therapist: How so?

Mrs. Shempkin: I think that's pretty obvious.

Therapist: How so?

It was at this point that Mrs. Shempkin turned around and noticed that her Therapist had been replaced with a cassette player with "out to lunch" written on it. She decided she needed to confront her husband one-on-one.

When she got home, she noticed her man, laying quietly on the couch, watching the "Best Of Ellen Degeneres" on DVD. It was 5 minutes long.

Mrs. Shempkin: Ralphie, we need to talk.

Ralphie: I hope it's not about anything, because I hate talking about anything.

Mrs. Shempkin: Not only is it about anything...it's about something.

Ralphie: Some-thing? That's my least favorite thing.

Mrs. Shempkin: Why do you just sit there, watching hours and hours of Lesbian comediennes, while not paying attention to me?

Ralphie: Well, maybe if you tried to become a comedienne, I would pay attention to you.

Mrs. Shempkin: Well, to be honest...I did. And you know what I found out?

Ralphie: What?

Mrs. Shempkin: I found out that I hate you.

Ralphie: Really? You do?

Mrs. Shempkin: Yes, I'm afraid so.

Ralphie: We've got so much more in common then I ever knew!

From that moment on, Ralphie and his wife were inseparable; he never thought he'd ever meet anyone that hated him as much as he hated himself.

I Love You, You Big Dummy

Shempkin was in love with Wanda Sykes which, to him, was a little strange. Not only didn't he find her attractive, but he was also racist. Still, her shrill wine and consistent jabs at authority turned him on, somewhere deep in the cockles of his heart. At least in the vicinity of where his heart should be (and where now stood a large, black, empty hole).

This was somewhat disconcerting to his wife; she was a soft, cuddly, loving type, but couldn't quite get over his constant infidelities with b-list comediennes. Sure, they were all fantasies that could and never would happen, but Shempkin had called out Sarah Silverman's name every single night of their 7 year marriage (twice Silverman and Ellen, once Silverman and Seinfeld, which gave her pause for thought).

What was Flora Shempkin to do? She loved her husband, but she knew his eyes looked elsewhere. How was she to get his attention.

WAIT.

In a wit of inspiration, she realized what she needed to do: She was going to spice up their marriage by becoming a stand up comedian.

So, she sat down at her computer and tried to write up a routine. She read in a book that the foundation of a funny stand-up comedy was to write out a list of the ten things that bothered her the most. Flora, for the most part, was quite a content and amiable lass, so this did not come easy to her. But, this was a matter of the heart and she was going to try her darnedest.

Flora Shempkin's Top Ten List.

Don't you hate it when:

1) Your husband leaves dirty socks around the floor.
2) Your husband screams out "Barney FIFE!" during climax
3) Your husband cries while masturbating whenever "The Late Show With Craig Ferguson" comes on.

She almost got to number 4, but then she realized something.


To be continued on the next blog...

I Love My Cockles

Yesterday I had the most page views ever on this site. True, 'tis but a mere pittance to what most sites get (especially one that mentions pooter as much as I do), but I was overall-ly pleased.

One thing though, a fair amount of the views came from Little, Brown And Company, which is a book publishing firm. Someone there categorically went through almost every single blog that I've ever done...maybe they're scouting or maybe they're putting together a leaflet on how not to write blogs...my vote is with the latter.

In any case, I also received a very kind email this evening from a young entrepreneur who wanted me to link to his fabulous website full of knee-slaptastic clothing, so here ya go, kind sir. You can now check out his stuff in my blog roll.

Now he's supposed to link back to me, which will be an interesting social experiment. Seems to me like this free exchange of linkage is like communism, and we all know how well that worked out, so I'm not holding my breath.

In unrelated news, does anyone notice that it's no longer strange to talk/sing/yell loudly at yourself while walking down the street? I used to think it was a trait unique to transients and homeless people, but now it seems like every Tom, Dick and Hipster is doing it.

Like today, someone road past me on his bike, and I could have sworn I heard him yelling "Fuck that corporation 10 dollar logo bullshit!"

And the other week, I saw this straight off the boat Chinese guy scream/singing "Material Girl" last week around Sunset and LaBrea: "I am riving in a matryl wor, an I am a matryl gul". It warmed the cockles of my heart, or at least the cockle-area.

I love my cockles.

time!

Each day is a smaller percentage of our life; ergo, each day passes faster and faster until we die.

Basically, relatively, our time gets shorter as we get older. Does anyone else think this is backwards? As a reward for trudging through a meaningless life, don't you think it's fair that we get to enjoy more of the day? Though, I guess at some point, life becomes so painful that it's not even worth having a nice long day with it.

The sun set at around 7:30 today. How did that happen? Just a few days ago it was 8...

Somehow or another, a year is a milestone and it's rapidly approaching a year since I quit my job. Believe me, it was the best decision of my life; I make more money now, am less stressed, and have more time to write. But still, I do miss some things.

I wrote and directed over 200 episodes of a show called "Bikini News", which, although 90% of it was stuuupid (directive from the CEO I was working for), it still managed to get quite a following (several million viewers, 10's of thousands of subscribers), as well as gave me a chance to flex my artistic muscles sometimes (though not extremely often).

At some point, I decided to parody my own work as a stupid...uhhh...student filmmaker who loved Bergman. This is what I came up with;

La Douleur De La Vie: Un Filme De Jennifer Jackson

Not wondrous, but also not bad for 20 minutes of shooting and about an hour of editing.

That's what I love about the web, it's complete immediacy. What I like is that there are SO MANY bad things going around, I can get away with half assing it most of the time. Actually, it's more quarter assing it, but that's neither here nor there.

No one can tell the difference if I give it my all or if I barely pay attention, which gives me the ability to focus on things I enjoy and kinda shit out everything else. That would explain the last two and a half years, but at least several million people have seen it.

Anyway, next time you're sitting around, wondering where the time has gone...just remember that you're alive and that's pretty much enough. Don't get too greedy.

Click HERE! To check out one of my favorites...

Watch for the puppy throwing...a personal favorite...

Writer's Block

I sat starkly staring at stern stories untold and thoughts I couldn't form into sentences. My problem was that I kept taking a post modernest stance to my writing and continually questioned its and my existence. What does my writing contribute to society? Indigestion? Paper herpes?

"NO! I should give up". I thought.

"I really need to do something memorable. Something my grandchildren could remember me for". That's when I decided to assassinate the president.

15 minutes later, after sobering up, I realized that was a pretty bad idea. After all, if people remember presidential assassins, they'd remember Leon Czolgosz or LBJ. No, I really needed to do something memorable. Something where ex girlfriends could say "I used to date the guy who did that". Something where my parents could say "I am no longer entirely ashamed of my son because he did this". But what was that thing?

Poet? Maybe. I gave it a try.

Why do our knuckles crack?
is it loss, is it pain?
Oh my Jewish Nose
The blood red spackle stain

Then I realized that I was a horrible poet and I didn't know what iambic pentameter was. Even the world "iambic" looked like a Ukrainian side dish that came with my Hulhulash, which, incidentally was a word I just made up.

OK, what else could I be? A musician???

So I sat down, wrote and recorded this song:



So, obviously, that's a wash.

"What else could I do with my life to potentially make it memorable?". I wondered.

Then I looked at the clock and realized that it was 1:30am; just in time to catch the second episode of the hour long "Golden Girls" block on Lifetime. Whatever wonderful thing I could be doing would have to wait until tomorrow.


POSTSCRIPT: This was the same note that Matt jotted to himself every single night. He died penniless and alone at the age of 110. His final words were "I'll do it tomorrow".

No one came to his funeral or remembered him.

Problems with Jung

No, Jung isn't a sexual euphemism, it was the name of Jung R*u, a gentleman who stayed in my apartment in Astoria, Queens at the beginning of this year. WARNING: This is a tale of deceit, treachery and dried fish heads...Proceed with caution.

Jung was a seemingly kind fellow who wanted to stay in my apartment while I was in Los Angeles. Since I was away and the guy had a pretty sweet job at a financial instution, I figured "what the hey!" and gave him the keys to my apartment. It was the biggest mistake of my life.

OK, that's a little melodramatic, I've made bigger mistakes, which would actually explain the last 15 years of my life, but I digress. After he "moved in" little weird things started to happen; I began to notice lots and lots of porn being ordered on the cable bill. With this "new fangled Internets!' " you'd think the days of someone ordering pornography via cable at $12.95 a pop were over, but apparently not.

When I emailed him about it, I never heard back, and I figured "whatever" because he gave me enough money before he moved in to cover it. The thought of him "having a solo sexercize" on my couch was a little disheartening, but that's what bleach is for.

Anywho, he never paid his bills on time (if something was due on the 1st, he wouldn't pay until I emailed him about it on the 10th...he also often lied and said "he sent it out already", but then two days later, I'd get the check, postmarked the day I called), he never responded to phone calls or emails (unless it was about said rent), and then one day my landlord called...

"Matt, do you have an Asian person living in your house?"
"Well, there's a guy staying there while I'm in LA, but he's not renting it"
"Well, the super called and told us that there are Asian people coming in and out of the house all day long; several of them. There have been noise complaints"

I called Jung:
"Jung, if you're having parties there, please stop. I told you that you couldn't"
"I am not having parties there. In fact, I am barely even there"

I thought..."OK", well he's there and has my keys. Maybe "several Asian people" meant two or three and maybe the noise complaints stem from "late night pornography watching", so whatever. I'll take him at his word.

Cut to a few months later...

I get to my house in Astoria and one of the first things I notice is a bucket of dried fish heads that smelled like Satan's underthings sitting on top of my refrigerator. Next thing I notice is about 200 Korean books on my bookshelf, wrapped in newspaper. OK, that's strange...maybe he was a reader and wanted to leave them as a present as a sign of gratitude for not telling the world of his porn addiction.

Then I see the super...

and he tells me that a large Asian family was living in my small one bedroom apartment for several months. There was 2 elderly parents and 2 or 3 "teenaged girls".

That would explain why Jung said: "I am not having parties there. In fact, I am barely even there". The essence of a good lie is to tell the truth; just ask John McCain.

That gave me quick pause for thought; what the fuck was going on in my tiny one bedroom apartment? There's no way that anyone was watching pornography there without the entire abode (and perhaps the neighbors) noticing. If there WERE 2-3 teenage girls, how did they feel about the litany of porn being ordered night and day?

WAIT...

"People coming in and out all day long?" + "Porn being ordered all night and day" = *Definitely Not a* Prostitution ring?

Stranger things have happened.

Oh, they also stole a $500 rug from me.

So, the moral of the story is, don't give your keys to some strange guy named Jung R*u...he just might give them to people who are DEFINITELY NOT RUNNING a large Korean prostitution ring.

Aloha nui means goodbye...

He played the player piano with grace.

With his eyes closed he could almost rule the world. He sang songs of loss, love and laconic lessons. He wasn't sure what "laconic lessons" were, but he was a fan of alliterative prose.

She walked in; already in the middle of a sentence about the fallacy of the human condition: she, as she eloquently put it, was a frying pantheist; a believer that only cooking utensils and inanimate objects went to Heaven.

He was of the belief that if you pretended hard enough, it would exist; therefore Transformers, Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles and a Unified Democratic Party were all lurking about in the real world.

They began to make wild, passionate love. All he could think about was Darryl Strawberry hitting a home run during the '86 play offs. This was his way of not ejaculating quickly. Unfortunately, after Strawberry, his thoughts went to balls...and it was all over too soon.

They lay together in bed for a few minutes; wondering if this was the last time they'd lay in bed together for a few minutes. Their relationship was tumultuous; he frequently cried during sex and she frequently gave him venereal diseases. Not the bad kind, the kind that made you smarter. What, you haven't heard of "Smart-philis"? He fucked her to boost his IQ and she fucked him because her father was a rabid Jew hater.

Their difference proved to be too much though and this was the time they knew it had to end.

She looked at him:

"This is the last time we'll have sex, you know"

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm looking for something more; someone who wants to talk aimlessly about sports and slap me on the behind as we have unemotional, passionless sex!"

"You're getting married?"

"Yes"

Three weeks later, she was married at the 3rd United Church of Jeebus. He sat in the back, planning his next move.

His next moved proved to be sitting on his couch and eating potato chips while crying. He knew he wanted something similar, so he put an ad in Craig's List:

"Looking for someone to spend the next 50-60 Years With; Must be open to arguing about the division of household labor, complaining about the things that make me unique, and gaining 20 pounds within the first year of dating."

He had over 3000 applicants. Not one to make a decision, he killed himself instead. It seemed a faster way to achieve the same goal.

Pick A Number

INT. LIVING ROOM
Jen and Matt sit next to each other on a couch.

Jen's reading a book.

MATT
Guess what number I'm thinking of.

JEN
Not now.

MATT
No seriously, take a guess.

JEN
OK, 14.

MATT
No.

JEN
12.

MATT
No.

JEN
27.

Numbers go fast and Matt either shakes his head or says "NO"

JEN (CONT'D)
Decemberteenth.

MATT
That's not a number.

JEN
Taster's Choice.

MATT
That's coffee.

JEN
I dunno. 18.

MATT
Sorry, I was thinking of 42.5. You lose.

JEN
Lose?

Two men WEARING PANTY HOSE OVER THEIR HEAD...

...stick a SOCK in Jen's mouth and carry her away.

Matt looks down at his NOTEBOOK:

There are a number of stick figures with names above them:

Jen, Ian, Karl Rove, The Grocer, Family Guy Writing Staff.

He makes an "X" over Jen's stick figure.

Voices in My Head

Brian Wilson (pop genius Beach Boys songwriter) hears at least three voices in his head: Phil Spector, his father Murray and...well actually I can't remember the third one, I read an interview with him last night and apparently my memory has a 20 hour rule.

The voices tell him that he's awful and untalented, and they also tell him to kill himself. Sounds like a dinner with my family.

I bring this up because I'd also like to have voices in my head, but voices saying "hey, you're amazing, superstar" or "you know, for a neurotic outsider with an inferiority and superiority complex, you ain't so bad". Perhaps voices that recount famous episodes of "The Simpsons". I'd love to have the Monorail one going on all day long: "I call the big one bitey!".

So here is a list of people I'd like to have rambling in my head, preferably not telling me to kill myself:

1) Groucho Marx: It would be worth a lifetime of zingers to be able to have the "Elephant In My Pajamas" speech at my disposal. Of course, knowing me, he'd probably just perform shit from "The Big Store" or something.


2) Tupac: I would love to become more familiar that fabulous Gangster patois; plus we both agree that "life goes on...and [then] we up out this bitch". Drawback: he'd be banging bitches all night long and keeping me up.





3) John Cleese: no real reason other then I think listening to him would make me sound a lot more proper and thereby make me a hit at all the fancy soirées I go to. Yes, I go to a lot of soirées, AND Yes, I have a lot of friends AND Yes, I don't find every minute that I limp painfully through life torturous.



4) God: If only to get him to explain some things. Seriously, why do we sneeze? Is John McCain an automaton robot programmed to give "thumbs up" every 15 minutes? Also, why am I turned on by watching the Outdoor Life Network?


Well, now that I've gotten a "Real World"-esque group of thugs, deities, and elderly (or dead!) comedians hanging about in my head, it's time to throw a party. Well, not really a party, more like me alone in a small, dark room hearing a bunch of voices and drinking shit brand whiskey to get them to say "nice things" about me. Must...kill...pain...

Random fact: Drinking Prickly Pear Juice five hours before drinking booze will prevent hang-overs.

Also, I have heard that people who are left-handed have a shorter life span...so I better start hearing those voices soon.

Sarah Palin and Ann Coulter Have Sex

Ann Coulter closed the door behind her.

Her heart was pounding and her nerves were shot: "Is this really happening?" she wondered.

That's when Sarah Palin approached her. Ann caught a glimpse of her nubile bosoms that were just barely peaking out of her purple blouse.

"What are we doing here?", Ann knew the answer but felt obliged to ask the question.

"I think the question is, what aren't we doing here?"

Sarah Palin thrust herself upon Ann Coulter. She began to caress her legs, moving ever so slowly up to Ann's penis.

"Fuck me, Coulter. Stick your penis up my ass".

"My penis is like your stance on Russia; hardline".

"I don't know what that means".

Palin arched her back to allow Coulter's throbbing man muscle inside of her.

"You see, if Bristol had listened to me and done it this way, she wouldn't have gotten knocked up. Always up the pooper; that's the way God wants you to have it!"

When it was all over, Palin and Coulter took a shower together. Not much happened, except some light touching and gentle tongue kissing.

They cleaned up, got dressed and went their separate ways; Coutler to appear on the Fox News show "Liberals Bad" and Palin to give her nationally televised speech; "They're Sexist Because I'm a Woman".

During Fox's coverage, Coulter couldn't help but crack a smile: She just did to Palin what Palin would be doing to this country for the next four years.