The House of Knod

DO YOU LIKE WILL FRANKEN COMEDY? THEN SEE WILL FRANKEN

2010-09-24T10:26:00.001-07:00

HEY DO YOU LIKE COMEDY? FUNNY COMEDY? FUNNY COMEDY THAT MAKES YOU LAUGH?

DO YOU OR NOT? ANSWER ME?

Or do you like comedy that makes you think. . .and reflect. . .

WELL YOU CAN HAVE both.

SEE THE SHOW THAT everybody is TALKING ABOUT! EVEN DOGS!

Will Franken Rises From The Ashes

The Purple Onion Comedy Club

140 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco

Friday, October 1st and Saturday, October 2nd,

8pm both nights

$20 at the door

www.willfranken.com

LOOK AT THIS!

You're Excused

2009-12-07T21:53:00.000-08:00

When I think of all my sins in their magnitude, it embarrasses me to admit. . .

. . .sometimes I don't like to say "excuse me" when people are in my way.

You see, I believe if I can improvise a trajectory around them without having to actually touch them--no matter how physically-convoluted that trajectory may be--there's nothing to be excused.

First off, saying "excuse me" can be quite socially draining when all I really want to do is just get past the person and continue on with the rest of my life. Why should I have to start a new relationship with a total stranger just to imply that I don't want to be near them? I'd rather not open that can of worms. It's much more convenient to circumvent their bodies awkwardly, come really close to falling into them, and then surprise them (and myself!) by remaining upright.

For instance, consider this large black lady on her cell phone at the pizzeria today. There couldn't have been more than a single foot of room on either side of her between the counter and a large vinyl booth near the exit. Once I was handed my slice of Canadian bacon, Italian sausage, and anchovies, the only two ways out of the restaurant, as I saw it, were to either say "excuse me" or squish myself together as tightly as I could and hold my pizza box far above my head, sliding ten to fifteen baby steps in the narrow strip of floor left over by her enormous posterior.

I opted for the latter.

Twice I stumbled and almost fell into her. Once, after banging my knee against the Formica table and then again, when I attempted to turn myself around prematurely in the erroneous assumption that I'd already traversed the width of her waistline. Sadly, there were still a few more inches to go before I could safely say to myself: "Olly-Olly-Oxen Free!"

Eventually, I extricated myself from this daredevil position. Yet I only had a brief second or two in which to congratulate myself on the completion of yet another physically difficult, almost Chaplinesque, circumlocution of a human form without having to say "excuse me"--when suddenly I noticed a look on the black woman's face that could have killed a white boy.

"Don't you say excuse me?" she huffed.

"I didn't want to hurt your feelings," I returned.

That was a glib response, to be sure. However, by the time I arrived home with my warm slice of pizza--who knows how cold it might have been if I had taken precious time to stop and say "excuse me"--I realized that I had been right after all.

That is to say: what is the purpose of saying "excuse me" to somebody that's in my way? I'm the one that has to perform the over-the-top acrobatics if I don't take the time to say it.

Aren't I the one that's doing them a great favor--a social good, if you will--by not calling undue attention to the fact that they're preventing my egress?

This afternoon, as I stuffed myself with salty bits of anchovy on tomato paste, I realized once and for all what a truly kind person I am. Not many people in today's fast-paced and computerized society would take the time, as I do, to both not touch someone and not make manifest the painful truth that they're placing limitations on my Constitutional guarantee of free travel.

Say what you will, but at least I care enough about my fellow human being to consciously and courteously refrain from uttering two of the most hateful and hurtful words that the diabolical lexicon of modern man has ever contained:

Excuse me

Why Can't Women Think Of Me As A Brain In A Jar of Formaldehyde?

2009-12-01T21:47:00.000-08:00

It's so disappointing to me that every time I meet a woman, she's always raving about how cool it is that I'm a man with a male mind and a male body complete with male genitalia.

Why can't women look beyond my physical appearance and treat me like an asexual, disembodied brain doused in a jar of formaldehyde?

Do you have any idea how boring I find it when women express a desire to have sex with me? As if I were a human male?

Puh-lease.

Is it too much to ask to be treated like lumpy gray matter in a petri dish? Why can't I find a nice lady to poke me with a stick and ask me to form a theory about her ongoing relationships with men of lesser intelligence?

Why must I always be sought out by the fairer sex for orgasms instead of advice?

Just for once, I would like to be treated with the same dignity and respect as a magic eight-ball. I, too, am perfectly capable of being shaken up by women to generate random predictions on romantic and vocational aspirations that don't concern me in the slightest.

How can it be, night after night, that every sexual contact I have with a woman is always direct and never vicarious?

Isn't there one single woman in this godforsaken world of casual encounters who's willing to look beyond my male physique and accompanying heterosexual appetite to see the electrodes attached to my cerebellum?

I suppose I wouldn't mind sating my carnal desires as much if women would only return the favor every now and then by using me as a convenient social mirror to help alleviate any uncertainty they might have about their own intelligence.

Oh, what I wouldn't give to be the guy who finishes every polysyllabic word they start but can only remember the first syllable to--instead of the pathetic schmuck in their beds the following morning, eating scrambled eggs and drinking black coffee!

I want to be the guy they should go to bed with, but don't. I want to be a genderless idealization instead of a male actuality.

I swear, if I see another hot young lady this week sitting on my lap in her bra and panties, I'm going to throw up. I'm still young -- I have yet to experience all the wondrous adventures of being a neutered Facebook acquaintance to an uploaded photo of a good-looking girl nestled in the arms of her hipster boyfriend!

The repetition is killing me. Every night it's the same thing. Meet a good-looking girl (yawn) make out with her (yawn) get an erection (yawn) go back to her place and get undressed (yawn) and then fuck her so brutally that every framed family photo and Japanese lithograph in her apartment falls to the floor and shatters, while the unrelenting and hellish banging of the headboard against the wall continues unabated for upwards of three hours until an earth-shattering, cosmos-dividing, mutual orgasm at last provides the concupiscent punctuation mark that concludes the run-on sentence of our sexual satisfaction and enables us to finally disengage our glistening bodies one from the other in order that we may roll over and light up some well-deserved Marlboro Reds--despite an earlier admonition by her that "smoking is not allowed in the house."

(huge yawn. . .)

I'm sorry, ladies, but I was not given a penis for the sole purpose of sticking it inside hungry vaginas night after bleeding night. As pleasing as these casual insertions have been for many of you over the years, I'm afraid this cock of mine is endowed with far more nobler functions. For example, if you had taken the time to ask before rudely demanding that I tear off your underwear and "shove it in as deep as it can go", I might have drawn your attention to the sheer biological brilliance which allows my "it"--as you say--to serve me diligently both in the arenas of micturition and onanism.

(That is, of course, during those extremely rare moments when I'm actually in a position to either urinate or masturbate--seeing as how my penis is almost invariably lost inside some tightly-clenched vagina!)

Far exceeding in importance these aforementioned additional qualities of my cock, however, is a function both necessary to my growth as a polite and unassuming Ken doll and one that I hope will be encouraged through the kindness of a very special lady with the courage and insight to see in me not a mere mortal man with common carnal desires, but an ethereal entity existing outside of space and time--namely, its ability to lie limp and unused while she prattles on about what a "brain" I am.

I suppose I shouldn't complain, though. After all, none of the above is true.

I am the guy who wrote the essay at the end of The Breakfast Club.

Where Judas Priest Went Wrong

2009-11-14T14:24:00.000-08:00

--ed. These are just some random thoughts on Judas Priest as I wait for someone to finally call my phone so I can test out my new "You've Got Another Thing Coming" ringtone.

1. DID JUDAS PRIEST REALLY “GO WRONG”?

The assertion that Judas Priest somehow “went wrong” is less controversial of a statement than at first it may appear. I am willing to wager, in fact, that most experts in the field of 1970s-1980s heavy metal would agree that, through certain avoidable errors in composition, editing, and promotion, Judas Priest sacrificed their chance to attain equal footing alongside such luminaries as AC/DC and Black Sabbath in the lexicon of metal greats. Though their status today is still a far cry from one of complete obscurity, it is nonetheless one of a secondary nature. This is because Judas Priest -- much like the original Judas -- did indeed "go wrong".

2. DOES THE FAULT LIE WITH JUDAS PRIEST ALONE OR WERE THERE EXTERNAL FORCES AT PLAY?

Here is where the real controversy begins. In the fast-paced and ever-changing world of 1970s-1980s heavy metal, even those who uphold the notion that Judas Priest “went wrong” are still hesitant to ascribe the blame solely to Judas Priest themselves. Yet unlike the late 1960s/early 1970s pop group Badfinger, for example, Judas Priest was not the hapless victim of shady entertainment lawyers or obtuse management.

Hard rockers are no strangers to pills. Nevertheless, this one still remains difficult to swallow: Judas Priest had the metal world in the palm of their hand and they let it all slip away. In fact, William Shakespeare might have said it even better:

The fault, dear Judas, lies not in the stars, but in ourselves.

3. SO WHERE DID JUDAS PRIEST “GO WRONG”?

In the following sections, I will adumbrate two major areas of fault in which I believe Judas Priest went wrong. The first deals with errors in composition and editing; or, more simply, the musical aspects of the band. The second deals with promotion.

ed.--There might be some confusion as regards this second area of fault. That is to say, does not promotion, being a managerial task, lie outside the scope of band culpability? And if so, wouldn’t Judas Priest have been a victim of an external force after all? In a regular entertainment and promotional sense, the answer to this question would be yes. However, as we shall see later, lead vocalist Rob Halford, it turns out, had been sitting on a major promotional opportunity throughout the entirety of Judas Priest’s career and had failed to act in time to capitalize on it sufficiently. No management company or record label could have forced him to undertake such a promotional opportunity. The decision was his and his alone. His failure to act cost the band dearly. And by the time he did act, Judas Priest, as we knew and loved it, was no more. (more on this in due course)

So let us proceed with with the musical error.

A) The Negative Implication Of Poorly Constructed Metal Prologues.

As we examine the first area of fault (musical), let us do a little role-playing. Close your eyes and take a trip back to your childhood. You’re in your best friend’s older brother’s bedroom rifling through a stack of LPs. Suddenly, you come across one from a band with a rather sinister sounding name: Black Sabbath. On the cover is a blurry figure waving a sword. The title is Paranoid.

Even though you’re young, you already know that your Uncle Steve has recently been diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Your curiosity gets the better of you and so you urge your friend to play the title track on his brother’s hi-fi.

A mercilessly driving guitar riff sharpens your brain cells as you prepare to undergo an auditory crash course in abnormal psychology. Yet instead of learning about the etymology of the word “schizophrenia” (split mind; of Greek origin) or what demographics are most often affected with your uncle’s recently diagnosed disorder, you hear a young Ozzy Osbourne complain that he’s “finished with his woman” and that he’s “frowning all the time” and that “nothing seems to satisfy”. But none of this matters. The intended effect has been achieved. At this point, you’re ready to break into your friend’s father’s liquor cabinet.

Later in the afternoon, slightly aglow from a gin and whiskey and kahlua cocktail, you come across a different album from a band with an equally--if not more so--sinister-sounding name: Judas Priest. The album is called Screaming For Vengeance.

Even though you’re young, you already know that “vengeance” is what your Uncle Steve was screaming for when the ghosts had taken over your grandmother's attic the night he was removed in handcuffs and placed in a white van.

One title in particular leaps out at you: “You’ve Got Another Thing Coming”. The title sounds mean. The title sounds tough. The title makes you think, in your 9-year old inebriated brain, that one listen alone would do for you what Popeye's spinach did for him. “Put it on,” you tell your friend with a snarl. And he obliges.

The first thing you hear is a steady sludge of drums, bass, and rhythm guitar, chugging out an easily comprehensible pedestrian beat. Over the top, a lead guitar blankets this rhythmic mattress with three descending power chords. Following a few quick and simplistic downstrokes of the final chord, the descending pattern is repeated a second time. There’s nothing incorrect with it musically. Everything sounds in tune. Nonetheless, you’re feeling an impatience that you hadn’t felt during the opening bars of “Paranoid”. Twenty seconds of your young life have already passed with nary a cry of vengeance from lead vocalist Rob Halford. You’re about to give up and return to warm embrace of Black Sabbath, but your friend urges you to hang in there. He’s heard it already. And he knows for certain the promise of vocal vengeance will soon be fulfilled.

Finally, you hear a voice that rivals even Osbourne’s in viciousness and disregard for public decency. A beautiful, diabolical warbling emerging straight from the depths of hell makes you shudder at the prospect that one day you might be called upon to murder your parents!

Rob Halford starts out his anthem of vindicating selfishness with relative slowness. You have no idea what he’s saying, but whatever it is, you know it can’t be good for you. One wicked line wraps effortlessly around the next, until--like a linguistic waterfall gushing forth with frothy Satanic pride--Halford’s syllables start to out-pace the instruments. It is at this precise moment--as the freefall begins from verse to inevitable chorus, like a helpless grain of sand passing through the unforgiving vortex of the hourglass--that you know, unequivocally, the music is there to serve Halford and NOT the other way round! Fasten your seat belts, motherfuckers. Here we go!!!!!!!

If you think I’ll sit around as the world goes by
You’re thinking like a fool, cause it’s a case of do or die!
Out there is a fortune, waiting to be had
If you think I’ll let it go, you’re mad!

You don’t need to follow a lyrics sheet to know where this is going to end up. . .

You got another thing coming!
You got another thing coming!

Pure. Metal. Ecstasy.

But how long did it take you to reach this musical satisfaction? Or, more to the point, were the means themselves by which you arrived at this anthemic resolution as engaging as what was to follow when Halford’s vocals finally appeared? Qualitatively speaking, how does the Judas Priest prologue to "You've Got Another Thing Coming" compare to the prologue of Sabbath’s “Paranoid”?

And so here it is--the major musical mistake that ultimately helped to prevent Judas Priest from not just obtaining equal footing with the likes of Black Sabbath, but of possibly even surpassing them in the Pantheon of Metallic Victory.

Judas Priest was deficient in the establishment of memorable metal openings.

Black Sabbath, meanwhile, was abundant in the structural gifts that Judas Priest lacked. That’s why the length between a song’s first chord and Osbourne’s appearance so often varied from track to track in Sabbath's discography. Indeed, the one constant between the brief opening of “Paranoid” and the grandiose prologue of “Luke's Wall/War Pigs” is the obvious level of comfort the band feels about its ability to be engaging, with or without the presence of Osbourne’s vocals.

The same can be said for other bands whose strength was not solely contingent on the dynamism of the lead singer; whether one is referring here to the crude, even childish, guitar riffs and drunken chants of "Oy!" that introduce Bon Scott's passionate ode to unprovoked violence and pre-teen molestation in AC/DC’s “T.N.T." Or, even better, the elaborately-syncopated instrumental onslaught that parts the curtains for Ian Gillan's maniacally screaming entrance to Deep Purple’s “Highway Star”.

In fairness, none of the above is to suggest in any way that the band Judas Priest (sans Rob Halford) was without musical talent. It is, however, to suggest that a necessary hierarchy was sadly overlooked; one which should have rendered the band consistently subservient to Halford’s vocals (with, of course, the exception of the obligatory lead guitar solo).

This deficiency could have been remedied in one of two manners. During composition or rehearsal, the introductory riffs could have been significantly shortened to decrease the wait for Halford’s heavily-anticipated appearances. To be sure, some creative egos may have been bruised--but it was Halford's duty, as leader of Judas Priest, to crack the proverbial whip if the integrity of the band was to survive intact atop the scrap heap of memorable metal.

Remember, too, that in the fine art of 1970s-1980s heavy metal, a bad prologue to a song is not just bad, it’s also pretentious. Metal should come from the spirit naturally and not through brute force.

And, speaking of brute force, it is with a brutally honest condemnation that we conclude our discussion tonight with the second, and greater, misfortune of the Judas Priest legacy:

B) Halford Came Out And No One Was There. . .

Now, no one would blatantly suggest that one’s homosexuality be exploited for promotional purposes.Yet it is an undeniable fact that in the field of 1970s-1980s heavy metal, a lead singerof a prominent metal group coming out of the closet would not only have created a fresh idol for the gay community, but would also have enshrined his band at the very vanguard of postmodern counter-culturalism for years thereafter.

It is true that quite some time before the advent of Judas Priest, Lou Reed had already opened up about his particular homosexual experiences--both in his music and in his lifestyle. However, Lou Reed, it should be noted, wasn’t wed to any particular musical genre--unlike Halford. Rob Halford was a visible entityin the world of heavy metal; a world replete with images of bulging cocks in tight pants and big-tittied backstage whores.

Open homosexuality in 1970s-1980s heavy metal had never been attempted before. And thanks to Halford’s shoddy decision to remain in the closet until after leaving the band in the 1990s, it never would be. The reader will understand now why it was stated earlier that this was a promotional opportunity only Halford could have elected to undertake. Just as the band Judas Priest neglected to shorten their introductions to serve Halford, Halford neglected to come out of the closet to serve Judas Priest. By failing to act in a timely manner, he not only did a disservice to the gay community, but to the heavy metal community as well.

Though not a homosexual, I still hold a certain sadness for the LGBT community when it comes to Halford’s puzzling silence. Coming out of the closet in the 1990s was less than auspicious timing. Queen had already entered the twilight of their career--with, I should add, no small amount of well-deserved fanfare and glory. So who could the gays, therefore, call upon as a musical representative for their cause other than the campy douchebag from the B-52s who yapped about a “Chrysler as big as a whale”?

In summation, to all you aspiring 1970s-1980s heavy metal rockers, wherever you end up in your respective careers, don’t ever forget the sad ballad of Judas Priest--the metal band that “went wrong”.

And to all those aspiring betrayers of Our Lord Jesus Christ, wherever you end up in your respective careers, don’t ever forget the sad ballad of Judas--the disciple that “went wrong”.

The Crowe Has Landed

2009-07-14T14:37:00.000-07:00

PROLOGUE:

AN INAUSPICIOUS LANDING PLACE FOR A CROWE

If you’ve been keeping up with my recent posts, you’ll know that I’ve been spending the past few weeks in a small town in upstate New York. I came to Round Lake partly for a refreshing reminder of the simple country life and partly for its proximity to Montreal, where I’ll soon be enjoying a series of gigs at the prestigious Just For Laughs Comedy Festival, July 23rd through the 25th.

In truth, I thought I’d be able to handle the distinctive shift in cultural tempo better than I have up to this point. After all, I was raised in a small town in central Missouri and somehow managed to survive all those years with relatively few emotional scars. But how easily did I forget the moral to that particular story! The fact is, I couldn’t wait to leave Missouri and once I did, there was no looking back. As a child, I remember watching “Saturday Night Live” reruns on the local NBC affiliate. When the credits rolled over the still photos of nighttime Manhattan, I grew nostalgic for a place I had never even visited. The way I saw it, there was a life happening somewhere in America--and it sure wasn’t in central Missouri.

At this stage, I’ve now lived in cities for so long that I fear I can only efficaciously love the rural life from a comfortable distance. I thought surely that my books would help me pass the time up here and, if not my books, then certainly my ability to have entire conversations with myself as multiple characters should count for some form of entertainment. But that line of thinking was soon exposed as mere folly. When the chapters are finished or the voices have simmered down for the evening, there’s an unshakable and disturbing silence that seems to almost smother the landscape up here with a panoramic stranglehold.

Don’t get me wrong. My heart will always be one with the Salt of the Earth. They are the community from which my personality was hewn. And, as father once said, (in a rare burst of sober parenting): “Son, don’t forget where you came from.” No dad. I won’t. Perhaps that’s why I’m here now. To remind myself of that authenticating lesson. And maybe to allow myself to accept some personal limitations when it comes to geography. I am not a country boy anymore. And it may even be said that I never was.

So on that note of acceptance, following Montreal, I’ll definitely be returning to a city. Which city? It depends on what happens in Montreal. If I get the sense that the entertainment industry is actually willing to work with me, I’ll most likely return to Jersey City and continue to slug it out in the East. If not, I will follow the clarion call of my heart and return to the city that gave me everything when I came to it with absolutely nothing--San Francisco.

But now, for the immediate future, I must continue to bide my time in Round Lake where there is little more to do than. . .well. . .bide time. Perhaps that’s unfair of me. After all, it is possible to own and shoot a gun here without having to be a member of an ethnic gang. That’s a definite plus. And when it rains, the slugs come out and put on a little show in the gravel.

There’s also a local library about half the size of a duplex apartment that seems to contain more books-on-tape than books themselves. Upstairs there’s a single table off in the corner with a folded up piece of Xerox paper taped to it which bears the words: “Laptop Friendly Table”. I spend quite a lot of time at that table. In fact, I’m here right now, polishing up this little story.

I never see anybody else at this table. In fact, most of the time, I never see anybody in this library at all except for the staff. For example, in a room around the corner there’s a fat woman in an elephant print dress (I don’t get it--if you’re fat, why would you wear elephants on your body?). I think she’s the library director or something. She spends a lot of her time on the phone, talking about upcoming board meetings and giggling like an impaled munchkin. I can handle her okay when she’s not making phone calls--which is extremely rare. Seriously, can you imagine being in a library and having to shush the staff?

Nevertheless, I can usually get quite a lot of writing done up here. Except for one day last week when the aforementioned woman in the elephant print dress timidly approached me to say, “You’re welcome to stay up here. . .”

“Thank you,” I responded as I continued updating my Facebook status.

“. . .but we’re going to have about twelve children and their parents up here at three for a face-painting class!”

I turned my head to offer her a blank stare, “What are you talking about?”

“It’s part of our summer activities program for the children!” she giggled, as if she had just uttered a Swiftian witticism, “So you’re welcome to stay, but it might get a little loud!”

I cleared my throat and thought of the scene in The Shining where Shelly Duvall interrupts Jack Nicholson at his typewriter to talk about the weather. “You gotta be kidding me. Isn’t there a children’s section downstairs?”

“Well, there’s one up here, too!” she giggled again. “That whole section over there is a children’s section!”

“So basically, seventy-five percent of this library is devoted to children?”

“Pretty much!” she squealed once more with another inexplicable giggle. Is she laughing at herself? Or me? What the fuck is so funny? “Again, you’re welcome to stay. It just may get a little loud!”

“Well, I’m going to stay,” I said adamantly, turning back to my computer.

Ten minutes later the entire top floor was crawling with screaming children playing fast and loose with open containers of tempera paint as their pedestrian mothers looked on approvingly. I closed my laptop, sheathed it in my shoulder bag, and with a quiet dignity, descended the stairs and left the library with little fanfare.

It was an honorable surrender.

CHAPTER ONE:

THE CROWE HAS LANDED

Out of commission, I retired on a bench in front of the library and lit a cigarette, watching with disgust as minivans continued to pull up in front of the roundabout, side doors opening to dispense even more children to take part in the upstairs siege. Incredulously, the mothers would then park, get out, and walk up to the library to join their children inside-each of them saying “hello” to me with a banal grin as they passed. Why couldn’t the whole family get out at once? There’s ample parking at the Round Lake Library. Is it really worth letting the kids off at the roundabout if you’re only saving them fifteen seconds of face-painting time?

And why were they saying hello to me anyway? I’m creepy-looking. I’ve got long hair and I’m not from around these parts. Didn’t they notice I was smoking? I’m a bad egg. Now fuck off and let me enjoy my cigarette.

Presently, a teenage boy, probably seventeen, rode up on a maroon dirtbike. He looked a bit old for a face-painting class. Maybe he failed it in the spring semester and needed to take a summer course in order to pass. He put his bike in the rack and smiled at me before bounding up the concrete steps to fling open the screen door.

And with that, I was awarded a very brief reprieve from the unwanted salutations so I could focus on the fading resentment I was nursing over my recent ouster. “Fucking kids. Face painting bullshit.”

Soon I heard the slam of the screen door. The teenage boy from earlier bounded back down the concrete steps, removed his bike from the rack and began walking it towards the roundabout. Again, he smiled at me. In return, I offered him an expressionless nod.

He started to get on his bike and then stopped. “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Russell Crowe?”

I burst into laughter, “Are you fucking kidding me?” My burning resentment was suddenly extinguished like the cigarette I had just flicked into a nearby puddle.

“Seriously,” he grinned, “You really do.”

“Well, that’s a new one. No, nobody’s ever told me that before. Are you talking about the same Russell Crowe that was in L.A. Confidential?”

“No.”

“Oh, okay,” I said, trying to mask my disappointment. I guess there’s more than one Russell Crowe.

“He was the guy that was in Gladiator,” beamed the kid.

I laughed again. “Yeah. That’s the same guy. Wow. Not only do I look like Russell Crowe, but I look like the Gladiator Russell Crowe? I gotta tell you, I don’t believe you, but I appreciate it, man.”

“Seriously,” he said, “Especially with the pony tail. And when you were looking in that direction.”

“Well”, I smiled, “I’ll be sure to always wear a pony tail and only look in this direction. Thanks for the tip, man.”

“No problem!” he said as he hopped on his bike and rode away.

What a nice young man, I mused.

CHAPTER TWO:

A NECESSARY RUMINATION ON THE INDIVIDUAL MALE AND THE COMMUNAL FEMALE AS REGARDS THE ECONOMY OF CELEBRITY COMPARISONS

It is socially permissible for either a man or a woman to tell a man that he looks like somebody famous. But by and large, nobody can tell a woman that she looks like anybody at all. Obviously this is true if the famous person the woman is being compared to is ugly--as in, “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Rosie O’Donnell?” or “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Momma from Throw Momma From the Train?”. And especially if the famous person is a man--as in “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Mr. Hooper from the old ‘Sesame Street’?” or “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like the British neighbor on ‘The Jeffersons’”?

But the same holds true even if the female celebrity is an attractive one. For seemingly inexplicable reasons, it just doesn’t seem appropriate to go up to a woman--no matter how much she may look like Scarlett Johansson, and ask her, “Did anybody every tell you that you look like Scarlett Johansson?“

I can imagine the indignant response to what most males would consider a hearty compliment. “I beg your pardon? Excuse me, but I am my own woman!”

The results could be even more disastrous if you’re a movie buff like myself and are attempting to tell a postmodern woman that she looks like a famous Hollywood starlet from the 30s and 40s--as, for example, the irreplaceable Myrna Loy.

“Who’s Myrna Loy?”
“Trust me, she was really attractive.”
“Was?”
“Yeah, she died.”
“Oh, thanks, I look like a dead person. That’s nice to know.”
“She was good-looking when she was alive!”
“Whatever, creep.”

Perhaps the reason for this is because women actually do spend their entire lives perusing periodicals peddling products promising to make them look like Hollywood starlets. Therefore, when you tell a woman that she looks like somebody famous--even if that famous person is unquestionably conventionally attractive--it’s as if you’ve caught her in the middle of some secret game that only she and the rest of the double-X chromosome brigade know the rules to. “I don’t look anything at all like Natalie Portman!” she’ll protest self-righteously just before surreptitiously closing the cover to a magazine that was only previously open to a two-page perfumed spread on Natalie Portman’s favorite places to shop.

This explains why, when starry-eyed men in the initial stages of a relationship refer to their new girlfriend’s looks, the complete truth is always embedded within the vague wording of a “unique beauty”, an “indescribable attractiveness”. Indeed, there’s “something about her” that’s “so special”. She’s “gorgeous”, she’s “hot”, and she may even look “like a supermodel!” It’s only when (and if) they get to the personality that they dish out any specific qualities--”She even likes Lou Reed! And she’s a member of the NRA with her own .44 magnum!”

Meanwhile, any idiot could tell you that the overriding charm is that the girl looks a little bit like Kate Moss if you’re standing a few feet away and not listening to her talk.

Men, however, don’t care and, in many cases, gladly welcome comparisons. Unless, again, the comparison is unattractive. As in, “Did anybody ever tell you that you look like M. Emmett Walsh? Or Ned Beatty? Or the guy in the Elephant Man--not the doctor, but the other guy?”

All of this reminds me of a bit that I was working on the other day wherein the Elephant Man is the star of an 80s teen romance and his well-intentioned (but slightly devious) best friend is James Spader--doling out a slue of unhelpful romantic advice that sounds a lot like the mundane claptrap people still offer me.

CHAPTER THREE:

THE ELEPHANT MAN FACTOR (A TRAGICOMIC DIGRESSION)

JAMES SPADER: Elephant Man, listen. The main thing that chicks are attracted to is confidence. They’re actually not really that into looks. So if you want to get laid--and who doesn’t right?--it’s all in the way you carry yourself. You got to present yourself to the ladies in a way that says, “I’m the fuckin' Elephant Man and I’m the motherfuckin’ shit!” Trim up the hairs around that big tumor, splash on some of my Nivea aftershave, and just go right up to the best-looking chick you can find and say, “Hello there. I’m the Elephant Man. What’s your name, honey?” Remember, chicks can sense fear. So above all, be confident.

Later that night, the Elephant Man--wearing a new pair of Dockers, a pink Izod and a cashmere sweater tied casually around his neck, strolls up to a pretty young brunette at a Los Angeles bar.

ELEPHANT MAN: Hey baby. I’m the Elephant Man. I’m not a human. . .I’m an ANIMAL!

The girl screams for help at the top of her lungs before fainting, splitting her skull open in three places after hitting the floor For added comedic effect, she dies in the ambulance on the way to the hospital.

Later, back at the dorm room, James Spader is snorting lines off of Jamie Gertz’s stomach.

JAMES SPADER: Hey Elephant Man. How’d it go tonight?

ELEPHANT MAN: I made a girl scream. Then she fainted, hit her head on the floor and died. I think she was going to major in business affairs at UCLA.

JAMES SPADER: What did I tell you, Dumbo? Chicks can sense fear!

ELEPHANT MAN: Whatever. I’m going to go jack off now.

CHAPTER FOUR:

BATS IN THE BELFRY, TOYS IN THE ATTIC, AND CROWES IN THE CLOSET

Well here we are. We’ve barely gotten started and we’re already lights years off-topic. How is it possible to go from Russell Crowe to the Elephant Man in one minor digression? To be sure, it’s quite a massive leap, because as we all know--and if you need official verification, there are any number of women’s magazines that can readily attest to this --Russell Crowe is a C.A.M. (Conventionally Attractive Male).

So if that’s the case, why was I being compared to him? It goes without saying that the comparison would have carried significantly more emotional weight had it come from a woman who looked like, say, Uma Thurman. Unfortunately, life is never that kind. It had to come from a 17-year old small-town teenage boy on a bicycle.

Though I could detect no trace of campiness in his accent, I nevertheless later suspected homosexuality as the chief culprit in this crime of careless comparison. Again, Round Lake, New York, is a very small town. In fact, “town” may not even be the appropriate word--seeing as how the residents (of which there are probably no more than two hundred) lovingly (and without sarcasm) refer to this quaint little hamlet as “The Village”. Though the moniker seems to bring an affectionate smile to their faces, it chillingly recalls to my mind one of the most brilliant TV shows ever produced: “The Prisoner” (a late 1960s series detailing the episodic adventures of one man’s struggle to retain his individuality amidst the idyllic setting of an island prison community; which the brainwashed inmates, as well their jailers, also lovingly refer to as “The Village”).

After the boy had left, I was still in literary exile, thanks to the influx of the face-painting tykes and their guardians. So I lit another cigarette and devoted my efforts to assembling a rudimentary theory as to why my countenance had elicited a favorable comparison to that of Russell Crowe's. And here, in basic syllogistic form, is what I came up with:

Premises:

A) Round Lake is a small town.
B) The kid was a teenager.

Conclusion:

C) Given the geographical milieu and his current age, combined with a theoretical homosexual orientation, he most likely wouldn’t be able (either for personal or societal reasons) to come completely roaring out of the closet--as a teenager might be able to in the gay-friendly hubs of San Francisco or New York City.

Like an airborne disease, word spreads mighty quickly in a small town. Aside from residencies, Round Lake consists essentially of one (1) convenience store, one (1) post office with a rustic exterior reminiscent of a Norman Rockwell background, and one (1) aforementioned two-floored library that specializes in children’s books, books for children, face-painting classes for children, and John Grisham thrillers on audiocassette.

Conversely, there is not to be found any LGBT centers or bookstores that promote “understanding” or “tolerance” of “those types”. And there most assuredly aren’t any late-night clubs on the other side of the forest with names like “Daddy’s Tongue”, “Deep Butts”, or “Spelunkin’”.

Therefore, I submit the possibility that the kid was simply “practicing” by performing a series of smaller gay-themed actions that would incrementally build in intensity, over a period of two to three years, until the arrival of that momentous day when he would announce before the village PTA meeting what would, at that point, have morphed into something unavoidably and flamingly evident: He was homosexual.

Stated differently, one could say that he was cautiously dipping his big toe into the kiddie pool of gayness, instead of doing a cannonball off the diving board--to avoid splashing the local environment with his scandalously queer wetness.

And as for me? What was my purpose? Elementary! I was merely playing a supporting role as the guinea pig for his latest brainchild: go up to a strange man who’s obviously not from around here and tell him that he looks like the hottest male celebrity you can think of.

Because, seriously, Russell fucking Crowe?

He could just as easily have said that I looked like Brad Pitt or Tom Cruise. After all, why necessarily settle on Russell Crowe? Just go down the list of People Magazine’s “Hottest Hollywood Hunks of All Time” and take your pick. And who knows? Perhaps that’s exactly how he approached this little exercise. I admit, I’m not entirely sure how People arranges those shameless lists, but if it’s done alphabetically, there would be strong enough evidence to support this notion given the fact that, going by surnames, “Crowe” would appear before “Cruise” or “Pitt”. Yet any supposition on my part is superfluous. For, in the end, it really doesn’t matter how he settled on Russell Crowe--as the only thing that I do have in common with every name on the list of “Hottest Hollywood Hunks” is that I don’t look like any of them!

The message was clear and it was queer: I don’t know you, drifter man. But I’m gay. Therefore, I’m going to tell you that you look like Russell Crowe, even though you don’t. And since we all know that Russell Crowe is cute, you can go ahead and infer from my comparison that I’m essentially saying that you’re cute. And with that, I’ve done my gay deed for the day. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to scoot my little hiney home in time to beat off before daddy calls me out to the garage to help him fix the catalytic converter on the Pontiac.

Poor kid. No outreach opportunities for a misunderstood youth in a mundane Mayberry like this.

CHAPTER FIVE:

ROUGHLY 200 MILES SOUTH AS THE CROWE FLIES

However, on the heels of the homosexual hypothesis, I had a series of troubling thoughts: What if he isn’t gay? What if he’s actually straight and he’s decided to amuse himself by having a few laughs at the drifter man? What if instead of being an innocent budding homosexual waiting to blossom, he’s one of these no-good, small-town, juvenile delinquent thugs who get their kicks from egging houses, conning suckers into whitewashing fences, and telling long-haired strangers that they look like Russell Crowe?

Why, the little whippersnapper! Of all the nerve!

I flashed on an image of myself as a stern headmaster at a school for troubled boys, rising up and grabbing his ear, dragging him down a hall, past an auditorium, out the front door and straight onto the 87 freeway, going south for about 200 miles--all the way back down to lower Manhattan.

“Ouch! My ear!” he would moan, “Where are you taking me, mister?”

“You’ll see, young man. You’ll see soon enough where your thoughtless shenanigans have led you!”

Once we arrived in New York City, I’d march him straight into the trendiest club in Soho, approach a table filled with the most gorgeously shallow women I could find, and thrust him angrily into a chair.

“Now, buster brown,” I’d pedantically huff, “Tell them what you just told me!”

“I. . .I. . .I. . .” he’d stammer.

“Go on. . .”

After a few more seconds of relentless browbeating from me, he’d shrug his shoulders and sigh. “I told him that he looked like Russell Crowe.”

The gaggle of gorgeous girls would giggle. “Russell Crowe? Silly little boy! News flash! Boys don’t know what boys look like. Only girls do. And, as girls, we can tell you that he does not looking anything like Russell Crowe. At all. Not in the slightest. In any way, shape or form. Period. Full stop. End of story.”

“Thank you very much, ladies,” I would say, stifling my tears of disappointment for the higher purposes of elucidating an ethical axiom. “I hope you’ve learned your lesson, young man.”

“I have, sir,” he would say, “Never tell people who don’t look like Russell Crowe that they look like Russell Crowe.”

The learning moment would conclude, of course, with the girls admonishing us to leave the table before their boyfriends returned.

And yet, no sooner did this hypothesis dissolve than it was replaced by a very different one. It was an idea that wasn’t so much troubling as it was utterly bizarre. Yes, it was a very strange thought, indeed. I might even go so far as to say that it was the strangest thought that I have ever had in my entire life. . .and it was this:

What if he’s right?

What if I really do look like Russell Crowe?

CHAPTER SIX:

NOW HERE’S SOMETHING TO CROWE ABOUT!

By now, it has become an anthropological truism in our technological age that the first time most people hear their recorded voices being played back on a cassette, they often wonder out loud if they “really sound like that”. Bearing that tendency in mind, what if the same holds true for seeing one’s image in a mirror? What if the first thought we have when we see our reflection in the morning is not, “Oh, there I am again”, but: “Do I really look like that?”

Excluding anorexics, in most cases the answer is yes.

But what if, for me, the answer is no?

What if during all these years, while I’ve been painfully laboring under the misapprehension that I look like Will Franken, I’ve actually looked like Russell Crowe?

Unquestionably, were this true, it would provide some much-needed answers as to why I suffer such difficulty in the romantic arena. You see, I have often surmised in the still and silent hours before the dawn (when the rest of the world is sleeping and oblivious to my pain) that women are simply intimidated by my intense personality, my dazzling array of talents, or even my--if you’ll pardon the unavoidable reference--”brilliant mind”.

But how much more intimidated would they be if that brilliant mind was owned by someone who looks like Russell Crowe?

Yes! It all makes so much sense now!

The dainty and delicate does. . .the frightened and fearful fawns. . .those poor petite and precious pixies in my pristine presence! How scared they all must be of me!

No wonder I’m not getting any!

I have a brilliant mind AND I look like Russell Crowe!

I’m too good to be true!

Hmm. . .there’s something wrong with this picture. . .

. . .wait a second. . .

CHAPTER SEVEN:

A PRAGMATIC CAVEAT

If the aforementioned were actually the case, how would that explain all the dates that I’ve been on that haven’t led to anything sexual? That is to say, if I really did look like Russell Crowe, wouldn’t the benefits be immediate and numerous? Especially if I’m sitting right across from the young lady at a candelight table for two at Taco Bell, simultaneously regaling her with my brilliance and beauty--personality and looks harmoniously working together in a two-pronged attack to yield a dampening effect on her grateful genitalia?

“You know, my darling, it really is quite fascinating how those Benedictine monks could have carved all those miniature diptychs armed with nothing but a crude stylus and the flickering light of a beeswax candle,” I might say, summarizing the magical memories of our moonlit moments in the parlance of the typically well-read Hollywood erudite, “I trust you had an enjoyable time at the traveling exhibit of the Ruins of Monte Cassino?”

“Yes. I certainly did,” she’d smile faintly, “Oh, look at the time. Ho-hum. Well, I better get home now so I can call you in the middle of the night and complain about this date and how I’ll never find the right man and how wonderful it is to have such a fascinating friend as you. By the way, thanks for the chicken burrito.”

“What?” I’d laugh nonchalantly in my sexiest Australian accent, “I don’t get a kiss?”

“I’m sorry. I never kiss on the fifteenth date.”

“One small thing before you leave, then.” At that precise moment, as I casually swirl the ice in my 44-ounce Mountain Dew, I'd unleash my ultra-powerful hidden weapon: “I’ll have you know, little missy, that I’ve recently been told by a very reliable small-town teenage boy on a bicycle, who may or may not be a closeted homosexual, that I happen to look like Russell Crowe.”

“Great. Maye you can get him to kiss you.”

Yes. Something is definitely wrong with this picture.

. . .wait a second. . .maybe I can get some better reception here. . .

CHAPTER EIGHT:

CROWES TO THE LEFT OF ME, JOKERS TO THE RIGHT

Of course! It was all a simple question of positioning. If I’m aiming for success, I can’t be sitting across from the girl. How easily I allowed myself to overlook the words of the bicycle boy! True, he had emphatically told me that I looked like Russell Crowe. But when pressed on the issue, he had also added a very important detail; one that if forgotten might easily spell a romantic disaster of exactly the sort enumerated above. To wit:

Especially with the pony tail. . .looking in that direction. . .

Yes! The double keys to romantic fulfillment had already been revealed in their entirety! Pulled-back hair and a right-side profile! At all times I would have to be wearing a pony tail and either be walking or sitting at the girl’s left-hand side. Difficult, to be sure, but by no means impossible. For if I want it bad enough--and I definitely do--I must be willing to pursue it, regardless of any physical challenges such a pursuit may entail. You may call me mad, dear reader, but is there any amongst you who would deny that, if preventing a woman from seeing me from the front, from behind, or from her right-hand side is the admission price into her boudoir, that there couldn’t be an easier chore one might undertake in the hopes of cultivating such a promising harvest?

Not to mention that sitting across the table from a girl might render us symbolic combatants; almost as if we were . . .

(!). . .gladiators. . .(!)

Ugh. Not my idea of romantic, either.

But if I could just manage to reveal only my right-hand side and never, under any circumstances, remove my pony tail holder, then and only then, might a young lady finally ascertain the deepest layer of the Will Franken story: that I look like Russell Crowe when I wear a ponytail and am facing left!

How sweet a vision! She and I sharing a booth seat at Denny’s, absentmindedly tracing patterns with a fork in our shared half-eaten plate of biscuits and gravy--my playful banter simultaneously calling to mind the didgeridoo drones of Down Under coupled with the heroic humility of a handsome hunk on hiatus from the Hollywood hoopla.

“You know, my darling, it certainly is fascinating how those precursors to the pinball machines of the 1970s didn’t have any flippers and were actually used for gambling,” I would say, evoking her estrogen-laced emotion with an encapsulation of the evening’s events, “I trust you had an enjoyable time at the Museum of Vintage Arcade Games?”

“Oh, yes!” I can hear her excitedly exclaim, “How culturally stimulating it was to finally see, first-hand, the framed black-and-white publicity stills of NYC Mayor Fiorello La Guardia destroying a shipment of the machines with a fire ax under the pretense of preventing vice and immorality!”

“Old Fiorello,” I would say, somehow managing to apply an Australian accent to the Italian name, “What a character that one!”

“I’ve always been an Ed Koch girl myself,” she’d say.

“Old Eddie?” I’d grin, “Well if that ain’t the koala’s pajamas! If me mates back home knew I was on a date with a Kochette, I’d receive a right Mad-Maxxing. We’re in a group called Dinkin’s Dingos. Sort of an unofficial Down Under fan club for all of Guiliani’s predecessors.”

At this point, her eyes would light up like a pinball machine, “You are Australian! I knew it!”

“Aw, boomerang! Me accent must be showin’,” I’d say, casually popping a sprig of parsley in my mouth and pretending that it was intentional, “Mmm. You know, me mum used to always say it was the parsley that really gives the biscuits their gravy.”

Switching the mood ever so subtly, she’d whisper in my right ear, “Can I ask you something?”

“We used to be a penal colony.”

“No, it’s not about Australia. Look,” she’d say, placing a lily-white hand on my forearm, “I’m having a wonderful time tonight. I like you. I really do. I feel very drawn to you and I don’t exactly know why. But. . .the thing is. . .well. . .you haven’t made eye contact with me once this whole evening. Don’t you like me?”

I’d provide her a reassuring laugh, “Oh, I like you fine. You’re a right pretty Sheila, you are. I suppose my mind is just thinking about being back home with Breaker Morant and AC/DC and Men At Work and The Easybeats and kangaroos and Olivia Newton-John and Midnight Oil and Crocodile Dundee and. . .”

“Well, I’m relieved you don’t think I’m ugly. But can I ask you something else?”

“We fought alongside the British in the Boer Wars.”

“No, it’s not about Australian military history. Look,” she’d say, placing her other lily-white hand on my other forearm, “I really enjoy your company. I’m very attracted to you. But. . .the thing is. . .well. . .all night long, I’ve only seen the right side of your face. It’s almost like you don’t want me to see you from the front or from behind or from my right-hand side. Remember when you held the door open for me earlier? That was so sweet. But then you muscled up next to me so we could walk in together at the same time and we didn’t really fit and I tore up my dress and I scraped up my side and I got all bloody. What was that about? Don’t you want me to see the left side of your face?”

I’d giver her one-half of a broad, comforting smile, “Now there, Sheila, don’t you worry your pretty little head about the left side of my face. There’s nothing on that side that you can’t see on this one. Half a nose, half a mouth, and one eye.”

“Well. . .I don’t know. . .what if I wanted to. . .kiss you?”

“Let’s take it slow , Sheila,” I’d say, placing both of my forearms on top of both of her lily-white hands, “Why don’t you just kiss me on the right cheek for now until we get to know each other a little better?”

“Okay,” she’d say with a hint of sadness in her voice before zeroing in and planting a smacker on my right cheek that, despite its seeming innocence, nevertheless almost causes me to shoot a hot denim-smothered load, “You’re such a fascinating man. I can’t help feeling like you’re not telling me something.”

“All right, Sheila,” I’d sigh, squirming in my seat while consciously thinking about America’s obesity problem in the hopes of subduing my outrageous erection, “I didn’t want to tell you on our first date, but I suppose I better level with you. I was recently told by a very reliable small-town teenage bloke on a bicycle, who may or may not be a closeted poofter, that I happen to look like Russell Crowe. Especially when I’m wearing a pony tail and my head is turned to the left.”

At this point, the scales would fall from her eyes, the floodgates would open, and she’d squeal with girlish delight “That’s it! Yes! Of course! Why didn’t I see it until now? No wonder I’m ready to leave everything behind, start a family with you in the desert, and even kill for you!”

Not willing to leave good enough alone, here is where I’d shoot myself in the foot by providing some additional embellishment: “Actually, I work for Russell Crowe. I’m his double.”

“His stunt-double?”

“I do a few stunts. But mostly I raise his children when he’s off galavanting around the world, making movies and accepting awards. Just to make them think that their father still loves them.“

“You raise his children? What else do you do?”

“That’s about it. Well. . .I also. . .uh. . .er. . .I also. . .uh. . .pleasure his wife.”

“You pleasure his wife? You mean you fuck her?”

“I do a few fucks. But 'pleasure' is a pretty broad term. My job duties include anything from cunnilingus to light spanking to filming her in the process of attaching a strap-on dildo to a UNICEF volunteer.”

At this point in the fantasy, I can imagine my date shedding her delighted countenance. “I’m sorry. Raising another man’s children is one thing. But what kind of sicko pleasures another man’s wife?”

“Wait, wait, wait!” I’d shout in her direction as she flees the table with a persnickety huff, “You got it all wrong! It’s only to make her think that her husband still loves her! I’m helping people! I’m making a difference! I’m spreading love, you fucking cunt!”

No. Something is wrong with this picture as well.

. . .wait a second. . .damnit, I should have sprung for one of those converter boxes. . .

CHAPTER NINE:

I AM CROWE! HEAR ME SQUAWK!

Yes! I see it all so clearly now! How could I have been so stupid?

Chicks absolutely hate when they find out a man is fucking somebody else’s wife!

On the other hand, they absolutely love when a man fucks around on his own wife. . .

Especially if it’s with them.

Therefore, to actualize my stated purpose of employing my uncanny resemblance to Russell Crowe in order to achieve global female domination, all that remains is to make one minor modification and I’m off to the races!

I’ll simply get rid of all the comparative language in reference to my appearance. No more watering down the message in the wishy-washy language of similes. It’s time to throw caution to the wind and--along with caution--the inessential phrase: “look like”.

No longer shall I say “I look like Russell Crowe.”

From this day forward, “I am Russell Crowe!”

(Of course, for the time being, just to play it safe, I’ll still continue wearing a ponytail and never let anybody see anything other than my right side)

The setting would have to be perfect. After a long night of painting the town red from the comfort of a cigarette-burned and coffee-stained couch, I’d take her by the hand and romantically drag her over to the other end of the couch that isn’t as dirty.

“You know, my darling, I find it fascinating that the bonus features were so thoroughly informative, speaking not only in reference to the filmmakers’ judicious use of CGI effects, but also as regards their armchair historical understanding of the scope of the Roman Empire,” I would say, speaking out of my ass in the hopes of getting a piece of hers, “I trust you had an enjoyable evening watching the DVD of Gladiator, including all of the special features, and then immediately re-watching the entire thing with accompanying audio commentary.”

Silence.

“My dear?”

Snoring.

“Darling?”

A twitching of the eyelids, followed by an annoyed frown. “Huh? What do you want?”

Perhaps a light chuckle from me would both awaken her fully as well as belie my evident disgust at such contemptuous unconsciousness in the midst of my presumably overstimulating presence, “Why my dear, it appears that the sandman has made quick work of you this evening.”

“What are you talking about? Why are you so weird?”

”I trust you had an enjoyable evening watching the DVD of Gladiator, including all of the--”

“Not really. I came here to use your phone because I had a car accident, remember? Then you chloroformed me.”

“Ah yes,” I would smile toothily, “I can hear the pealing of the proverbial bell of remembrance, taking me back to those carefree days of six hours ago when life was young and your limbs were fully operational. By the way, I beg your forgiveness for the chloroform. But you see, my dear, I had no other means at my disposal of rendering you unconscious. Had I a mickey, I would gladly have slipped you one. But let us not pitch our tents in the sedentary soil of the past, for a far more resplendent castle now lowers its mighty drawbridge to us at this moment in time. So again I ask you, my darling--I trust you had an enjoyable evening watching the DVD of Gladiator, including all of the special features, and then immediately re-watching the entire thing with accompanying audio commentary?”

“Uh. . .yeah. . .sure, whatever. I had a very wonderful time. I can’t wait to do it again. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to walk three miles back down the road so I can say goodbye to my dead boyfriend.”

“Yes,” I’d sigh deeply, “Perhaps it’s best that you do go, my sweet one. After all, I fear that Mrs. Crowe shall return before the hour’s end. Here, let me find your Hello Kitty purse--”

“Wait a second,” she’d say, “Mrs. Crowe? What do you mean?”

“Oh my,” I’d cast my eyes to the floor wistfully, all the while keeping my head resolutely turned to the left, “Have I allowed my tongue to become a large earthworm with epilepsy again? How it twitches and spews without regard for its owner’s privacy those things I would rather leave unsaid. You’ll forgive an old babbling fool like me, my angel. Now be off with you. I have kept you far too long from the daunting task of removing shards of windshield from your boyfriend’s carcass. Not to mention the additional burden I’ve now added to your already heavy workload of locating a neighbor’s telephone in order to report my diabolical activities to the local constabulary.”

“No,” she would insist, “I want to know. Please tell me. Who’s Mrs. Crowe?”

“Very well,” I’d say, taking her by the left hand and walking us sideways back to the couch. “You and I have known each other for six hours now, my little snapdragon--five hours and forty-five minutes of which you’ve been out like a light. So I suppose it’s time that you know the truth.”

“Go on. . .” I can hear her whispering in a steamy hiss, “. . .tell me. . .”

Using just the right dosage of faux inner turmoil, I’d clear my throat and begin, “You see, my little oyster, quite recently I was informed by a most knowledgeable yet countrified adolescent in the transport of a two-wheeled unmotorized motorcar--a likely lad who may or may not have been partial to certain sexual proclivities along the vast homosexual nexus--that. . .well. . .er. . .oh, pith and bother! How can I say this?”

“Go on. . .” she’d nod encouragingly while stroking my right thigh with her left hand.

“The lad told me that. . .he told me. . . oh, cobnabit and darnyall! I simply can’t find the words!”

“Tell me. . .”

“Let’s see. . .well. . .oh, dignation and forth-humbit! I’ve just got to come right out and say it!”

“Then say it. . .”

“Mrs. Crowe is my wife.”

She would lick her already moistened lips, “So that would mean you’re. . .?”

“Yes. I am Russell Crowe. I’m afraid I’ve misled you into thinking I was just some unimportant creep. Please don’t look at me. I’m so ashamed. You must utterly hate me.”

At this moment of revelation, she’d lean back on the couch and remove her jeans quicker than a wet snake on a Slip-n-Slide greased with Pennzoil. “Well, why didn’t you say you were Russell Crowe in the first place? Being Russell Crowe is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s so nice to meet you, Mr. Crowe. Could I trouble you to reach into my Hello Kitty purse and hand me my intrauterine device while I remove my bra and panties?”

“Certainly,” I’d say, passing from my hand to hers a contraceptive contraption vaguely resembling a Jew’s harp, “Didn’t Snoopy play one of these in the Charlie Brown cartoons?”

“It does look a little bit like that thing, doesn’t it, Mr. Crowe? This won’t take a second, Mr. Crowe. Please forgive me for not being prepared, Mr. Crowe. If I had known I was going to meet Russell Crowe, I would have had this in months beforehand. Oh, this darn thing has gotten so rusty. Please be patient, Mr. Crowe. I shouldn’t be long.”

“Oh, please,” I’d smile with a courteous, though anticipatory, chivalry, “Take your time. And don’t feel that you have to call me Mr. Crowe. You can just call me. . .I don’t know. . .Will.”

“Will?”

“What?”

”You want me to call you Will?”

“Oh, yes, yes. I thought that you were saying. . .something else. Yes, that’s right. Call me Will. Yes. If you wouldn’t mind, that would be great.”

“Why, Mr. Crowe, that’s the name of my recently deceased boyfriend. Oh, why do they have to put so many pointy prongs on these things? I shouldn’t be too much longer, Mr. Crowe. I know this is extremely rude.”

"So Will is the name of your dead boyfriend?" I think twice about my recent suggestion, “Well, perhaps you should go back to calling me Mr. Crowe.”

“Certainly,” she smiles, while continuing to fidget with her grotesque anti-procreation device, “After all, Mr. Crowe is such a lovely name. Oh, this darn I.U.D. is driving me up a wall! What is wrong with this thing? Oh, I see. I always forget to release the safety catch. There. It shouldn’t be too much longer now, Mr. Crowe. I’m almost ready to receive you, Mr. Crowe. You’ve been so kind to put up with me so far, Mr. Crowe. So tell me, Mr. Crowe, what brings you to our little village of Round Lake?”

“Well,” I’d say, reciting an oft-rehearsed answer, “I’m actually filming a movie up here about this comedian who comes out to the country from the big city thinking he can adapt to the rural life for a couple of weeks until he heads to Montreal to do some gigs.”

“That sounds fascinating, Mr. Crowe! Wait a second. . .what the fuck am I doing wrong here? Oh, that’s right. The lever is supposed to fold out and go over the hinge. Okay. I’m sorry, Mr. Crowe. Please go on. it sounds like a very interesting film.”

“It will be. The guy’s very brilliant. So it’s a little bit like A Brilliant Mind.”

“Oh, Mr. Crowe I loved that movie! The character you played was so brilliant! Mr. Crowe, I hate to bother you again, but would you mind reaching in my purse once more and handing me the fold-out instructions for this thing? I am sooooo sorry, Mr. Crowe. I used to have the procedure memorized. Please go on describing your movie, Mr. Crowe. It sounds soooooo brilliant.”

As I hand her the directions, I continue describing a film that sounds new to her but all too familiar to me, “So the guy is brilliant, just like the Brilliant Mind guy. And he’s also a little bit crazy, just like the Brilliant Mind guy. But he’s also really lonely, cause every time he tries to meet a girl, they’re only interested in his brain, and how brilliant and crazy he is. Cause the guy actually doesn’t look anything like Russell Crowe. He looks more like people in the opening credits of a spaghetti western before the advent of wide-screen technology-- you know what I mean? All stretched out and lanky? Or maybe a little bit like Ichabod Crane; or maybe like the crescent moon with the sunglasses in those McDonald’s commercials from the 80s.”

“Mr. Crowe, that sounds like an amazing movie. I can’t wait to see it!” She writhes and kicks, knocking over a nearby lamp, “This fucking goddamn motherfucking intra-fucking-uterine device! I could have solved a Rubik’s cube and three Sudoku puzzles by now! You should be grateful you’re not a woman, Mr. Crowe. Please forgive me, Mr. Crowe, I know I can figure this out! So, Mr. Crowe, it sounds like you’ll be playing a physically unattractive man. Won’t that be a bit of a challenge for you, Mr. Crowe?”

“Yes. Well, we’ll be using lots of CGI special effects to make myself not as attractive as myself. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I’ll probably win another award for being so brave. This role requires a lot of bravery. You see, I was brave enough when I played a brilliant mind in A Brilliant Mind, but I’m using twice the amount of bravery I normally bring to a role by playing a brilliant mind with an unattractive appearance in A Brilliant Mind With An Unattractive Appearance.”

“Wow, Mr. Crowe, I really love that title. Excuse me for a second, Mr. Crowe.” She starts walloping her vagina with both fists, “Fucking piece of shit asshole I.U.D. motherfucker! Get the fuck in there you Jew-harp looking hunk of Japanese contraception! Made in the USA, my ass! Get. . .in. . .my. . .pussy. . .you. . .fucking. . .intra. . .fucking. . .uterine. . .device. . .!”

Suddenly, she stops flagellating herself long enough to wipe the sweat from her brow and take a series of deep, calming breaths. After a few seconds of meditative silence, I can spy her from the corner of my right eye as she turns around to face me with the cutest little apologetic half-smile.

“I can’t believe how silly I am,” she giggles, “Where are my manners? You’re Russell Crowe. You can just pull out at the last minute and cum all over my face!”

Now there’s a pretty picture!

Hold it right there!

EPILOGUE:

TAKING THE MICK OUT OF THE CROWE

Well, it was a nice fantasy while it lasted. But I’m nobody’s fool. I know I don’t look like anything like Russell Crowe.

As regards the bizarre comparison, there was one other short-lived hypothesis I failed to mention earlier. Perhaps this town is so small that nobody here has ever seen a Russell Crowe movie. It’s remotely possible, for example, that the teenage boy on the bike might have gotten word from a distant cousin in the "new world" of a movie called Gladiator that starred somebody by the name of Russell Crowe--but having no direct visual evidence to verify that, he decided that if there was such a thing as a Russell Crowe, since he’s never seen me either, I might as well be it.

If had some extra cash, just for the hell of it, I’d like to buy a tunic and a sword and a pair of gladiator sandals and hang out in front of the library again. So the next time the kid pulls up on his bike, he’d ask:

“Did anybody ever tell you that you look like Kirk Douglas?”

“Wow,” I’d say, “You mean the same Kirk Douglas that was in 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea?”

“No. This was the Kirk Douglas that was in Spartacus.”

Obviously, this wasn’t the only time I’ve been likened to a celebrity. But it definitely is the most far-fetched. The first time I moved to New York, I was compared on three separate occasions, in three completely different neighborhoods, all within the same week--to Jimmy Stewart. I’m sure this had less to do with my looks and more to do with the fact that I was tall and suffering from an overly-polite hayseed naivete when it came to life in the big city. Still, at least that comparison had been somewhat in the ballpark. I would likewise accept the assertion that, at certain times, I also resemble Eric Idle.

There’s only been one physical comparison, however, that I ever thought was one hundred percent bona fide valid. And it was made by an old friend of mine back in Missouri named Daniel Whanger. It’s a comparison I haven’t thought about in awhile, but given that I’ve spent so much time fantasizing about how one might go about capitalizing on an invalid comparison, it might prove worthwhile to see if I can get any mileage of out of a celebrity that I actually do look like.

The next time I’m alone with an attractive young lady, I’ll start off by innocently asking, “Do you know who the most handsome male celebrity of all time is?”

“Sure,” she’ll say, “Russell Crowe.”

“No, no, no. I’m talking about a musician.”

“Oh, a musician? Let’s see. . .probably Eminem.”

“I said a musician.”

“Oh, a musician. I’m sorry, I thought you said a fuckfaced retard. Let’s see. Most handsome male celebrity of all time who’s a musician. . .hmm. . .Paul McCartney?”

“No, don’t be silly. Come on, think. It’s really obvious.”

“Conway Twitty?”

“You’re not even trying. Think punk rock.”

“Oh, of course! Joey Ramone!”

“British punk rock.”

“Oh, British punk rock? Well, I would probably have to say Johnny Rotten.”

“Are you fucking crazy? Come on. The guy I’m talking about is a real dreamboat.”

“All right, then, Paul Cook!”

“Paul Cook? What kind of methadone program are you on, woman? Do you need a hint? He was in The Clash.”

“Oh, The Clash. That’s easy. Joe Strummer.”

“You’re just doing this to piss me off, aren’t you? Joe fucking Strummer?”

“What? He’s really cute.”

“Yeah, well, he’s fucking dead. Try again. I’m talking about a real hunk of a punk here. Total punk hunk.”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t want you to say anything. You should already know the answer. The guy’s a total looker. Real handsome devil. Drives the ladies wild.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know the answer!”

“Who else was in The Clash, dumbass?”

“Why is this so important to you?”

“Answer the fucking question!!!”

“I don’t remember! Leave me alone!! Let go of my hair!!!”

“Think!! Use your fucking head before I put it through these cinder blocks!!! He went on to play in Big Audio Dynamite!!! The guy’s a total stud!!! Any girl would be a fucking moron not to think he’s the hottest male celebrity of all time!! Come on!!! Do I have to spell it out for you?”

“I know who you’re talking about, but I don’t know the name!! Please don’t hurt me!!”

“For fuck’s sake! His name is Mick. . .come on, think, woman! His name is Mick. . .”

“Mick James?”

“Mick Jones!! JONES! JONES! JONES! Is it sinking into your thick skull now? Mick fucking Jones!!”

”Okay. All right. Mick Jones. Woo-hoo. Big deal. What about him?”

“He’s the most attractive male celebrity of all time,” I say with a smirk.

She winces, “Ugh. You think so?”

“Yes I do. What’s the matter? You don’t?”

“I don’t know. . .I guess. . .well. . .I guess, he’s okay.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I guess he’s okay.”

“Say it one more time.”

“I said he’s okay.”

“I can’t hear you!”

“He’s okay!”

“LOUDER!”

“HE’S OKAY!!!!”

“That’s what I thought you said,” At that precise moment, as I carefully fashion her a mini-carnation from the inside of a used cigarette filter, I'd unleash my ultra-powerful hidden weapon: “In that case, I think it's fair that you should know, little missy, that this Mick Jones that you’re so obviously in love with and can’t stop thinking about is none other than. . .

. . .yours truly!”

Believe In A Self! Preferably Yours!

2009-07-14T14:24:00.000-07:00

INTRO

A self is like a shelf without an "h"

-- Moon Tzu (4th Century)

How many times have you heard people exclaim "Jesus H. Christ!" only to be left wondering where the "H" came from?

It came from our very own alphabet--along with 25 other delectable letters; including, but not limited to "S", "E", "L", and "F". (You see where I'm going with this don't you?)

That's right! The very alphabet that gave us the "H" in "Jesus H. Christ" over two thousand years ago, is the same one that gives us the "H" in the word "shelf". So what the philosopher Moon Tzu is saying in the above quotation is that everything comes from the same thing-- whether it's a "self" or a "shelf".

But Moon Tzu doesn't stop there.

Oh, no. He can go on all night long. (Little Chinaman penis notwithstanding).

Though Moon-Tzu uses the word "like" in relation to a "self" and a "shelf", he nevertheless draws a very important distinction when he observes that a "self", unlike the "shelf" does not have an "h". And that's where the similarities between "selfhood" and "s(H)elfhood" end abruptly.

But let's not go there yet. Later, when we start to deal with Advanced Self-Belief, we'll be better prepared to deal with differences. For now, let's proceed with caution. Remember:

Self-Belief is a road that is slippery unless you don't drive on it and just walk on it wearing shoes with good traction--Oprah Jemima on "Good Morning, Afro-America!" 1/20/09

CHAPTER ONE:
SHELF-LIFE OF THE SELF?

Let's consider the ways that a "self" is like a "shelf". Here are just a few submitted from The People Foundation:

a) Shelves (plural of "shelf") and selves (plural of "self") both look the same, either in singular or plural form, with the exception of. . .you guessed it! The "H"!

b)Both shelves (read "shelf") and selves (read "self") are nouns.

Alhough "shelf" or "shelve", unlike "self" or "selves", could be used as verbs, as in "Bitch, you better shelf your backtalk before I beat yo ass!", remember, for now, we're dealing with the similarities and not the differences.

and finally:

c) Both shelves (read "a shelf") and selves (read "a self") can have things put on top of them.

Let's consider this last one for a second. We know that a spice rack or a copy of Moon-Tzu's Ching Te Chong can look nice on top of a shelf. So bearing that in mind, what could you put on top of yourself that would make you feel better about you? Why don't we look at some real-life stories for ideas?

[Tommy] was depressed because he could only grow hair in splotchy patches. Coming from a dirty broken home where his only companion was a dog corpse, [Tommy] also suffered from ringworm, particularly evident in the areas where no hair covered his scalp. Then a local man gave [Tommy] a sombrero and now he is [feeling very happy about himself more than ever before in his life]

Here is another:

[A man I do not know] was feeling sad because there was nothing on top of him. [The man] was depressed and felt like giving up in the game of life. Then a teenage Russian prostitute got on top of [the man] and [the man] felt good about [himself] for 15-17 minutes!

Stories like these are happening every day! All because people are learning to believe in themselves! (or them"shelves"!)

Remember lesson 1 of self-belief:

. . .If you don't believe in yourself, you might start to become like Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster. There will be a few hazy photos of you, but that's about it. People who really don't believe in themselves also run the risk of becoming like the Easter Bunny or the Tooth Fairy where no empirical evidence whatsoever can be found of their supposed existence. Believe in yourself if only that you can have a visible presence in the spatiotemporal world as a solid, corporeal being. . .Bill Gates and Warren Buffet: Live in Concert, San Ysidro Colisseum, 1993

CHAPTER ONE:
APPLICATION OF THE SELF-BELIEF PRINCIPLE TO THE BELIEF IN SELF

Well, you may say, this is all fine and dandy. It's wonderful and marvelous. It's perfect and dandy and fine. It's fine and wonderful and dandy-fine.

Thank you! Those are some very nice things that you are saying. But I would be a fool to just let those compliments stay here on the page, drying up like so many dead armadillos in the burning desert sun. So I will gather them all together and put them in my "Compliment Bank".

Compliment Bank???? What is a Compliment Bank????

The term "Compliment Bank" comes from an Old Norse expression for "Jew". Just like a real bank, a "compliment bank" is a savings and lending institution. Yet instead of being run by limp-dicked CEOs and raghead oil money, a "compliment bank" is entirely staffed, served, and patronized by you!

Here is a how a typical transaction at my personal "Compliment Bank" might go:

ME: Good morning, sir, how are you today?
ME: Oh, I can't complain.
ME: That's good to hear.
ME: Looks like we're finally going to get some rain.
ME: Yes it does. Well, we could sure use it.
ME: Ain't that the truth.
ME: What can I do for you today, sir?
ME: I have some compliments I'd like to deposit into my account.
ME: Okay. Just give me one second, sir.

Enter ME from stage right

ME: Excuse me?
ME: I'll be right with you, sir. I'm just helping this gentlemen.
ME: Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't even see you.
ME: That's okay. Oh, wait! I know you! How have you been?
ME: Wow! I can't believe it! It's you! I've been great!
ME: Okay, sir, what compliments do you have to deposit today?
ME: (to ME) Hold on one second, okay? (to ME) That's an old friend of mine. I'm sorry, what did you ask me?
ME: What compliments will you be depositing today?
ME: Oh, let's see. I've got three "fines", two "dandys", two "wonderfuls", one "perfect", one "marvelous" and one "dandy-fine."
ME: Okay. Let me just write out a slip here and--oh, wait. A "dandy-fine"? I'm going to have call corporate to see if we can accept these.

ME calls corporate headquarters and HINDU ME answers

HINDU ME: Wishinishi Pishi-Pashi Chichi-Chutney Tooki-Wooki?
ME: Hi, it's me. Do we accept "dandy-fines"?
HINDU ME: Samaa-Tikthick Yishiwishi Woojug!
ME: Great! Thanks! (to ME) I guess we do.
ME: Cool. I guess you don't see a lot of those anymore.
ME: They're pretty rare. Okay. Here's your deposit slip. And if you ever feel bad and need quick access to your compliments, we're online now. And of course, our feel good ATMs are always available anytime a girl you blew money on won't blow you in return.
ME: Oh, dandy-fine!

Curtain

It's that easy! You can have as many characters as you like, just as long as you're sure to include at least 1 teller and 1 customer!

Remember, lesson 1 of self-belief:

Though based in the Creative Writing Program, Morrison did not regularly offer writing workshops to students after the late 1990s. . .From wikipedia's entry on African-American authoress, Toni Morrison

CHAPTER ONE:
REGULAR DEPOSITS IN COMPLIMENT BANK YIELD INTEREST IN SELF-BELIEF

You don't have to be an economist to know how to skin a cat. But don't take my word for it. Just ask professional cat-skinner Jeff Myzak:

I don't no shit 'bout no ecomony. But you want me ta skin a cat, i kin do that. What i like to do is git 'em when they's sleepin. And i take a old bowie knife and then i slit they throte. always start with the mamma kus when she's dead, them little ones can't do nuthin.

Every one of us living today possesses certain talents and abilities. For Jeff Myzak, that talent is cat-skinning. For Milton Friedman, that talent is economic libertarianism. (Well, it was until he died). For Heath Ledger, that talent is acting. (Well, it was until he died). For Michael Jackson, that talent is working with children (Well, it was until he got caught).

What is your talent? Can you do something interesting with your clitoris? Can you pay electric bills with your mind? There are as many different talents as there are snowflakes in the ocean!

When it comes to self-belief, there's almost nothing more important than realizing what your talent is and how to use that talent to the best of your ability.

Consider this graph:

FIGURE 1.1

XXXX ((((((((><><><><><><><><><><><><><>DDDD
. . ()()()(()( ............. IIIIIIIIOOOOOO
............ 1-115
/////
/////YOO /////&)&
///// --1-116
2-420 <><

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

< >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>W

Now, I admit, this is not a very good graph. In fact, most experts in the field of graphs would probably argue that this isn't even a graph at all. That's because I have never been very talented at making graphs.

But I don't let that bother me. Why? Because I have other talents! For example, I have always been very good at digging ditches. Remember, the best way to find out what you're good at is to do everything else in the world besides what you're good at first and fail each time. That way, there will be no doubt in your mind whatsoever about your singular role in the shaping of the new Soviet America.

Don't forget the 1st lesson of self-belief:

Yes We Can!--Nameless and Faceless Blob, 2008

CHAPTER ONE:
HAVE A DREAM AND THEN WAKE UP LIVING IT

How many of you reading this have ever wanted to leap through a cosmic vortex?

If you're anything like me, you probably dreamed of the day when you would be able to leap through a cosmic vortex, impressing parents who never believed in you, or showing off for all the pretty girls in the sixth grade (just like the ones who call you "child molester" today).

While other kids were off playing "Hungry Hungry Hippos" or "Shoot-The-Drifter", I was spending countless hours in my dad's garage laboratory designing a demolecularizing plywood ramp. During those summer months, I would drive mother crazy with my boast that I was going to be the next Lancelot Aldrin--five time Vortex Leaping Champion!

"You're crazy!" mother would say, "You need medication!! I don't know what you're talking about anymore!! What in God's name is a vortex anyway? Why can't you be normal? I'm scared of my own son!!"

Then, two days before the big leap, I received bad news. Because of a hamstring where my leg should have been, doctors told me that I would never be able to leap through a cosmic vortex.

I could have let that news depress me. And it did. I was in many hospitals and charitable institutions over the years.

But now that I'm out, I can count my blessings. I may not be able to leap through a cosmic vortex. But, thanks to the power of Self-Belief, I can make all sorts of crazy leaps through logic and straight into utter nonsense!

All sorts of Oklahoma then. When it gets better I get Texas. And then no dolphin will it be evverr bee confused mo nore!!! AHO! Voo-voo! SO MANY. Her mommy's stretchmarks. Import/expert the girl with bones. Find out instantly.

Dont foghat the 1st lessin of BASIC SELFBELIEF:

Sam Meant down the money but it was tie in with the star's plan. All because of a hiking problemThe U-Dayway-Way of SIVO, CHPATER 5

Birthday Bash at the Barrel

2009-07-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

(note: there's still time to sign up to be a donor/sponsor for Will Franken Team Montreal '09 ((see blog entry after this one)))

Well, yesterday has come and gone, but the memories shall remain etched in my memory forever!

As Chuck E. Cheese's is to children’s and pedophiles’ birthdays, Cracker Barrel is to single adult male birthdays! (If there isn't a Hooters nearby)

Knowing in advance that I would turn 36 yesterday, I scheduled an appointment nearly seven months ago with the voluptuous vixens at Cracker Barrel for the full-on birthday treatment. A sultry-voiced madam on the other end penciled in the reservation (in what I can only imagine was a cum-stained, leather-bound roster of clientele including such New York political luminaries as Eliot Gould-Spitzer and Screamin' J. Austen).

At last, the big day was finally here!

Upon arrival, I was led through the sleazy aisles of a New Orleans cathouse-themed gift shop which peddled sexual wares under such innocuous-sounding names as Precious Moments Angel Figurine #872 and The Best of LeAnn Rimes. By the time I arrived at the hostess station, I had an erection the size of my penis!

"How many?" asked the hostess, licking her lip gloss from her lips and then back on with an invisible hands-free applicator. She did this seven, maybe eight times. But no more than nine. That would have been too slutty--even for Cracker Barrel.

"T-t-t-two!" said my friend and I in unison, stuttering the T's at exactly the three same moments in an auditory symbiosis which might lead some cynics to conjecture that we were really only one person after all. Not so. After all, what good is a birthday without at least one friend who isn’t oneself to celebrate it with oneself?

“Come this way,” sizzled our hot hostess in the dark brown apron bearing the insignia of the old man sitting next to a butter churn.

My friend and I turned to high-five each other. “This is going to be the greatest 13th Tuesday in Ordinary Time and optional memorial of the First Holy Martyrs of the Holy Roman Church of our lives!” whispered my friend.

“Yes,” I agreed, “and it’s also my birthday.”

“Oh, I forgot.” he said before accusing me of heresy.

As a formality, we were handed menus. But nobody goes to Cracker Barrel for the menu. Cracker Barrel is all about the happy ending (if you know what I mean).

But before you can have an ending, you’ve gotta have a beginning. MEOW!

And, boy, did things really begin when Bernadette arrived!

“Hi,” I’m Bernadette, “said Bernadette.”

Er. . .I mean. . .quotation marks suck. . .

. . .so do points of ellipses. . .

“Hi. I’m Bernadette,” said Bernadette. “I’ll be your waitress this evening.”

“Don’t you mean. . .our mistress?” I said, squirming in my seat.

“What are you talking about, you creep?” she huffed, making a beeline for the manager’s office.

“It’s okay!!! It’s my birthday!!!”

She stopped in her tracks and returned to the table with a knowing smile. “Oh. . .so you’re the birthday boy? Yes, I’m your mistress. I’ll be your mistress all night, birthday boy.” She set down her serving tray, hiked up her coffee-brown slacks and pushed aside her apron, making as if she were going to straddle me like the well-hung pony I play on Broadway. Suddenly, she spied my friend and shot him a sour look. “Who’s he?”

“That’s Steve. He’s my friend. He just wants to watch.”

She sighed. “Whatever. It’s your birthday.”

After a few more small-talk pleasantries, Bernadette bound and gagged me and went to great lengths humiliating me in front of the numerous grandparents who, either out of senility or perversity, get their wrinkled kicks by exposing their grandchildren to such houses of ill-repute as Cracker Barrel. Why can't these freaks find a family restaurant?

I was sizzling like a steak, bubbling like a fondue, marinating in juices that were anything but orange. Once she determined I was ripe and ready, Bernadette left, only to return minutes later with a chicken and dumplings platter, complete with breaded fried okra, hashbrown casserole, and macaroni and cheese!

She removed my gag and loosened my bonds. Then she promised me that if I was a good little slut and ate all of my food, she'd give me a birthday surprise.

And what a surprise it was!

When the double-swinging doors swung open again, there was Bernadette with three of her hot little friends, all wearing the same kinky outfit consisting of a brown apron, blue button-up shirt, and brown slacks!

They were singing the sexiest little ditty I had ever heard. Something about having a happy something or other. I don't really remember. I was too flushed at the time to even remember my name!

After the song, Mistress Bernadette set a bowl of strawberry shortcake in front of me.

"Ooh," I sighed, "Is this strawberry shortcake?"

"Sure is, you little bitch," said Mistress Bernadette. Then Bernadette and her three friends; Laura, Leah, and Christine, forced me to sing the jingle from the Strawberry Shortcake doll TV commercial before they would allow me to take a bite. I couldn't remember all the lyrics, so I faked it as best as I could:

"Strawberry shortcake, apple-berry, too!
Happy happy doll in a land of fairy goo!
Strawberry Shortcake, nine ninety-five!
Kiss her on the lips and she will be alive!"

The girls smiled and said that my rendition was good enough.

When I had finished my shortcake, Bernadette demanded payment or she was going to stick a fork in my balls. My friend and I left some cash on the table and then slipped out the back door, trying to avoid the paparazzi.

I know some people think it's creepy to pay money for a meal. But until last night, I had never done it before. I always prided myself on being attractive enough to eat for free.

I guess I just wanted to talk a walk on the wild side. And besides, I'm 36 now!

Finally, a man!

Hot night at the Barrel: From left to right; Laura, Leah, Christine, and Mistress Bernadette!

Honor Roll of Donors (Updated 7/21/09)

2009-06-30T14:22:00.000-07:00

Here is a list so far of people who have donated to become sponsors of Will Franken's metaphorical NASCAR Car to Montreal (Please see entry below for more details!). Bless you each and every one. And if you haven't signed on to be a sponsor yet, there's still time!(PS - list will be updated as new sponsors donate)(Also, if you would like your donation to remain anonymous, please let Will know via winstonchurchill.will@gmail.com)

UPDATE 7/01/09 Joe Reifer Berkeley, CA signs on to sponsor Will Franken Team Montreal '09)

UPDATE 7/02/09 Arthur Culang; El Sobrante, CA and Jeff Gardner; San Jose, CA sign on to sponsor Will Franken Team Montreal '09)!

UPDATE 7/06/09 Michael Barrows; Pacifica, CA, Catherine Pateman; San Luis Obispo, CA, Daniel Levitin; Montreal, QC, Gevin Shaw; San Francisco, CA, Jessica Chen; San Francisco, CA, and David Silverman; Los Angeles, CA sign on to sponsor Will Franken Team Montreal '09!

UPDATE 7/08/09 Larry-Bob Roberts; San Francisco, CA; and Dan Barrett; New York City, NY join Will Franken Team Montreal '09!

UPDATE 7/15/09 Cinnamon Stillwell; Castro Valley, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09!

UPDATE 7/16/09 Joe Rut; Oakland, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09

UPDATE 7/17/09 Jill Bourque; San Francisco, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09

UPDATE 7/20/09 Simon Agree; San Francisco, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09

UPDATE 7/21/09 Neil Leiberman; San Francisco, CA joins Will Franken Team Montreal '09

Simon Agree (San Francisco, CA)
Dan Barrett (New York City, NY)
Michael Barrows (Pacifica, CA)
Eric Bone (Alexandria, VA)
Jill Bourque (San Francisco, CA)
Steven Capozzola (Washington, D.C.)
Peigi Chace (Brookline, NH)
Jessica Chen (San Francisco, CA)
Miles Comer (Phoenix, AZ)
Sean Crespo (New York City, NY)
Arthur Culang (El Sobrante, CA)
Jen Dziura (New York City, NY)
Edward Ehrbar (Los Angeles, CA)
Shoshannah Flach (San Francisco, CA)
Karl Fogel (New York City, NY)
Jeff Gardner (San Jose, CA)
Dawn Glenn (San Francisco, CA)
Emily Gordon (Brooklyn, NY)
Mark Grochowski (New York City, NY)
Carol Hartsell (New York City, NY)
Neil Howard (New York City, NY)
Richard Hubbard (Berkeley, CA)
Neil Leiberman (San Francisco, CA)
Daniel Levitin (Montreal, QC)
Randy Lowery (Savannah, GA)
Carlo Mastrogiacomo (San Francisco, CA)
Perrin Meyer (Albany, CA)
Lev Osherovich (San Francisco, CA)
Catherine Pateman (San Luis Obispo, CA)
Jim Pritchett (San Francisco, CA)
Joe Reifer (Berkeley, CA)
Vanessa Rentschler (Seattle, WA)
Larry-Bob Roberts (San Francisco, CA)
Joe Rut (Oakland, CA)
Gevin Shaw (San Francisco, CA)
David Silverman (Los Angeles, CA)
Cinnamon Stillwell (Castro Valley, CA)
Nathan ______ (Jersey City, NJ) (LAST NAME PENDING)

The Sad Ballad of Will Franken and His Birthday and His Gigs in Montreal and How You Can Help

2009-06-29T15:17:00.000-07:00

Hello, my dear friends again. My lord, it certainly has been too long.
Too long indeed.

Anyway, tonight is the eve of my birthday. Tomorrow morning, June
30th, at approximately 7 a.m., I will officially turn 36 years old.

Birthday present? Why, thank you. Actually, there’s only one thing I
need this year. I recently received word that, after five years of
trying to get in and failing with each attempt, I have finally been
accepted to perform at this year’s Just For Laughs Festival in
Montreal, Quebec. However, since I’m not a “big name” in comedy (still), I am required to pay for my own transportation up north. So I am soliciting all good fans out there to
donate to become sponsors of the “Will Franken Has At Least Two More
Shows Left In Him” Montreal Tour. No amount is too small or too large.
By going to willfranken.libsyn.com and clicking on any of the Paypal
buttons, you can contribute to defray the cost of Will Franken making
his Canadian debut.

What? Why doesn’t Will Franken have any money to pay for his own trip?
Well, I’ll tell you.

Since I last wrote to you back in late March of this year, I have had
numerous ups and downs. More numerous are the downs than the ups it
seems like sometimes. But life wouldn’t be a roller coaster if the
only direction was down. That would be death. I’m not dead yet. So,
for the foreseeable future, I am not officially retiring. Although,
over the past six weeks, I have come frightfully close.

I don’t know where to start exactly. Let’s go back to December of ‘08
for a second. To tell the story will require an honesty from me which
will humble me and erase any misconceptions any of you may still
harbor about the rock-n-roll lifestyle that a comedian of my means
most assuredly does not lead. (I tend to omit a good deal of truth
about my life, particularly the economic inefficiency of my vocation,
in the hopes that the lie will eventually become the truth)

But right now, I cannot afford dishonesty.

CHAPTER ONE: THE CATS OF JERSEY CITY

In December of last year, I was living a miserable existence in a
dismal room of an attic apartment I shared with a 57-year old
substitute teacher in the unfashionable neighborhood of Woodhaven,
Queens just off of the relatively unknown J train subway line.

I thought I had hit bedrock when a few years before I arrived in
Berkeley, California to live out of my car at the Marina. Compared to
last winter, that was paradise. So when a friend of a friend of a
friend offered to sublet me his studio apartment in Jersey City for
$700 a month last December, I leaped at the opportunity. For the first
time since the Great Divorce of '07, I was going to be a man! At last!
My own place to create great works of art! And. . .who knows. . .maybe
a little hubba-hubba!

There was one catch, however. The friend of a friend of a friend (no
longer a friend) mentioned that his cats would have to come with the
apartment. He was moving in with a girlfriend in Hoboken who had a dog
and feared the two would not mix. He would be responsible for
purchasing litter and food and cleaning up after the cats when I was
away on comedy-related ventures, but I would have to take care of the
daily chores of feeding and box-cleaning when I was home. No worries,
I cheerfully thought. I have house-sat for cats before and expected no
significant problems. Boy, was I wrong.

My first night in my new place (Christmas Eve, 2008), I awoke to
discover the cats had urinated all over the bed while I slept. The
next day, I asked for "wiggle room" on the rent and was rebuked. “No,
Will” he snapped, “you knew what you were getting into.” Yet I can
honestly say that these were the first cats I had ever watched that
had no idea where the litter box was. But what was I going to do? Move
again? How many times can a man relocate in his life? I needed to
catch my breath. Perhaps the cats would get used to me with time.

No such luck. Though the cats did stop urinating, defecation and
vomiting were another story entirely. I told the landlord over and
over, but he wasn’t concerned in the least. As usual, I had blown the
first rule in business: never let the seller know you’re desperate. I
learned to live with it--constantly cleaning up messes and putting a
brave smile on the situation.

In late April, after returning from a relatively successful San
Francisco/Portland, OR tour, I returned to Jersey City. The landlord
hadn’t been by in days to check up on the cats. The place was covered
in feces and vomit. I called him up and demanded a reduction in rent
and he responded by evicting me. (Which he could do, since he never
put anything down in writing. I asked him over and over to do so, but
he told me he didn’t want to. Lucky for me, it turns out, as now he
can’t sue me for any of the money that he incredulously thinks I owe
him.)

I asked for a reasonable amount of time to look for another place.
During those few weeks, I scoured Jersey City for even just a room
that I could afford on my measly transcriptionist’s pay. (Yes, I had a
day job.) I couldn’t find any affordable lodgings that did not
contain the admonitions a) no smoking, b) no cooking, and c) no
visitors.

CHAPTER TWO: ON TO ROUND LAKE

There were no gigs on the horizon except for a May 16th callback in
Manhattan for the Just For Laughs showcase. I couched-surfed in the
days leading up to the show with the plan to stay with a friend in a
little town in Round Lake, NY (where I am writing this now). Round
Lake being only two and a half hours from Montreal, the plan was to do
the gig and retire to the countryside and await word on whether or not
I had gotten into the festival. Since I was responsible for paying for
my own transportation, I figured my positioning so close to Canada
would defray some of the cost.

My friend here had warned me ahead of time that it might be difficult
staying in Round Lake as I don’t have a car. Boy, was he right. The
nearest sign of life from where I am residing is a convenience
store/gas station a mile and a half up the road. At first it didn’t
matter. I was told by the Montreal coordinators that I should receive
word on whether or not I made it into the festival within two to four
weeks. Until that time, I thought, I would just relax in the country
and eke out an existence on my meager savings.

Well, four weeks soon elapsed and I started to worry that once again,
I would be denied a chance to perform in Montreal. I sunk into a great
depression. The plan as I had conceived it was a) if I got into
Montreal, I would take that as a sign to continue doing comedy and
slug it out on the East Coast for at least another year, most likely
in Jersey City. and b) if I did not get in, I would return to San
Francisco and most likely give up on comedy entirely, at least for a
year.

Things got pretty bleak as of last Friday. I couldn’t get a “yes” or a
“no”. I was stuck in limbo and consequently, was prevented from making
plans for either eventuality. And my escape fund, should I have chosen
to return to San Francisco, was getting perilously low. Then, at the
close of the day last Friday, I received word that I had gotten into
the festival after all.

As of the present, I am awaiting word on a typing job I can do from my
isolated country fortress which will pay me enough to survive these
next three weeks. But again, I come to you, my fans, pleading the
causes of my birthday and my recent less-than-comic misfortunes, to
help me succeed in Montreal. Plane tickets are too exorbitant, even
for such a short trip from Albany to Montreal. The only train that
goes there arrives too late in the day for me to perform. But with a
little bit of help from you guys, I can afford to rent a car and drive
the three hours north.

So that is it, I have bared my soul to you. It is a less than
glamorous life, I warrant you. I have recently taken to calling myself
“The Drifter”. Will there be a future for me in comedy? I do not know.
I only know what is on the menu for the short term. And that is a gig
in Montreal. Please, I beg you, keep the dream alive. Help me get to
Montreal by sponsoring me. Go to willfranken.libsyn.com and click on
any of the Paypal buttons to donate today. As of this writing, we have
two sponsors already, Carlo Mastrogiacomo from San Francisco and Randy
Lowery of North Carolina. But we could use more.

And for those San Francisco fans who have been urging me to return to
the Bay, let me just say that there is another tier to my plan. If I
go to Montreal and am somehow miraculously able to finally get an
agent or a manager who can advocate for me in the entertainment
industry, I will continue to slug it out here on the East Coast. If I
go to Montreal and still come up empty-handed, I will definitely
return to San Francisco and the Love I hope still remains in that city
for me and what I do.

I love you all,

Wm. Franken

A Patch of Gravel Alongside Route 19 A Quarter of a Mile from the 319 Junction in Stafford Is For Lovers!

2009-06-08T10:22:00.001-07:00

Summer doldrums got you down? Tired of searching for the perfect family vacation spot? Not looking forward to spending those valuable weeks of free time in the same old boring way? Then why not put a smile on your family’s face this summer and take them to an earthly paradise that’s out of this world!

This summer, take a trip you and your family will never forget to. . .

A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD!!!!!

Commissioned in Connecticut in the summer of 1934, (at the same time a dashing young Adolph Hitler across the ocean was ordering the mass murder of his political opponents during the award-winning "Night of the Long Knives"), A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD provides travelers with a touch of rustic New England charm and a poignant reminder of the Holocaust which befell the Jewish people in WWII!

It's entertaining and educational!

Combine learning with leisure--all at your leisure! When it comes to work or play, business or pleasure, there’s no mutual exclusivity at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD!

Come for the tire-changing and child-reprimanding, but stay for the thistles and gravel!

What is there to do at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD?

A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD is conveniently located a quarter of a mile from the 319 junction in Stafford!!!

And if you don’t feel like driving, the yellow diamond-shaped road sign is only ten to fifteen feet away!!!

How far are you located from the man in the white coat fishing at the pond?

A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD is only a stone’s throw* away from the man in the white coat fishing at the pond. Please note during hours when the pond is frozen or his wife has called him to dinner, the man in the white coat may not be there. For the man in the white coat’s hours of availability, please visit www.apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319
junctioninstafford//maninthewhitecoatfishingavailability.html.org. **

*Please do not throw actual stones at the man in the white coat

**website under construction

How late are the yellow lines open along route 19?

If you’re looking for a little action to **spice up** the night-life, don’t worry: the yellow lines along Route 19 are open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week! We proudly offer a left yellow line and a right yellow line so you and your partner can paint the town red!

**asterisks, they don't mean anything. We just put them in there to spice up the words "spice up"

Is it true you can get AIDS just by having unprotected sex or sharing a needle with someone who is infected with the AIDS virus?

Anything’s possible at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD! What are you waiting for? Book your vacation today!

What a wonderful vacation! My nieces loved playing in the gravel!

--Ant: Laramie, WY

The staff was very accomodating at A PATCH OF GRAVEL ALONGSIDE ROUTE 19 A QUARTER OF A MILE FROM THE 319 JUNCTION IN STAFFORD! Even though we were a large group and arrived unannounced, we felt just like part of the family!

--A Pile of Trash: Chicago, IL

My wife and I had an amazing time at your yellow lines! The food was out of this world!

Joseph and Mary Scavenger: Aerie, PA

www.apatchofgravelalongsideroute19aquarterofamilefromthe319junctioninstafford.org

twitter us!

About The Author

2009-05-27T12:51:00.000-07:00

Lofretta Blipboom is the first African-American woman. Despite her Hispanic/Latina heritage, she is proud to be a lesbian working hard for the equality of Filipinos. Last year, she was awarded the Asian-American Medal of The Pink Ribbon in honor of her achievements in the Islamic community of Northern Ireland. In addition to her efforts at removing guns from the hands of inner-city streets, she continues to work within the homosexually-gay Native American population of Pakistan through such programs as T.H.R.U.S.T. and P.E.E. in order to further the knowledge of abortions and the education of condoms.

Lofretta lives alone in Femur, OK with her three children: Dot, Feather, and Scalp. She divides her time between sleeping and waking, often confusing the two in a literary lucidity which she uses to great advantage in works such as Morgan's Wheel: How Freeman Redeemed Shawshank (1995) and the The Brown Escalator: Civil Rights in the Age of Multi-Floored Malls (1987)

Affirmative Hope is Lofretta's nineteenth book on the Inauguration of President Barack Obama. Her relentlessness in chronicling the minute-by-minute activities which led up to to the capturing, by a third camera, a few seconds before 10:17 a.m., on the morning of January 20th, 2009, of our 44th president's famous half-smile and head-tilt have earned her the moniker "The Chocolate James Joyce".

Lofretta is also a trustee of The Leni Riefenstahl Girls, a non-profit, female-run, racially-empowered, diversity-driven, multiculturally-fueled, rainbow-generated Fortune 500 company--dedicated to the conversion of black-and-white movies to black. Between books, she volunteers at the Po' Center, silkscreening Che Guevara images on camouflage T-shirts for disenfranchised rich white girls. On Tuesday afternoons, she hosts the popular NPR radio programme, Sanctimony Live.

In her spare time, Lofretta is a black nationalist, a black panther, an illegal immigrant, an employer of illegal immigrants, a highly-paid diversity seminar leader, a tenured race and gender-obsessed literature professor, a college girl in a keffiyeh, an exploding Palestinian, a Marxist, a death-row inmate, a militant dyke couple, and a writer and performer of numerous poems she's written about her pussy and her dick.

Bio written by Lofretta Blipboom

Hey Ladies, Who Wants To Make Love To A Drifter?

2009-05-21T18:50:00.000-07:00

Hey ladies,

I'm just drifting through town. Checking out all the ladies. Ladies like you.

Oh me? I'm just a drifter. A long-haired drifter.

Thank you. I grew it myself. That's what happens when you drift.

Town after town, convenience store washroom after convenience store washroom, until that one day when you look in the dirty mirror and see how long your dirty hair has grown since you started drifting.

Mind if I smoke? What's that? Oh, it's a state law that you can't smoke under the awning even if you're outside?

No problem. I'll just step over to the side here. Hell, I've drifted all the way from California to New York, I suppose it wouldn't hurt me to drift a few more inches. There. How's that? Ooh, I like that. A much nicer view over here.

What's that? Why am I drifter?

Er. . .uh. . .nobody's really asked me that before. . .I, uh. . .

I drift because. . .

Because I'm a failure. It takes a success to put down roots. I've never been too successful at being a success. But I've never failed at being a failure. And when I feel that old feeling of failure crop up, no matter what city or town I may be in, all of a sudden the pretty girls and the big money starts to make my eyes hurt--the eyes of my heart, you understand--and I just have to get away and be alone in my traveling. Cause a man don't need to be crying in the presence of the pretty girls and the big money. Gives 'em both too much power. More than they already have.

So I guess you gotta get going? That's your boyfriend ringing on that skinny phone there? I completely understand. I guess I'll drift on over to the other side of the street. Maybe I'll drift on out of this town before the sun goes down. Sure was nice talking to you and all. . .

What's that? Oh, thank you. No, I'm glad you find me funny. That's what. . .well, I was going to say that's what I do. But really, it's not what I do--it's who I am. I'm just funny. I know I'm funny cause I'm so sad inside. I guess I already told you that I was a drifter and. . .

Anyway. . .So I understand if you gotta get to your boyfriend and all. . .oh, by the way, which way are you going to be walking? I'm asking cause I'm going to start drifting again here pretty soon and I don't want to drift in the same direction as you, cause you might think that I'm trying to drift with you. . .but I'm not.

I'm a drifter. I drift alone.

I hate to ask. . .but could you please stop laughing? Please? Don't you need to answer your skinny phone?

Okay, I'm drifting now. . .please stop laughing. . .please. . .

What's my name? I don't have a name. . .I'm a drifter. I can't be pinned down with a name. . .

It's Will. . .or Willy. . .or William. . .now would you please let me go away before I have to face my inferiorities?

Listen, you don't need me. . .you have to trust me on this. . .I'm atoning for my sins, I'm living out my karma, I'm making restitution. . .whatever you want to call it, that's what I'm doing. . .now, please let me drift. . .let me drift away. . .

Goddamnit! Stop laughing! DON'T YOU UNDERSTAND? I THOUGHT I HAD IT FIGURED OUT AND I DIDN'T! LIFE WASN'T SUPPOSED TO BE THIS DIFFICULT! I THOUGHT I DESERVED THE BRASS RING, BUT THE BRASS RING HURTS TO LOOK AT! IT'S LIKE STARING AT THE SUN!

THERE IT IS! SPEAK OF THE DEVIL! THE SUN'S GOING DOWN! AND I'M STILL HERE!

YOU GOTTA LET ME DRIFT. . .LET ME DRIFT. . .THE SUN'S GOING DOWN AND I'M STILL IN THIS TOWN. . .

NOW GET AWAY FROM ME!

You're just a fiction. . .I know that. . .

I know what fiction is. . .I live it.

But it sure felt good to write you. . .

. . .I'm going to drift on now. . .

. . .away. . .

. . .alone. . .

Why I Believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the Best Shampoo

2009-04-29T12:56:00.001-07:00

INTRODUCTION (ROUGH DRAFT):

In our society today, there are many different shampoo brands. There are even more shampoo bottles. Sometimes you will see many bottles of the same brand. This happens a lot in the store when you buy a bottle of shampoo. For example, when you take a bottle of shampoo off the shelf--surprise!--there is another bottle right behind it that is exactly the same. Well, not exactly. The one in your hand is in your hand and the one on the shelf is on the shelf. That is to say, there is a spatial division between not only the various brands of shampoo, but also between the various bottles of shampoo. It would not be fair to the rest of the people who use that brand of shampoo if you bought all of one brand of a shampoo that a store stocked for the price of one bottle. That is one of the many reasons that God invented the spatio-temporal universe: to allow many different people to buy different bottles of the same brand of shampoo.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #1)

In our society today, there are many different shampoo brands. Different types of hair require different shampoos. A person cannot will their hair to conform to the needs of a single universal shampoo. That is to say, a person with dry hair cannot make their hair moist without the aid of a moisturizing shampoo. Humans are not self-sufficient in that regard. Therefore, if the only brand of a shampoo in our universe was a shampoo for dry hair, it would not be fair to the millions of people who have moist hair and vice/versa. This is one of the many reasons why God endowed mankind with the ability and the desire to create multiple brands of shampoos to conform to the manifold idiosyncracies of individual human hair.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #2)

In our society today, hen. I have always liked the word "hen". But I cannot for the life of me figure out a way to use it in this paper on shampoo. Hen. Hen.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #3)

In our society today, shampoo plays an integral part in the cleaning of hair. Teachers, firefighters, railway workers, jingoists, and even bakers are among the many occupations held by people who wash their hair using shampoo. Though some occupations require head coverings (like a firefighter's helmet or a baker's tall hat) many of these individuals still clean their hair in the event that they might remove their head covering later in the evening (or in the morning, if they are working a graveyard shift) so people can see their hair (including themselves if they are in or around a mirror). This is one of the many reasons why God invented headwear: so that man could notice the difference between a covered head and an uncovered head and realize that he came into this world without a hat and will leave this world without a hat. When we go to meet our Maker, we should have clean hair because we won't get a chance to wash our hair in Heaven where there is no need for water because our deepest thirst for glory will have been sated and all our sins washed away.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #4)

In our society today, writing instructors often admonish students to keep their religion out of their term papers. This is endemic of a rapid secularization of our institutions of learning and God will not hold guiltless those who defame His glory by keeping Him out of the classroom.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #5)

In our society today, students must recognize that teachers hold the key to their future in the form of a grade book. To not do so is to run the risk of dropping out of school and engaging in free thought, living a righteous individualistic life in accordance with the whims and eccentricities of one's own hairstyle, and dying a martyr's death at the unclean hands of the Dirty-Haired.

INTRODUCTION (REWRITE #6)

In our society today, many different people use many different brands of shampoos in many different bottles. Some people may even use two bottles of shampoo to wash their hair if they are in a hotel and they only have small bottles of shampoo and a lot of hair. Some people who are bald don't use any shampoo at all, unless they are pretending they still have hair in order to make themselves feel better. Maybe they put a little shampoo on their hand and wave it a few inches over their head in an attempt to recapture the glory of their youth. I feel bad for those people. They need blow jobs, too.

INTRODUCTION (FINAL DRAFT)

In our society today, there are many different brands of shampoo. One of the many brands of shampoo is VO5. One of the many brands of VO5 is Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo. One of the many brands of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo is Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein. In my essay, I will show why I believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the best shampoo. (SEE FIGURE 1A)

FIRST BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

It has often been said that silk is sexy and sex is silky. Some people disagree and say that sex is sandpapery and rough and there's a lot of blood and coarse hair. Those people are male homosexuals. But whenever there is a woman involved, either in a heterosexual sexual relationship or in a lesbian relationship (the good kind without real dykey-looking lesbians, but sexy girls kissing each other on Youtube) there is at least some element of silkiness involved. Women are silky and smooth. For example, when you lick their stomachs, it tastes good. It feels natural and right to lick a woman's stomach. Her tits are nice, too. I like biting their thighs also. Sometimes I have left bruises.

FIRST BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

When we think of the word silk, we often think of nice things that won't terrorize us. There is a safety in silk. If a shampoo said "Islam" on the bottle that would mean "submit". One should never submit to a shampoo out of force, but come to it freely of their own volition. This is one of the many reasons why God invented Himself: so I would one day write this paragraph.

SECOND BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

The first time I saw a bottle of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein I was really high. I came to the store to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. But soon I found myself wandering around the store and pulling out those coupons in those little electronic dispensers just so I could watch another one come out. I was fascinated by the process. It seemed as if there were an infinite amount of coupons in this miniscule dispenser. Then a black woman

SECOND BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

The first time I saw a bottle of VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein I was really high. I came to the store to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. But soon I found myself wandering around the store and pulling out those coupons in those little electronic dispensers just so I could watch another one come out. I was fascinated by the process. It seemed as if there were an infinite amount of coupons in this miniscule dispenser. Then an African-American woman in a blue Duane Reade smock approached me and said, "Child, is you gonna waste all my coupons? Them's is made out of paper, child. Don't you know today is Earth Day?" I told her I didn't believe in Earth Day since it was started by a man named Einhorn who killed a woman and that I always preferred the Cosmos to the Earth anyway. Then I tried to quote a line from Shakespeare but forgot how it went; something about "Earth will pass away. . ." but I might have been thinking about the line from Hamlet which was "There are more things in Heaven and Earth than are dreamt of in your philosophy, Horatio" which didn't really do anything to advance my position. Or I might have been thinking about some line from the Bible which goes: "Heaven and Earth will pass away", but I didn't want to say "Heaven" if I just told her that I liked the Cosmos, because I consider the Cosmos Heaven and the Heaven Cosmos and if the Cosmos pass away along with the Earth then it wouldn't make sense to prefer the Cosmos to the Earth since both are finite entities of a limited duration. And since my argument for the preferential reverence of the Cosmos over the Earth relied heavily on a presumed infinitude to the Cosmos, I realized I was in a very scary position. What would happen to me if this African-American woman realized that I was about to engage in a philosophical fallacy in the middle of the store? Would she call security? But then I stopped myself and said to her, "Heaven cannot be finite. If it were, it would not be Heaven. Heaven cannot be constrained neither by space nor time. Therefore, if the Cosmos are Heaven and Heaven is the Cosmos, the Cosmos cannot be finite. So, yes, I DO prefer the Cosmos over the Earth."

THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

She looked at me as if I were crazy. Then she asked me if I was going to buy anything. I had forgotten what I had come into the store to buy. I should have told her I wanted to buy a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar, but even that would have been wrong. You see, my memory fails me even now. I know I didn't want a Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar. That is, I don't remember the exact candy bar I wanted, but I have to put something specific in this narrative in order to give it context. If I just say "candy bar" the teacher's going to bust my balls for using non-descriptive language. Uptight cunt. How's that for desciptive language? You're an uptight cunt! I don't remember the name of the candy bar I wanted, you uptight cunt!

THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)

Now it's killing me--the name of the candy bar I actually wanted. It had peanut butter in it, but it wasn't crunchy. Oh, wait. It WAS crunchy--but it wasn't crispy. So it was something crunchy, but not crispy. That had peanut butter in it.

THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #2)

You know what? I think I wanted a bag of pretzels and then a regular Reese's peanut butter cup. Two different things. One crunchy thing and one peanut butter thing. I guess my mind is colllapsing those two items together, because there's only so much specific memory the human mind can contain. You can have a million different memories and get by, but then let's say there's just that one little thing--like the memory of wanting two things at the Duane Reade--and now you're not just remembering one thing (the memory of wanting something at the store) but two things (the memories of wanting two things)--and your head explodes. It's like that story of the Princess and the Pea. She can't go to sleep cause there's that one pea under all the mattresses. The only difference here is, instead of a pea, it's two different thoughts about wanting two different things. And instead of not being able to sleep, your head explodes and your brains splatter the walls. No, that would probably require a gun. I'm worrying about nothing. It's fine. I can go ahead and remember that I wanted two different things: a bag of pretzels and a regular Reese's peanut butter cup.

THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #3)

By the way, doesn't "crunchy" and "crispy" mean the same thing anyway? I think candy bars try too hard for alliteration sometimes.

THIRD BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

No! I remember now! I actually went into the store without any preconceived specifics about what type of snack I was going to get. Yes, it's all coming back to me now. I just wanted a snack. And the way I figured it, I would go into the store, see the selection, and then use my powers of decision making to make a decision. As a matter of fact, I remember calling my mother before I went into the store. She was shocked to hear from me. It had been nineteen years since she had heard from her only son. I remember she asked me, "Where have you been? We've missed you all these years! What are you doing with your life?" And I said, "Momma, I'm going into a store and I don't have any preconceived specifics about what type of snack I'm going to get." Then I hung up on her when she started to cry and asked me if I was still taking my medication.

FOURTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

Meanwhile all these memories are taking place as the black woman

FOURTH BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

Meanwhile all these memories are taking place as the African American woman in the blue Duane Reade smock is staring impatiently at me, waiting for me to tell her what I came into the store to buy. She left for a minute and returned with a frying pan from Aisle Five and told me if I didn't tell her forthwith, she was gonna hit me with it. I stammered I stutt-Istam-stumm--I stam-sttu--stammer-stut

FIFTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

She hit me with the pan!

FIFTH BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)

Pan me with the hit she!

FIFTH BODY PARAGRPAH (REWRITE #2)

Me the hit pan she with!

FIFTH BODY PARAGRPAH (FINAL DRAFT)

She hit me with the pan!

SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (ROUGH DRAFT)

"Ouch! My hair!" I screamed. It always hurts my hair more than my head when my head hurts. My head is strong. It can take it. But my poor little hair! It got all bloody! "Look at my hair!" I said, "It's all bloody!"

SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (REWRITE #1)

"Ouch! My head!" I screamed. "My hair is all bloody now." She told me that shampoo was on Aisle Five in the Rite Aid on the other side of town. I left the store and got on the cross-town bus with bloody hair. People stared at me and laughed. I felt like a black

SIXTH BODY PARAGRAPH (FINAL DRAFT)

"Ouch! My head!" I screamed. "My hair is all bloody now." She told me that shampoo was on Aisle Five in the Rite Aid on the other side of town. I left the store and got on the cross-town bus with bloody hair. People stared at me. I felt like an African-American in the South before the Civil Rights Movement. Before Black People Were Called African-Americans. BEFORE EVERYTHING BECAME CAPITALIZED. WHEN I FINALLY GOT TO THE RITE-AID, I WAS NO LONGER HIGH. EVERYTHING BECAME CLEAR TO ME NOW. I NEEDED SHAMPOO TO WASH THE BLOOD OUT OF MY HAIR. THEN, AFTER GETTING SPRUCED UP, I WAS GOING TO VISIT THE EMERGENCY ROOM AND ASK POLITELY FOR A DOCTOR TO PREVENT MY DEATH WHICH WOULD HAVE BEEN A MOST UNFORTUNATE THING CONSIDERING THE FACT THAT I WAS STILL ALIVE AT THE TIME OF THE INCIDENT. WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE RITE-AID I WAS SHOWN TO THE SHAMPOO AISLE BY A WOMAN NAMED ARJANI (SHE MAY HAVE BEEN A MAN, IT'S HARD TO TELL SOMETIMES WITH SHORT-HAIRED INDIAN PEOPLE). THE FIRST BOTTLE THAT CAUGHT MY ATTENTION WAS VO5 SILKY EXPERIENCES MOISTURIZING SHAMPOO CHAMPAGNE KISS WITH SILK PROTEIN. IT WAS ONLY A DOLLAR FIFTEEN. WHICH IS EXACTLY THE AMOUNT THE TOOTH FAIRY LEFT UNDER MY PILLOW THIRTY YEARS AGO WHICH I HAD BEEN SAVING JUST IN CASE I EVER NEEDED TO BUY MY BABY TEETH BACK; YOU KNOW, IF I EVER HAD A BABY OF MY OWN I COULD SAVE MONEY BY GIVING HIM MY OLD BABY TEETH. HAND-ME-DOWNS AND WHAT-NOT AND DASH-DASH. SO I BOUGHT THE SHAMPOO AND TOOK IT HOME AND WASHED MY HAIR WITH IT AND EVERYTHING WAS FINE AND I LIVED TO TELL THE STORY.

CONCLUSION (ROUGH DRAFT)

Hen.

CONCLUSION (FINAL DRAFT)

In conclusion, after washing my hair with VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein, my hair felt silkier than ever. It felt like I had a woman in the shape of my hair on top of my head. I licked it and it felt right and proper to do so. I bit it gently. My cock throbbed as I thought of teacher and how silky smooth she is. Her tits, her long legs, how I want them wrapped around my back clenching me tighter and tighter in the warm comfort of her moist cunt. I will squirt in teacher like I squirted VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein from the bottle onto my head to make my hair as silky as teacher's thighs. I can't wait to bite your thighs teacher. I will leave bruises. You will come to me for more bruises, teacher. And I will gladly give them. That is why, in our society today, I believe VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein is the best shampoo.

figure 1A: VO5 Silky Experiences Moisturizing Shampoo Champagne Kiss with Silk Protein

A Rembrandt Now

2009-04-06T19:12:00.000-07:00

Time is a painting
of whatever I am seeing at the moment

My perception of time, however,
is an outline of the painting of Time,
drawn on cheap tracing paper.

If my tracing paper outline
rests exactly over the painting of Time,
the contours match up and
everything is okay.

On a good day,
I can even convince myself that I am the artist!

Yet sometimes I think about mistakes I've made.
Or things I neglected to do.
Or people that are no longer around.
Or goals I failed to realize.
And I move my tracing paper outline to the left.

Sometimes I doubt I'll ever matter much.
And I become consumed with fear and self-hatred
at all these childish things I once believed
would come to pass and did not.
And I see a pauper's grave
and no one there to cry.
And I move my tracing paper outline to the right.

And my outline looks ugly and artificial
the farther away I get from the original painting.
The painting is filled with such color and detail
whereas my measly man-made image
is nothing but a chicken-scratch approximation of the masterpiece
that was at one time directly in front of my eyes.

(The best place for a painting to hang!)

And I hate myself so much
because I'm not as good an artist as Reality.

Reality, the prodigy.
Reality, with its effortless strokes
that make every moment into
a Rembrandt Now

How prolific!
Moment after moment
Another masterpiece!

The Universe, Reality's gallery,
ever-expanding to contain the ever-expanding body of work
hatched from the ever-expanding Mind of the Invisible Genius!

While I, with my Crayola
lash out at the canvas;
a baby jealous. . .
. . .not fit for apprenticeship. . .

I am not worthy to hold the palette.
I am not worthy to clean the brushes.
I am not an original.
I am only a copy.
Throw me away.
Throw me away.

Course Syllabus: Philosophy of Relativism

2009-03-22T14:20:00.000-07:00

PHILOSOPHY OF RELATIVISM

MTW 11-11:50a.m.

Instructor: Wm. Franken; Office Hours: Saturdays, 3-3:27a.m.

Welcome to the Philosophy of Relativism!

OBJECTIVE:

In this course, you will gain a deeper understanding of the philosophy of relativism. You will see how relativism throughout the ages has brought us to a point where we can't understand anything at all. You will discover that everything is just a series of subjective opinions. You will realize that nothing is either teachable or knowable. You will come to see that everything is pointless, even this class. In fact, you don't need to come here anymore. Class is over.

WITHDRAWING:

If you would like to withdraw from this class, it's too late. You already took it.

SPECIAL NOTE ON TUITION REIMBURSEMENT:

If you would like a refund for your tuition, please be advised that all requests for reimbursement need to be submitted before you read this sentence. Now go home and leave me alone. I've earned my tenure for today.

Never Eat Alone Again

2009-03-11T14:57:00.000-07:00

I’ll never eat alone again.

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that I have a partner, a love-mate, a female antithesis to my maleness, I’ll never eat alone again.

I have finally found that special someone to pull the chicken bone out of my throat.

I owe everything I have--even the very air that I breathe--to Christian Match Dot Com.

God bless you,

William and Mary of Orange

---------------------------------

I’ll never sleep alone again.

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that I have a wife-person, a help-lover, a breasts-and-vagina possessing entity, I’ll never sleep alone again.

I have finally found that special someone to prevent me from falling out of my crib, strangling myself on my blankie, or perishing from other forms of Sudden Adult Infant Death Syndrome (SAIDS)

I owe everything I have--even the dreary continuance of this never-ending nightmare we call life--to Christian Match Dot Com.

Kill me now,

John and Jackie Kennedy of Camelot

=============================

I’ll never fuck alone again

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that one of my ribs has been plucked from me during my sleep and given its own profile on an internet dating site, I'll no longer have to pay a prostitute to dress up as a hand.

I owe everything I have--including every ego-validating orgasm that I inflict upon my quaking and dripping better half--to Christian Match Dot Com.

Oh GOD!! OH!! CHRIST!!! OH FUCK YEAH!!!

Adam and Eve of Eden

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I’ll never procreate alone again.

Thank you Christian Match Dot Com.

Now that I have been elevated from amoebic organism, given opposable thumbs and the capacity for rational thought, sexually compartmentalized into a separate and distinct male gender and provided with a compatible female life form for the purposes of biological reproduction, I’ll no longer have to rely on my previously asexual regenerative capacities to procreate.

I owe everything I have--even the multitudinous progeny I have carelessly overpopulated the earth with throughout the entire course of human history--to Christian Match Dot Com.

What have you done, you fools? God help us all,

XY and XX of Birds of Bees

Lesson Seven

2009-03-11T14:44:00.000-07:00

YOU MAY NOW OPEN YOUR BOOKLETTES AND BEGIN

1. She IS pregnant.
They ARE pregnant.
He _____ pregnant.

2. Nokia want Wombat. Wombat no want Nokia. How much miles Nokia walk for Wombat if Nokia know Wombat no want Nokia?

a) Any
b) All
c) Some
d) None
e) None (but different kind)

3. The cost of syphilis is one 50 dollar crack whore. If Jeremy wants a triple dose of syphilis, how much will he spend?

a) 25 dollars
b) 17 dollars
c) 150 dollars
d) The Gross National Product of Rosie O'Donnell

4. Lice is to scabies as pustules are to _____

a) St. Thomas Aquinas
b) Rhyme and Reason
c) Boils
d) Meet Asian Women
e) Meet 1000s of Asian women in your area
f) Meet 1000s of Asian women in your area today at Asianpeoplemeet online dating.

5. Draw the shape of your doubt on a separate piece of computer. Remember to complain.

6. A train leaves the airport at half past seven. A quarter till eight, people point at the train and say, "Look! A flying train!" What time will it be when people realize everything they were taught about trains was wrong?

7. Josannah is a word problem writer. One day she writes seven word problems and then takes a break to have a cigarette with her friend Scratch. On the way to the lounge, she is stopped by her boss, Mister Cragmore. "Josannah," says Mr. Cragmore, "how many word problems have you written so far today?" "Seven, Mr. Cragmore," says Josannah timidly, like a five-foot tall mouse in cheap lipstick. "Only seven?!?" shouts Mr. Cragmore, "Hmm. Josannah, I'd like to talk to you in my office." "But, Mr. Cragmore--" begins Josannah. "No buts, Josannah. Your cigarette will just have to wait," says Mr. Cragmore. “If. . .and. . .Mr. Cragmore--” says Josannah. “No ifs or ands, either,” says Mr. Cragmore, “If your cigarette really loves you, I am sure he will wait for you. Right now we need to talk about your job.” “Okay, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah and then turns to Scratch, “Scratch, you will have to smoke a cigarette without me. I’m sorry.” Scratch looks upset, “But Josannah, I don’t know how to smoke and you promised you were going to teach me today.” “Excuse me, Scratch,” says Mr. Cragmore, “but I need to talk to Josannah right now. You’ll just have to learn how to smoke from old movies.” “Yes, Mr. Cragmore,” says Scratch. “Okay, Josannah, step into my office,” says Mr. Cragmore. Josannah and Mr. Cragmore step into Mr. Cragmore’s office; Mr. Cragmore first (because he is the boss) and then Josannah (because she is the employee) “Have a seat, Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore. “Thank you, sir,” says Josannah as she crosses her legs like a girl. Mr. Cragmore goes to the liquor cabinet. “Would you care for a scotch and soda?” asks Mr. Cragmore. “No thank you, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “I don’t drink.” “I understand,” says Mr. Cragmore as he hands Josannah an empty glass, “Josannah, how long have you worked for us here at Word Problems Incorporated?” “Oh, let’s see,” says Josannah, “I lost my virginity when I was seventeen. That was the day that you hired me. So all in all, I would say seven years so far.” “Yes,” says Mr. Cragmore, “Seven years as of this half hour. Josannah, are you happy here at Word Problems Incorporated?” “Yes,” says Josannah, “I love my job. It has a great dental plan. I can get thirty-two teeth with the purchase of every mouth. Why do you ask, Mr. Cragmore? Is something the matter?” “Well, Josannah, as your employer, I am concerned. Lately your word problems have become very strange.” “Strange?” asks Josannah as she licks her empty glass, “How do you mean, Mr. Cragmore?” “Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore, “when you first started working here at Word Problems Incorporated, you wrote word problems about trains leaving a station at a certain time at a certain speed. They were concise and to the point, usually focusing on a certain mathematical or scientific proposition. But now. . .well. . . like I say, I’m concerned. There seems to be a lot of needless exposition in some of your latest word problems. Last week, for example, you wrote a word problem with a twenty-five page preamble about the fall of man and the doctrine of original sin. The week after last week, you wrote a word problem with three appendices and a map of ancient Judea. The week after this week, I can’t really say what you will write as that is in the future, but if it is anything like what you have been writing lately, well, I am concerned that my concern will grow exponentially. And that concerns me.” “What are you saying, Mr. Cragmore?” “Well, Josannah,” says Mr. Cragmore as he takes Josannah’s empty glass and refills it with more emptiness, “I may have to fire you unless you start writing normal word problems again.” “Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “I’m afraid I still do not understand what you’re talking about. My word problems may be a little off the beaten path at times, but I wouldn’t go so far as to call them strange.” “Josannah,” sighs Mr. Cragmore, “what about this word problem that you and I are in right now? Would you call this a normal world problem? I certainly wouldn’t. There’s no need for me to even be in it at all, yet here I am, peppering it with meaningless dialogue. And Scratch? What the hell was that all about? This is just damned weird. There’s no other way to put it.” “I’m sorry, Mr. Cragmore,” says Josannah, “that you object to my employing a little creative license. I was just trying to counteract the stultifying atmosphere of having to write for these standardized tests all the time.” “Goddamnit, Josannah!” shouts Mr. Cragmore, “That’s not your job! I’ve got the fucking board of education on my ass, day in and day out, complaining that these standardized tests are all bullshit anyway! The last thing I need as the CEO of a multi-million dollar word problem corporation is some rag-tag two-bit upstart trying to be James fucking Joyce! Now goddamn it, end this word problem right now before I fire your sorry ass!” “Yes, sir” says Josannah as she gets up and leaves the office and returns to her desk. The clock above her wall reads 12:30 p.m. Josannah sets a goal to write 40 normal word problems by the end of her working day at 5 p.m. Assuming that the current time on the clock is correct, if Josannah writes 4 normal world problems every half-hour, will she reach her goal?

YOU MAY NOW CLOSE YOUR BOOKLETTES AND END

Dear Erasmus

2009-03-09T19:16:00.000-07:00

(ed.--the opinions of Erasmus do not reflect the opinions of Will Franken. Will Franken is not in any way responsible for anything Erasmus might say or do. There is a clear demarcation between Erasmus and Will Franken. The two are NOT one and the same. They are as distinct as snowflake to snowflake)

Dear Erasmus,

I am so confused! I was walking today in the street and a car hit me! Now I am dead! I don't have any health care! Who is to blame? The government? The car? Me? Show me which way to hate!

Signed,

Jeremiah Lucille-Ball

DEAR LUCILLE-BALL,

HATE COMES IN MANY LAYERS. THINK OF IT AS A SERIES OF CONCENTRIC CIRCLES.

MY ADVICE IS TO HATE INWARDS BEGINNING WITH THE WIDEST CIRCLE. IN YOUR CASE, YOU SHOULD HATE THE GOVERNMENT FIRST FOR NOT MAKING IT EASIER TO OBTAIN AFFORDABLE HEALTH CARE. THEN YOU SHOULD HATE THE CAR FOR KILLING YOU. THEN YOU SHOULD HATE YOURSELF FOR BEING A FUCKING IDIOT AND WALKING IN THE STREET.

YOU BROUGHT IT ALL ON YOURSELF. SEE YOU IN HELL.

ERASMUS

Dear Erasmus,

Today I went to the grocery store and bought an onion. When I got home, I realized I already had an onion. I took the onion back to the grocery store and exchanged it for an orange. Then I went home and found I already had an orange. I took the orange back to the grocery store and exchanged it for an apple. I took the apple home and saw that I already had an apple. I took the apple back to the grocery store, but the grocery store was closed.

So I went to the Apple store which was open for another two hours. I exchanged my apple for an iPhone. I took my iPhone home and saw that I already had an iPhone at home.

(I do not take my iPhone out in public. It is a home iPhone)

I took my iPhone back to the Apple store, but the Apple store was closed. So I went to a heroin dealer and exchanged it for some smack. I took the smack home and realized that I already had some smack in the fridge.

I sure felt stupid! I put the new smack in a mason jar and stored it in the cupboard with the green beans and preserved prostitute parts.

By that time, I was exhausted and didn't feel like leaving the house any more for the rest of my life. So I pulled out the smack that was in the fridge, cooked it, and spiked up.

Well, no sooner did that smack hit my brain and I began to nod off than I realized--I was already high on life!

My question is: what does one do if one already has everything one could possibly want or need?

Signed,

Lucille Jeremiah-Ball

DEAR JEREMIAH-BALL

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU HAVE REACHED THE END OF THE CANDY LAND GAME OF LIFE. THERE IS NO MORE WANT. THERE IS NO MORE NEED.

YOU ARE IN A COMA. TAKE A BOW. YOU'VE EARNED IT.

ERASMUS

Dear Erasmus,

Today I was walking down the sidewalk and driving down the street at the same time (I have been two people ever since my wife walked out on me last century)

As I turned left and right simultaneously, I saw the strangest thing!

Signed,

Ball-Luc-Jere-Miahille

DEAR BALL-LUC

COULD YOU BE A LITTLE MORE SPECIFIC?

ERASMUS

Dear Erasmus,

Oh, sorry about that! I always forget to end thi

Anyway, as I say, I saw the strangest thing! I saw two people and they each had one hand of the other clasped within one of their own hands. Their fingers were meshed together in an interlocking fashion.

That's not the weirdest part, though. They weren't yanking each other in separate directions! They were walking together in this strange manner. They were smiling. I saw no blood. No tears. There was no sign of a struggle, even though the female of the species towered over the male and could have easily devoured him in one cruel stroke! They actually seemed happy!

Should I have called the police?

Signed,

Howstellagothergrooveback Whenharrymetsally

DEAR HOWSTELLAWHENHARRY

WHAT YOU WITNESSED TODAY WAS PHYSICAL AFFECTION BETWEEN A MAN AND A WOMAN. AT THE PRESENT, IT IS ONLY ILLEGAL IN CERTAIN PARTS OF NORTHERN CALIFORNIA AND GREENWICH VILLAGE.

IF YOU HAVE NEVER TRIED IT, YOU SHOULD. EXPRESSION OF THE SELF CAN BE THE HIGHEST EXPRESSION OF THE SELF. IF THERE'S ANOTHER SELF JUST LIKE YOU WITH DIFFERENT GENITALIA, THE RESULTS CAN BE EXCITING AND BABY-PRODUCING.

ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WERE PLAYS AND POETRY; THERE WAS MUSIC; THERE WAS ROMANCE; SUCH SIGHTS WERE NOT UNCOMMON IN THE CONTEXT OF THAT BYGONE ERA.

GO ON, NOW, AND BECOME ONLY ONE PERSON AND LOVE ANOTHER SINGULAR PERSON IN THE MANNER YOU WITNESSED TODAY.

LOVE, CHILD, LOVE. . .FORWARD IS ITS DIRECTION. IT IS WAITING FOR YOU.

THE TIME OF DARKNESS IS GONE NOW. KISS THE SUNLIGHT ON THE LIPS OF YOUR BELOVED. SHE IS THERE. SHE IS THERE. BASKING IN THE GLOW OF YOUR RADIANT HEART.

I TRUST THIS LETTER FINDS YOU IN FULL POSSESSION OF YOUR FACULTIES, FOR THERE IS NOTHING INSANE ABOUT LOVE. THE PRAGMATISM THAT ARGUES AGAINST IT, THAT IS WHAT YOU SHOULD FEAR. READ THE BOOKS, HEAR THE SONGS, THAT EVOKE THOSE TENDER PASSIONS.

FORWARD IS THE DIRECTION OF LOVE. LOVE IS THE SHORTEST DISTANCE BETWEEN TWO POINTS. THE WAY BACK TO ONE'S YOUTH IS THE FORWARD MARCH OF LOVE.

AGE IS THE MONOLITHIC CONSTRUCT WHICH LOVE DEMOLISHES. ITS STRENGTH IS ALL-CONSUMING. WHEN HARNESSED PROPERLY, IT IS A FORCE THAT MOVES MOUNTAINS, TURNS BACK TIME, PARTS THE SEAS, RAISES THE DEAD, STILLS THE WINDS, AND LAYS THE STARS AT OUR FEET.

LOVE HAS NOT GONE AWAY.

ERASMUS

Things I Used To Eat When I Was Growing Up In Missouri

2009-03-04T21:51:00.000-08:00

A lot of people think that just because I'm from Missouri I've never eaten anything. Nothing could be further from the truth. Go ahead, measure the distance between the belief that I've never eaten anything and The Truth and you'll find a distance greater than that between the earth and the sun. You'll need some pretty long arms to hold that tape measure, I'll warrant you.

But seriously, I ate quite a lot of things growing up in Missouri. Here are twenty-five of my favorites from childhood. Some of which I still find myself eating from time to time even today, well into adulthood.

1. Peanut butter and syrup.

My mom would often make this for us kids in the morning if she was in a hurry and didn't have time to cook anything. We didn't know the difference. As far as we could tell, she spent hours on this meal. It was many years later when I finally realized how easy it had all been. She would take a slice of bread, spread some peanut butter over it and then pour syrup over that and hand us a fork. I remember always liking it, partially because I liked the trippy swirling patterns that the peanut butter and syrup used to make. I used to stare at the end of my fork before each bite, blowing my young and impressionable mind.

2. Biscuits and gravy.

Need I say more? The ultimate breakfast food. You can't get it in New York at all and in California they ruin it by making it healthy--I've even seen green gravy in San Francisco! No, no, no! The white gravy with the little bits of sausage in it. In the Midwest, in the South, that's where you find the real stuff. Biscuits and gravy were the perfect foundation food. You could eat them alone as a meal or you could pile all sorts of stuff on top of it--like hash browns, bacon strips, or cheese slices. At the Shoney's Restaurant breakfast bar in Sedalia, I used to even cover it with mushrooms! Ironically, I never preferred my mother's biscuits and gravy. She wasn't that good of a cook, actually. There were very few meals that she made that I enjoyed. One was the aforementioned peanut butter and syrup and the other was--

3. Burritos (and Mexican food of all formats: homemade, restaurant, and fast-food)

Soft flour tortillas, Old El Paso refried beans, grated cheese. Yes, burrito night was a happy night in our household. At least for me. My sisters hated them. Not me. I was always sure to clean my plate when two burritos were on it. This passion for burritos--and, by extension, Mexican food in general--I have carried with me all of my life. From Taco Bell to Tijuana, I've tried them all. Some old Missouri standouts include Mexican Villa in Springfield and El Sombrero in Sedalia. Gone, but not forgotten include Taco John's and Taco Grande.

4. My dad's chili

Technically, chili falls under the rubric of Tex-Mex, which is why it is receiving its own slot here. The only time my father stepped in to do anything remotely domestic was when he made chili. It was filled with meat, beans, and tons of melted cheese. It was painfully hot--indeed, that was its charm. And the masochist in me couldn't resist chasing each bite with a raw jalapeno pepper. Mostly to impress my father who was fond of eating jalapenos straight from the jar. I used to take three slices of Kraft American cheese and lay it on top of my already cheese-saturated chili and then crunch up a fair amount of Saltines to sprinkle all over. The result was an irresistible paste!

5. Handi-Snacks Cheese and Crackers

This was an after school treat. I remember watching "The Flintstones" in the late afternoon, munching away on Handi-Snacks Cheese and Crackers. For those of you who don't remember, Handi-Snacks Cheese and Crackers consisted of a small plastic tub with two compartments. The longer one contained a stack of five crackers. The shorter one contained processed soft cheese. It came with a little red stick that you used to spread the cheese onto the cracker. I had a ritual with these. You see, I liked the cheese a little bit more than the crackers. So I would spread a tiny amount on each cracker and eat them quickly just to get them out of the way so I could focus on my real interest: the cheese sans crackers. Once all the crackers were gone, I would scoop up the remaining cheese with the red stick and shovel it all into my mouth.

6. Oatmeal pies

You know, if you asked me today if I would like an oatmeal pie, I would probably say no. But when I was a child, I ate quite a good deal of these. Small little cream filled things with an oatmeal cookie covering. I can't tell you why my interest in oatmeal pies faded over the years. It's probably best not to think too much about it.

7. Coca-Cola

We were raised on Coca-Cola. We drank it more than milk, more than juice, more than water. Our refrigerator was always packed with cans. In the garage, dad kept an extra supply of twelve-packs in case we ran out, which was quite often. As a child, I averaged anywhere from six to twelve cans a day. I was never discouraged out of concern for my health from drinking such an excessive amount. Rather it was because my parents drank even more of it than I did and didn't want me guzzling too much of their stash. Nowadays, my favorite soft drink is Dr. Pepper. But back then, I hated it--mostly because it didn't taste like Coke. Pepsi, as you might have guessed, was frowned upon severely. It simply wasn't done in our household.

8. Mister Salty pretzel sticks with Frito-Lay bean dip

This was another after school snack favorite of mine. A bag of Mister Salty pretzel sticks and a can of Frito-Lay bean dip. I would take a cluster of pretzel sticks and scoop up a generous amount of bean dip (some brown paste in a tin can) and wash it all down with an ice-cold Coca-Cola. Often I would go through an entire can of bean dip and half a bag of pretzels in one sitting. I couldn't eat anything else with bean dip except pretzels--even though I know now that most people probably used chips; or perhaps refrained from bean dip altogether.

9. Totino's party pizzas with pizza rolls

My mother used to buy Totino's party pizzas, which I absolutely loved. She would spray the baking tray with Pam before heating one up in the oven and, like one of Pavlov's dogs, I would come running. I want to be very specific that no other brand of frozen pizza did for me what Totino's did. As I've gotten older, I've noticed that Totino's aren't available in many places anymore. I'm concerned about the company, to be honest. I hope they're doing well in these tough economic times. When I was a child, I used to eat an entire party pizza with a fork. Even though on the box it says that one pizza will serve up to four. When I started living on my own at sixteen, I used to cook two of them simultaneously (preferably sausage and pepperoni combination) and sprinkle a box of Totino's pizza rolls over the top of each pizza. When everything was cooked, I would pull the tray out of the oven and put one pizza on top of the other with the pizza rolls sandwiched in the middle. I would then put the entire concoction in a bowl and eat it all with a fork.

10. Pillsbury cinnamon rolls with lots and lots of butter

Another breakfast treat before school. Honestly, I was less interested in the cinnamon roll and more drawn to the butter, which I would heap without consideration, either for personal health or my mom's grocery budget, centimeters high on each roll. I was not satisfied until the entire top of the roll was yellow with slowly melting butter. The best time, I thought, to take a bite was when the butter was still cold and the roll was hot. The two temperatures turned into a tantalizing tornado of taste!

11. Pop Tarts with lots and lots of butter

The same as above except with hot pop tarts instead of hot cinnamon rolls. Butter spread all over the rectangular surface of the pop tart (the flavor of which was irrelevant) and bites taken while the butter was still cold.

12. Reese's peanut butter cups

As the commercial says, "There is no wrong way to eat a Reese's". True enough, although I was always filled with remorse at the fact that I devoured the cups whole with one swallow. I ate everything that bore the Reese's logo. The single and double and king-size packs of the peanut butter cups. The miniature ones that came in bulk-sized plastic bags. The easter-egg shaped ones that came out once a year. And, though they were not my favorite, even Reese's Pieces had a special place in my heart. To this day, I always take note when Reese's comes out with a new variation on an old theme. My personal favorite over the last few years has been their Crispy Crunchy Bar. When I was very young, probably six or seven, I remember asking my mother "What is Heaven?" She answered, "Heaven is a place where you have everything you've ever wanted for all time." For years, I imagined Heaven as a grocery store that carried nothing but Reese's products.

13. Buddig brand sandwich meats with Kraft American cheese slices.

I was probably in 5th or 6th grade when I got turned on to Buddig brand sandwich meats. I wonder if anybody remembers them or if they're even available anymore. They were very heavily processed, thinly-shaved meats that came in handy little pouches. Supposedly they could make three or four sandwiches. Not for me. The whole clump of meat came out of the pouch and went onto the bread. Then came three individually unwrapped Kraft American cheese slices. One on the top of the meat, one on the bottom and one right in the middle. When I began living on my own and buying my own Buddig brand sandwich meats, I realized how impractical they were on a cost level. I think for the same amount that an individual pouch of Buddig meat cost, I could have bought an entire week's worth from Oscar Meyer. Buddig brands came in all different kinds: Corned beef, pastrami, ham--but my favorites were chicken breast and turkey.

14. Stove-Top stuffing and my grandmother's noodles

I have put these two together because I associate them both with Thanksgiving. For most people, Thanksgiving is Turkey Day. For me, at least when I was younger, it was Stove-Top Stuffing and My Grandmother's Noodles Day. I haven't had grandmother's noodles in a while, so now it's just Stove-Top Stuffing Day. It's a consistency that runs throughout my dietary preferences. You can see the same principle operating with biscuits and gravy (#2) and my dad's chili (#4)--that is, the more a food resembles a thick, colorless paste, the more apt I am to enjoy it. As far as my grandmother's noodles, I don't really know what they were. They were just long, flat white noodles. When I saw a picture of a tapeworm in a medical book years later, I thought "Wow! That looks like one of grandmother's noodles!"

15. Four plain McDonald's cheeseburgers

By the time I entered fourth grade, my regular meal when mom would take us kids to McDonald's was four plain cheeseburgers. I ate them all in one sitting, usually averaging no more than three bites per cheeseburger. Only McDonald's had a special saltiness to their meat that I found difficult to describe but easy to devour. Today, I still prefer them plain--although I usually don't order them that way. You see, my main beef (no pun intended) with non-plain cheeseburgers wasn't the ketchup or the mustard or even the onions. It was the pickles. The goddamn, motherfucking pickles. I hate pickles more than Satan himself. You'll never get me to eat a pickle, I'll guarantee. Nevertheless, ordering four plain cheeseburgers (now, it's usually five) takes longer than ordering four regular cheeseburgers, because they have to make them special just for me. So now I just order them "as is" and wince when I lift up the bun to remove the pickles from each one. I detest pickles so much, I can't even bear to look at one longer than a second. Needless to say, pickles have no place in this list!

16. Hardee's Mushroom and Swiss Cheeseburger

I was eleven or twelve years old when Hardee's (known as Carl's Jr. on the West Coast) unveiled their Mushroom and Swiss Cheeseburger. There have been plenty of imitators since then, but I bear witness here today that Hardee's was the first; at least in the field of fast food. It was a stroke of genius. In so many aspects, their food was atrocious. But the combination of mushrooms, Swiss cheese and hamburger on a lightly toasted bun breathed new life into a fast-food franchise that, already at such a young age, I had cynically turned my back on.

17. Cauliflower covered with melted cheese

One of the only vegetables I don't mind eating--save for broccoli when I'm at some social function and they have one of those plastic trays with the dip and I'm looking for something to do with my hands because I'm bored with all the small talk--is cauliflower. The reason I liked cauliflower as a kid was because it was so bland and tasteless that it didn't interfere with the taste of the melted cheese. You may be noticing another dietary pattern here. As with butter in the examples of pop tarts and cinnamon rolls, certain foods like cauliflower were merely an excuse to eat melted cheese. That is to say, I could have eaten butter and melted cheese straight--yet, despite my ever-escalating eccentricity--even I knew that would be a trifle weird. Cauliflower, like pop tarts and cinnamon rolls, were simply a means to an end.

18. Cookie dough

When my mother made cookies, I could have given a shit less about the end product. It was the dough I was after. Many a time, she would leave a bowl of dough on the counter, go off and run an errand, and return to find half the lump missing. She used to tell me that I would get "worms" if I ate too much of it. I didn't really know what she meant by "worms" until we took our dog to the vet after she got heartworms. I swore off dough for about six months following that. Nowadays, I get my fix in the summer months with cookie dough ice cream. I remember feeling a sense of connectivity when I saw that ice cream companies were unveiling a cookie dough flavor, for I knew then that I was not the only one who had grown up enjoying its singular taste. There are many of us from all walks of life, all over the globe. Out of the closets and into the streets, I say. Although I should note here, once again, the consistency factor; for it was in this spirit that I also enjoyed a brief period of eating play-dough. A flavor I doubt that even Ben and Jerry, in all their corporate psychedelica, would deign to unveil.

19. Dairy Queen's Peanut Buster Parfait and/or Hot Fudge Brownie Delight

It was one or the other of these delightful delicacies for me when we visited the local Dairy Queen. And it was the hot fudge that piqued the interest of my taste buds. The ice cream, quite often, got in the way. A big blob of vanilla nothingness that one had to wade through with a small red plastic oar just to strike oil. Black gold. Texas tea. . .

20. Snickerdoodles

My mother used to make this type of cookie called a Snickerdoodle. I couldn't tell you what it was or even what it tasted like. I know it had some sort of sugary coating and it was soft and chewy. But that's about it. I just know that I loved them and couldn't get enough.

21. Crab Rangoon

This one almost didn't make the list. Remember, these are all foods that I ate while growing up in Missouri. I discovered crab rangoon when I was fifteen--one year before I left home and became a man. Had I waited just a little longer, crab rangoon would have found itself on The List of Twenty-Five Foods I Discovered As An Adult (due in November from Harper/Collins) Before I lost my crab rangoon virginity, the only thing I found halfway interesting about Chinese food was the fact that they made cookies that had little slips of paper in them. Crab rangoon, however, turned my whole conception of the Orient inside out. It expanded my mind. I became interested in Eastern thought. I started reading the Tao te Ching. My mind ran rampant with questions galore: What strange food was this; so crunchy, yet so pasty? Why do only some Chinese restaurants sell it? Is it only for the elite? How curious that, despite its name, I can taste no crab in this concoction. . .as indeed I could with. . .

22. Crab legs!

I was twelve years old and was spending the summer with my father in Texas, who was supervising the construction of a Western Auto store in Houston. One day, following work, he and a co-worker picked me up from the motel and we drove to a place called The Heritage Restaurant. I remember on the sign outside reading the word "smorgasbord". I asked my father what "smorgasbord" meant and he told me that it was a buffet. That made me happy, because I knew what a buffet was. I love buffets. I know, I know--it's lower-class and red state of me to say so, but still--I love buffets. In fact, I would count buffets as one of the top twenty-five in this list, but the very nature of a buffet prevents it from being compartmentalized in such a limiting manner. That is to say, if a plate of food is Jesus the Son, then the buffet is God the Father. The enjoyment I receive from both, of course, is the Holy Spirit. Yet this particular buffet table sported something that I had never seen before at a Western Sizzlin' or a Golden Corral or a Ryan's Steakhouse--dead crab body parts! My healthy curiosity got the better of me and I went back to our booth with an absurdly large pile. My father, in a rare instance of paternal patience, showed me how to use the nutcracker/plier thing, extract the meat, and dip it into the lemon/butter sauce. The taste? Well, to rework a recent metaphor, if the crab is God the Father and the meat is his Son, Jesus Christ, then I had just had my First Communion! Zowie! Wowie! But the drag was, it took so damned long to get to the meat. Especially when one is mechanically inept, like myself. So today, if you gave me a fork and a tub of crab meat, I would go to town. But getting it from the crab legs themselves? No. I am much older now and life is too short.

23. Long John Silver's Fish and Hushpuppies

There was something beyond the food at Long John Silver's that appealed to me. Don't get me wrong, the food was (and still is) excellent. But there was also an adventurous element that appealed to a young boy's imagination. It was the gestalt of the dining experience. I don't see too many Long John Silver restaurants anymore, but the ones I have seen in adulthood (most recently, the one near Vallejo, California) have been converted to look like any other fast-food franchise. They've lost their individuality, to be sure. But back in the day--oh, back in the day!--a kid could be the king of the high seas! The restaurants looked like pirate ships! The people at the register even wore pirate hats! My family would get a seat near the plate glass windows and, unlike the grownups, I didn't see cars and trucks buzzing by on South Limit Avenue. No, I was on the ocean, braving the waves, consorting with the sordid and vulgar pirates that manned the rickety ship. I ate voraciously to give myself strength, because I knew that at any moment, I might have to draw my sword to defend the skull and crossbones that flapped overhead. Yummy hushpuppies. The scrumptious breaded fish. And those addicting little fried crispy things scattered all over the styrofoam plate. Years later, LJS introduced chicken into their menu. I was older. Time to put away childish things. No more fish for me. It was a box of ten chicken pieces and some honey mustard to go--and a baseball game on TV back at a lonesome apartment.

24. Cornbread and pinto beans cooked in a pot with a hambone

One of the other rare meals in which my mother excelled. Exactly as the title suggests: you put a bunch of pinto beans in a boiling pot with a grisly hambone, let it simmer for awhile, and then serve them on a plate with a huge chunk of cornbread. Why did I love this so much? Well, let's see--if you mash up the the beans and mix it with the crumbly cornbread, you get a thick, colorless paste! You see, although I deplore socialism for humans, I quite like it for articles of food. If only everything edible could be stripped of its individuality and rendered into a thick, colorless paste, how happy my stomach would be!

And, finally, before I announce the last one, let me just say that this list is by no means comprehensive. There were many qualified foodstuffs from my past that, for the sake of space, had to be omitted. That being said, the last one on this list is:

25. Pussy

Ha! Ha! Just joking. No, I wouldn't discover that food until I was seventeen! But seriously, the last one on the list is:

25. String cheese

One of the most interesting toys every invented is the Russian matroshki, or nesting doll. That is, the doll within a doll within a doll. I've been fascinated with the concepts of macrocosm and microcosm ever since I was a child. I could literally meditate on a matroshki for hours, even to this very day. Can the layers of larger dolls extend into infinity? Can the smaller dolls become infinitesimal--going from atomic to the subatomic? Can matter be dismantled ad infinitum? The matroshki seeks to, at least on a subconscious level, pose this existential question. On the dietary plane, the same can be said for string cheese. How many strands of string cheese can one peel away until nothing remains of the original portion? I spent many an afternoon in front of the television, coming up with a myriad of answers to that question.

Replacing a Mirror with a Window

2009-01-30T15:11:00.000-08:00

Today is a better day.

In fact, things are better overall than they were a year ago.

For I have seen The Other Side.

I used to think there was only one side. Life was very two-dimensional. And even when life appeared three-dimensional, it still wasn’t enough. I wanted one more dimension.

I have seen The Fourth Dimension.

I haven’t spent a long amount of time in either of these places; The Other Side or The Fourth Dimension. But at least I now know they exist.

So there are two worlds for me now, whereas before there was only one; one that became increasingly smaller day by day. Moreover, I know that one world out of the two is better than the other. When I am in the new world, I apprehend its superiority with both mind and heart. When I am in the old world, I can only apprehend the superiority of the new world with my mind alone.

For when I’m not in The Other Side or The Fourth Dimension--even though I will have visited them just hours (or minutes!) before--I am convinced that I shall never see them again.

Or if I convince myself that I shall see them again, my desire to visit them is gradually snuffed out like a dying ember. You may say to me, “But why don’t you go visit The Other Side or The Fourth Dimension if you are so much more at peace there?” and I will say to you from the gurgling blackness of a heart strangled by material desires, “Why would I want to see those landscapes that are so beautiful when I know they are only temporary? Would that not just compound the misery I now feel? To apprehend such beauty only to have it snatched away when I least expect it?”

Plus, I don’t know how to get to the new world of my own volition. I possess no key to The Other Side. I paid no fare to see The Fourth Dimension. I arrived at them accidentally. Or perhaps some formless grace that emanates far beyond even that which we call the event horizon became as a giant cosmic hand and stretched itself forth to pluck me up from the prison of myself and grant unto me a spiritual parole.

What is this new world? Well, empirically, it looks and sounds the same as the old world. Which is a relief. For there are too many beautiful sounds and sights I would hate to lose in the abandonment of the old world. Physically, I function in the same fashion in the new world as I do in the old.

I think there’s only one difference, really. And that one difference makes a world of difference. A world of difference between the old world and the new world.

The direction of my concerns, my cares, my emotions and my thoughts is inverted. In my soul, I replace a mirror with a window.

One afternoon, about three or four months ago, I was walking in Chinatown (the one in New York). As the sun set, I found myself troubled by manifold desires such as I have never been before. It really doesn’t matter what the desires were, for having now glimpsed (albeit briefly) this new world, I know that (in the end) all desires are essentially one and the same. Specificity in regard to desires is mere window dressing (or mirror dressing!)

Just that morning, I found myself actually enjoying those desires. That is, anticipating their fulfillment at some point in the linear future. Do you know what I mean? Like the feeling of wanting to fall in love? Or the belief that if you just persist at something, eventually you’ll receive riches and fame? These aren’t bad feelings. If, that is, one can control them; to prevent them from growing gargantuan in one's mind--eating away all other concerns; not only for others, but also for one’s own psychological well-being.

But by the end of the day, those same desires that I had flirtatiously enjoyed that morning had indeed grown gargantuan! In fact, I thought, as night fell on lower Manhattan, that I would rather take my own life than go on desiring! I couldn’t imagine living another hour with the noise of want that was SCREAMING IN THE ECHO CHAMBER BETWEEN MY EARS!!!!!!!!!!!!

Suddenly, I found myself, by choice or by accident I still know not, at the doors to the Buddhist Temple near the Manhattan Bridge. I had been there many times before, but never in a state of spiritual despair.

I flung the red doors open and, in front of the massive golden Buddha that sits peacefully at the center of the temple on a flowered dais, I fell to my knees on the padded prayer pad beneath his mystical and idolatrous presence.

I clasped my hands as if I were in a church. And I said in front of this renowned Eastern image what essentially was a Western-styled prayer; hands clasped and head bowed, thus I whispered:

God, help me. . .help me. . .my desires are going to kill me. . .help me. . .save me from my desires. . .

I was afraid to finish the plea, yet I didn’t know what else to ask for. All I knew was that it was too early to return to the outside. I remained indoors lest I return to the despair that I knew lie beyond them. So I just kept asking the same thing over and over.

Help me. . .please, help me. . .don’t let my desires kill me. . .help me. . .

Then my refrain eventually condensed into only: Help me. . .help me. . .help me. . .

I must have been there two or three minutes when suddenly the two words escaping my lips were altered dramatically.

Thank you. . .thank you. . .thank you. . .

????????????? thank you ??????????????????

I didn’t know why I was saying “thank you” at first. Nevertheless, I couldn’t stop saying it.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

I didn’t mean it at all. Not one iota. Gratitude was the furthest thing from my mind. I even said it through clenched teeth, with venom and bitterness in my heart.

Thank you! Thank you! Goddamnit, thank you!

I remained on my knees for at least another five minutes as a feeling of contentment slowly--and I do mean slowly!--washed over me. Eventually, I stopped saying “thank you” and started whispering it. Then I stopped whispering it and started thinking it. I got up from my knees and looked toward the ceiling and then at the golden Buddha whose shining head almost touched it--all the while with this new and strange loop playing in my mind: thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. . .

I left the temple thinking only: thank you.

And I went to where I was going thinking only: thank you.

As I went to where I was going, I saw people differently from how I had viewed them only minutes before. No longer were they a nameless, faceless mass conspiring to be in my way. Instead, they were The Way. A gorgeous sea of individuals each precious in their singularity. I stopped to talk with strangers. And as I talked and listened to them, thank you were still the only two words evident in my consciousness. How utterly different the world appeared! Everything seemed so indescribably beautiful! I felt so. . .innocent.

That was my first visit to the new world. It lasted about four days. I’ve been back about three or four times since then. The longest I’ve been there is about five days. More interestingly, the shortest duration I’ve been away from the new world, since discovering it, has been less than twenty-four hours. This new record was set yesterday evening when I left the old world yet again and returned unto the new.

Wish you were here!

You ask me why I believe in God.
I ask if you know the cadenza to Beethoven’s Violin Concerto.
You ask me why I believe in Angels.
I ask if you have heard The Beatles sing.
You ask me why I believe in Miracles.
I ask if you have read of the pilot who landed on the Hudson.
You ask me why I believe in Good and Evil.
I ask you which side won World War II.
You ask me why I believe in Providence.
Because I went looking for help and found gratitude instead.
You ask me why I believe in Salvation.
Because I said Thank you. . . with my lips,
while screaming Fuck you! with my soul.

I Stand Corrected

2009-01-29T15:07:00.000-08:00

I'm sorry. I may have come across a little positive in my latest blogs; conveying a sense that things were going to be okay after all and I might finally be achieving something that had always eluded me: happiness.

I was wrong. I spoke too early. I'm embarrassed now. There is no happiness for me.

This contemptible organ, the brain, what is its purpose but to kill me? How I wish it were a tooth in my mouth that might be extracted.

My heart is heavy and nothing can lift it. It is a stone thrown into its own lake of blood. . .sinking fast. . .

I cannot swallow, the lump is too large.

I cannot breath for apathy prevents me from inhaling.

It seems as if I can only exhale. An infinite release of air that starts once, but ends never.

This body has seen enough. . .

Once I told a psychiatrist who wanted to put me on bipolar medication:

"Look, man. I just want an anti-depressant. I want to keep the mania. Take out the bottom part and keep the top. Cut the string, that's all. Let the balloon float."

"Let the balloon float. . ."

"L et t h e ba ll oo n f l o a t
l e t t he ba l l o o n f l o a t

l e t t h e b a

l l o o

n

f l

o

a
t . . .

That One Word

2009-01-28T14:15:00.000-08:00

I believe in God. I always have. I don’t know how to define that God. But I do call it God and not "Higher Power". "Higher Power" is just a new age way to say God. I’m not new age. So I just say God. It’s easier to say God.

But it offends more people than "Higher Power". Good.

God.

I’ve never been an atheist, even though I wasn’t raised in a religious family. But neither was my family composed of secular humanists. We weren’t intellectuals. We were blue-collar. We didn’t make enough money to be secular humanists. When times got tough, we called on God. True, it wasn’t often. Grit and self-determination carried us as far as it could. But once in a blue moon, we’d have to fall on our knees and turn our eyes toward heaven.

There isn’t much to be smug about in a blue-collar household. Secular humanism cannot exist without smugness.

True, I was agnostic for many years. Until my early twenties, I thought I’d play it safe and straddle the fence. Then I discovered Pascal and Blake and Aquinas and Augustine. Then I opened my eyes and I realized how daft I had been! Miracles were everywhere! How incredulous it was to conceive of existence as mere accident! What smugness, indeed!

So I believe in God. That’s probably why I have such a problem with Islam. We have two different conceptions of God, the Islamic world and myself. I don’t like theirs. My God creates and does not destroy. My God advances and does not retard. My God unshackles and does not imprison. My God is art and not censorship. My God is God and not allah.

Am I saying that the Christian God is better than the Muslim God? No. In fact, I haven’t even said that I was a Christian. For I am not. But I bet that's what you thought I was talking about, didn’t you?

That’s because I use the term God. And not "Higher Power". Or "Mother Earth". Or allah.

God.
God.
God.

All I am saying is that My God is better than theirs.

Monday night, I was at a dinner in San Francisco following a show. I was having an argument with an atheist friend of mine.

I really enjoyed the argument. He didn’t believe in God and I did. I thought I was making some great points. He didn’t. Still, it was fun. Like I imagine a tennis match is for people who don’t smoke.

Then a girl came in and sat at our table. The discussion stopped there. I have learned that when it comes to women, it’s best not to talk about religion or politics until after you have taken them to bed.

The girl began talking about roller coasters and how much she enjoyed them.

I told her that I also loved roller coasters.

She said that she liked wooden roller coasters.

I told her that I preferred steel roller coasters. Then I asked her where she had come from.

She told me that she had been having a discussion with some friends at another bar and had become bored.

I asked her what the argument had been about. She said that it hadn’t been an argument. It had been a polite discussion.

I told her that I preferred arguments. That it was fun to draw a line in the sand and engage in ideological fisticuffs. She told me that she preferred polite discussions. I disagreed and said that arguments were better.

“Okay,” she said, “Well, you and I can have an argument about wood versus steel roller coasters.”

“No,” I said, “That’s boring. How about this one: My friend over here doesn’t believe in God and I do. Let’s get into that.”

“Well,” she said, “I’m an agnostic, so it doesn’t really matter to me.”

“Oh, I know what it’s like to be on the fence, too. But let me see if I can get you to fall down from it.”

Then I tried to use an experiment I picked up from C.S. Lewis to convince her of the existence of an underlying moral code to the universe (separate entry to follow). She began to panic and motioned frantically for my atheist friend to come and help her out.

She began talking about right-wing Christian extremists, even though nobody had mentioned the name of Jesus Christ. The Spanish Inquisition was alluded to, even though nobody had brought up Catholicism. Sexual repression was decried, even though nobody had mentioned Puritanism.

The panic was solely about God.

Not "Higher Power", not "Mother Earth", not the "Wise Buddha", not "Ganesh". . .

God.

My atheist friend and the girl teamed up against me. At one point, the girl threw up her hands in disgust and said, “Why should we even have this conversation? You’re never going to convince me and I’m never going to convince you, so what’s the point?”

“Because,” I said, “my beliefs wouldn’t be worth anything--even to me--if I didn’t try to convince anybody of their truth. The same goes for any philosophical belief, scientific proof, or political platform. That’s the essence of progress. If you’re convinced of the truth of something, what’s the point of keeping it to yourself? What if Edison had refused to share his discoveries for fear of being impolite?”

The tennis match continued. Doubles against a single.

Then I lobbed what I thought was a really good one: “What I find telling is that you described yourself as an agnostic. But for some reason, the moment I mentioned God, you started clinging to my atheist friend like a life preserver. As an agnostic, couldn’t you just as easily have been pulled this way? You seem to have the jumped off the fence, all right. Without any struggle at all, you've landed in the pastures of non-belief.”

Later, my atheist friend and myself had a cigarette outside.

“You know,” he said, “I think that agnostic girl likes me.”

“She probably does,” I said, “after all, you’re the atheist.”

God.

More than "Higher Power", more than "Vishnu", more than "Xenu", more than "Goddess". . .

How that one word still has the power to attract or to repulse.

God.

You’ll find it standing just outside of Nature. For that is Its creation.

MID-STREAM: An Essay In Progress Following A Return From San Francisco

2009-01-28T14:02:00.000-08:00

--for I knew that as soon as I got off the stage on Saturday night, that it wouldn’t be too long before that familiar Loneliness made its presence felt again. It was such a beautiful night. Actually, it was a very beautiful week overall. It seemed that each show got progressively better, culminating in one of my favorite performances ever on Saturday night. Hence, my reluctance not only to say goodbye for the evening, but to leave San Francisco and the Purple Onion yet again.

Thursday at the Eureka Theatre was a litmus test for myself as a writer. I had done so many podcasts and written so many blogs over the past months that I had, I felt, neglected my duties when it came to writing new live material. Adding to the drought was the emblematic struggle of making ends meet in New York City.

Writing for the internet had made me dependent on two things: technology and solitude. The stream of my ideas raged as torrential as ever. Yet having opened the Pandora’s box of studio creativity, every comedic idea thenceforth was seen as a potential recording project; replete with manifold layers and sound effects. A far cry from those days when I lived in my car at the Berkeley Marina and managed to write multi-character pieces without the aid of a computer.

And the solitude required by studio creativity made me in turn more afraid of my audiences, where I had not been before.

Moving to a new place in Jersey City last December seems to have unleashed something in me which I had often feared over the last few months had disappeared: the raw excitement of standing in front of a mirror and bellowing out comedic pieces in anticipation of performing them for a live audience.

My interpretation of the Geico Lizard as a cockney football hooligan met with success right off the bat. The laughter it received reinvigorated my confidence in my ability to write single character monologues reacting to an unseen second party. Not only that, he’s very fun and easy to perform, thanks to the primal rage I’ve infused in him. Anger is my favorite emotion, for it is so familiar to me.

Yet my favorite of all the new pieces I brought with me to San Francisco is undoubtedly "The Humility Award". Ever since seeing Eric Idle lampoon Richard Attenborough in the final episode of season three of “Monty Python’s Flying Circus”, awards presenters have been among my favorite characters to play.

"The Humility Award" is a self-contained absurdity. What truly humble person would allow themselves to be the recipient of The Humility Award? The applause the bit received was worth more to me than the audience will ever know. I loved it so much that it was the only piece I repeated over three consecutive nights. I loved it so much, in fact, that on the DVD footage of the first night, you can actually see me stifling a smile once I apprehend that the audience and I are on the same page.

That’s right! It was all filmed! All three nights! That was the cherry on top of the ice cream sundae of my post-show afterglow. Everything was filmed. Preserved to be packaged and sold. A product I will proudly sell, despite my longstanding aversion to commerce.

But boy, how I dreaded to get off that stage Saturday night! The Purple Onion is my home, as Mario, the owner, is always so good to tell me. It’s moments like those that remind me of how far I’ve come and how far I have yet to go. From some socially-retarded bookworm in small-town Missouri to being embraced by the Italians of North Beach.

“Life,” says Bruce McCulloch in a little-known Kids In The Hall piece, “is a pretty sweet fruit.” Indeed.

Or as King David wrote in his psalmic glee, “My cup runneth over.”

Either sentiment is apt, although I find myself repeating the latter with greater frequency than ever.

My cup runneth over.

Also, I talked with Michael Ian Black (Viva Variety, The State, Stella) a good deal in the hotel lobby this past weekend. That was a major turning point . You see, I have always been afraid of people who appear to be more succesful than me. Because, I suppose, I am afraid of myself and my own defects. I am afraid of my jealousy. I am afraid of my competitiveness. I am afraid of my pride.

So I went down to the lobby two or three times to get some coffee and each time I saw Michael Ian Black at the far end of the lounge. It’s hard to describe it, but his presence at first bothered me. I knew there was somebody in this hotel who was more successful than me. So each time, I would get my coffee and turn back to the elevators to go up to my room--troubled, depressed, and feeling like a failure after having seen a success.

But the third time, I decided to do something different. As I turned towards the elevator bank with my coffee in my hand, I instead turned around and went and introduced myself to Michael Ian Black.

My approach to things has failed me in a lot of ways. I called myself an artist as a defense mechanism, not as a statement of confidence. I let others call me a genius and privately relished it with an unending megalomania. I told people that I kept to myself because that’s just how I create; failing to mention that solitude and misanthropy were the blinders I wore against having to witness the success of others.

Michael Ian Black shook my hand and invited me to sit down. We were joined by other members of The State who were rehearsing for their reunion show as part of Sketchfest. He told me he had enjoyed my show on Thursday which surprised me because I wasn’t aware he had even been in the audience. It also relaxed me because I felt like an equal, which is, I hate to admit it, one of the most relaxing things to feel like.

On Sunday, before heading to the airport, I had another conversation with Michael Ian Black. We talked about the “business” of comedy and the psychological effects it can have on a performer. I won’t reveal any specifics of the conversation out of respect for confidentiality. But it certainly was illuminating inasmuch as I can say that I am not alone in my neuroses.

God bless you, Michael Ian Black.

One must separate one’s psychological well-being from the roller coaster of one’s occupation. Not only comedy, but any vocation. It’s all the same. I see it now. The realm of the spirit cannot be shackled to the contingencies of the material. Spirits can only live unfettered.

When I think about how I’ve often looked at the world and my place in it, I’m surprised that I’m still alive.

There was a new bartender working Saturday night at the Purple Onion. Usually, it’s A.J. This time, it was a new guy, Luka. As I was rehearsing my set on the sstage, Luka was singing very loudly in Italian behind the bar.

It sounded like the chorus to the early Bee Gees song “I’ve Gotta Get A Message To You”--about a man on death row about to be executed. I asked Luka if he was singing the Bee Gees in Italian. He said that he wasn’t. The he continued singing the same Italian passage.

So for five days, I’ve had the chorus to that Bee Gees song in my head:

I’ve just gotta get a message to you!
Hold on! Hold on!
One more hour and my life will be through!
Hold on! Hold on!

I was waiting for the NJ transit the other day. I was the only one in the waiting area. The reverb was beautiful. So I sang at the top of my lungs:

I’ve just gotta get a message to you!
Hold on! Hold on!
One more hour and my life will be through!
Hold on! Hold on!

I didn’t want to leave the stage Saturday night. The people were so beautiful. The night was so beautiful. The sound of their laughter was the sound of the host of heaven in divine orgasm.

I didn’t want to leave the stage Saturday night. Because I know that tomorrow follows today until today becomes a yesterday. How many yesterdays can one man’s past hold? Till the seams should burst and all yesterdays rain down upon his head until his very life itself should become an endless shower of yesterdays? No more todays? No more tomorrows?

No, this cannot be. I am looking at things with backward eyes. I must invert what I have inverted till the upside-down is right-side-up again.

Babies are not crazy. They have not had time nor resources to drive themselves insane.

The flight was nearly empty going back East. I am so tall, it was nice to stretch out across an entire row. I watched a Richard Gere movie called Nights In Rodanthe. It was predictably atrocious. I laughed when the leading lady cried. I laughed at all the sad parts. I am not completely cured of my cynicism. Nor would I desire to be. I must maintain a little schism; a little cognitive/emotional split between what I do and what is expected of me by the "good society". Just enough of a crack in the Spirit to allow Freewill to exist. Automatons do not get to heaven.

The flight attendants brought me four pre-packaged dinners when I called for them. I am not a regular comedian. I love airplane food. It was a feast fit for a king such as myself who reigned at 36,000 feet above the earth’s surface.

Oh, I hope we never land. . .I said over and over to myself. . .let us go higher still. . .

The flight attendants brought me as much coffee and Dr. Pepper and orange juice as I could drink.

My cup runneth over.

I hope we never land. I don’t want the show to end--

Why Are You Sad, William Franken, Even On This, The Holiest Of Days?

2009-01-20T22:48:00.000-08:00

Well, I'm in San Francisco to do some shows, but I came in early to do another show last night. So my hotel isn't ready until Thursday. But this nice family, a friend of a friend, is putting me up until then. So when I got here from the airport, I was all jet-lagged and sad. Then I go to this really nice house and there's a husband and a wife and a son and a beautiful greyhound dog and they were all so nice and look so happy and content with their lives that sometimes I wonder about the choices I've made in this life. Maybe things could have gone differently, I suppose. Maybe I could have had a nice family and a nice house and a nice dog if I had just followed some other path.

This was my state of mind a few hours after arriving.

Also, I tend to get very horny up in the air. Especially when I'm sitting next to a cute chick. If she's curled up in a blanket and sleeping and turns off the light above, I fantasize that we're in bed together and she's going to sleep and I'm staying up to read.

When she wakes up, usually around landing time, I have to resist the urge to say, "good morning, honey!". So on Sunday, this girl next to me on the plane wakes up as we begin our initial descent--she had been sleeping throughout the entire flight. She even had on one of those fancy eye covering things. (What are those things called, by the way?)

As soon as the plane heads in for final approach, she scrambles through her purse and starts furiously putting on makeup. I swear, it was like she was two different people! For five hours, she was snuggling under a blanket while I watched some shitty pre-selected Richard Gere movie and wondered what her name was and if she was dreaming about how cute I am. Then the moment we touch down, she's ready to hit the town with somebody else! The nerve!

By the time I made it out of the terminal to grab a cigarette, I had forgotten all about her. And then--wham!--she walks right past me and embraces this gelled blonde guy and they drive off together in his Porsche.

So I get the snoozing girl in the Continental Airlines blanket and he gets the rouged Renoir. Didn't she know we had a relationship in my head?

Also, I got a haircut Saturday in Jersey City. It was at one of those annoyingly trendy places called Balance. A sign outside read:

OUR HAIRCUTS WILL GET YOU LAID!

So I went in and talked to a group of very beautiful girls and asked them how valid the offer was and if they could absolutely guarantee that I was going to get laid via one of their haircuts.

"Oh, yes!" they said with girlish glee.

"Should I cut it all off? Will that get me laid? I ask, because the last time I remember getting laid with any frequency, my hair was a bit shorter."

"Hmm," said Christina, the girl at the appointments desk, "I don't think you should cut it short."

"No," said Sasha, one of the stylists, "definitely keep the length. You just need to give it some shape."

"Yeah? And you think if you girls give it some shape, that'll get me laid?"

"Oh, definitely," said Sasha. "Long hair is sexy. You just need to give it shape. Right now you've just got a big triangle."

"Well, a triangle's a shape, isn't it?" I asked.

"It is, but it's not a good one."

"How much is it for a haircut?"

"45 dollars," said Sasha

Jesus Christ, I thought as I took the Lord's name in vain. "And I'll really get laid if I do this?"

"Definitely!" they all squealed in unison.

I asked for some time to think it over. The price was steep, but the idea was stimulating. I could pay a girl forty-five dollars to play with my hair while I talked to her about wanting sex. Cheaper than a prostitute and virtually no risk of disease. Two minutes after leaving, I pulled out my cell phone and called the number on the card they had given me.

"Hi, this is Will. We met about two minutes ago. I don't know if you remember me or not. I was the guy that wanted to get laid."

"Yes, I remember," said Christina.

"Well, I think I want to do this. Can I have a five o' clock appointment?"

"Absolutely."

"And, uh. . ." I cleared my throat and said in a hushed tone, "will Sasha be the one cutting my hair?"

"Yes," said Christina.

"Good. . .I like Sasha. And. . .uh. . .how does it work? I just bring the money when I come in?"

"Yes, that'll be fine."

I had three hours to kill before my date with Sasha, so I went home and did the laundry, had a nice shower and a shave, put on some deodorant and some nice clean clothes. I wanted to look good for my haircut.

When I arrived at five o' clock on the dot, I was really nervous. That's how I always am with women. When I first meet them, I'm okay. I can tell jokes, flirt, be confident, the whole ball of wax. It's just when I have to see them a second time that things get all fucked up.

That's when I start to worry about whether or not I'm repeating jokes or if she's had enough time to think about what a repulsive human being I am.

So I was much more subdued when I saw Sasha the second time. I stood sheepishly at the counter, waiting for her to appear.

"Hey!" she said, springing up behind me on those bouncy girl's feet.

"Oh, hi Sasha. . .(gulp!). . .h-h-how are you?"

"Are you ready for your shampoo?"

"You bet!" I said, my pulse starting to quicken, my throat starting to dry, "let's do it. W-W-Where should we go? How does this work?"

"Jason's going to take care of you right over here."

I furrowed my brow. "Jason? What do you mean, Jason?"

She led me to a chair that was being manned by a slender mulatto man with a very large afro and a purple keffiyah. "Hi, I'm Jason!" he said in a well-honed camp.

I turned to Sasha with a fierce whisper, "What's all this about?"

"Jason's going to do your shampoo."

"But you're cutting it, right?"

There was a look of fear in her eyes. "Yes. . .I am."

"I mean, that was the deal, right? I give you the money and you cut my hair?"

"Yes, I'll cut your hair. Don't worry. . .I'll cut your hair."

"Cause I don't want a haircut that's going to get me laid by men. That wasn't the arrangement. I want women, you understand? Lots of 'em. Young, supple. Lithe. . .slippery. . .drippy. . .bendable. . ."

She started to slowly back away. "Yes. . .I'm. . .j-j-just going to get my station ready. . ."

"Keep the chair warm."

Jason took forever shampooing my hair. Honestly, it seemed it would never end. I started to think he was taking delight in torturing me--in keeping me away from Sasha as long as he could. I've washed my hair before and it's never taken that fucking long. It was almost like he was shampooing each hair individually.

When Jason finally released me and sent me over to Sasha, I felt completely emasculated. Here I was, approaching this extremely attractive woman whilst wearing a long plastic miu-miu with a towel for a scarf and a head of wet hair on a scalp that had just been recently massaged by a flaming mulatto Palestinian sympathizer.

I'm sure that was all part of the Sasha's little plan. Take a big strong man like me and try to humiliate him with a queer shampooing. She's probably a goddamn dominatrix in her off-hours. Cooze.

Yeah, I had a grudge, all right. So much so that when I finally sat down at Sasha's chair, I didn't even know where to begin with the small talk. I was downright fuming. So I just picked up from where I had left off earlier.

"So you really think you can get me laid with this haircut?"

"Definitely," said Sasha. Snip. Snip.

"And that's all it will take? Just a haircut? I won't need to change my personality or make tons of money or listen to horrible music in some fuckin' dance club?"

"Definitely," said Sasha. Snip. Snip.

"I'll just. . .get laid? Just like that, huh? Pretty nifty. So about how long do you think it'll take?"

"For the haircut?"asked Sasha. Snip. Snip.

"No, to get laid."

"I don't know. I guess it all depends," said Sasha. Snip. Snip.

I could tell she was losing interest in talking about me getting laid. So I tried to liven up the conversation by sermonizing on the death of romance and culture amidst the ideological wreckage of postmodernism. Snip. Snip.

I discussed C.S. Lewis' notion of the preexistence of a moral code to the universe and how that correlated to Immanuel Kant's conception of an innate morality existing within each individual human. Snip. Snip.

I touched briefly on Baruch Spinoza's model of the universe as an infinite and undefined substance from which particulars emerge in recognizable empirical paradigms. Snip. Snip.

Then I looked in the mirror to see what she was doing to my hair.

"This is going to get me laid?"I gasped.

"Yeah. You look like Eddie Vedder!"Snip. Snip.

"I think I look like Princess Leia!"

"Trust me. It looks good."Snip. Snip.

"It's all bouncy on the sides!"

"That's cause you've got curly hair."Snip. Snip.

"I thought I had wavy hair."

"No. You've got curly hair. This brings out the curls." Snip. Snip.

"I didn't have any curls!"

"Yeah you did."Snip. Snip.

"Nuh-uh. I had waves."

"Those were curls."Brush. Brush.

"I beg to differ. They were waves. Like short, choppy waves. After a jet ski goes by."

"That's what curls are."Spray. Spray.

"Excuse me, but whose fucking hair is this anyway? They were waves!"

"I have a degree in cosmetology and you have curls!"Blowdry. Blowdry.

"Waves!"

"Curls!"

We argued for a little bit longer about the difference between waves and curls. Then, despite the fact that I didn't even orgasm, I paid her the money and felt ashamed for being one of those creepy guys that has to actually pay for a haircut.

I called a friend later and told him what I had done and how I had been seduced by the sirens at Balance hair studio.

"You surprise me sometimes," said my friend, "you're such a sucker to commercial culture."

"Look, man," I said, "I've done the artist thing. Now it's time to grow up and face the facts. We live in a shallow world and I just want to get in on the ground floor."

So that's probably why I'm sad right now. Sometimes I want to get in on the ground floor and I get mad at myself--

--cause I know I never will.

I HAVE NO INTERNET WHERE I LIVE

2009-01-12T16:03:00.000-08:00

Where I live, I have no internet.

This is why I haven't been blogging.

I have moved into my own place in Jersey City, NJ.

Now I can be as loud as I want at the top of my lungs.

And so I am now writing live comedy again. (I WAS DYING CREATIVELY IN WOODHAVEN!)

But I have to check my internet at a cafe where they play horrible world music and twenty-year old women with taupe skin and Obama buttons serve me.

(I would fuck this one behind the counter now, though :))

It is harder to concentrate here.

When I first moved into my new place, I had perfect internet for four days. It was really fast! I used "linksys".

Then, all of a sudden, it wanted a password.

I have been all over my apartment and there is one spot, if I move my bed and almost close my computer and hold it flat against the wall two feet above the floor, where I can get internet for thirty seconds before it freezes up.

I have to type with one hand and hope that I do not jostle the computer in the process because I will lose my thirty-second connection and will have to keep clicking the airport thing at the top of the screen until "Fon-Fon Free-for-All" appears again.

I think people are stingy with their internet on the east coast.

The last time that I had a thirty second internet connection with my computer pressed against the wall and almost closed between the space where my bed and the wall is--I googled "How to hack into wi-fi"

I tried some of the tips, like typing "admin" for any WEP password.

But to no avail.

So, maybe it is for the best. As I say, I am writing live stuff again.

I miss blogging, to be sure. But I have big shows coming up in San Francisco in a few weeks

I thought that I would never write comedy again, but I am working on the following:

A bit about a lizard.
A bit about the Gaza Strip.
A bit about Facebook.

and many more.

Speaking of which, it bothers me when women on Facebook post pictures of themselves with their babies. Not that I have anything against babies. It's just that it makes Facebook less of a networking site and more of a wallet.

Here Are Some Things That Have Happened and are Happening

2008-12-28T19:08:00.000-08:00

BOOK I: THE MOVE

I have moved to Jersey City, New Jersey. I am now closer to New York than I was when I lived in New York. It sounds Buddhist, but it isn't.

BOOK II: THE STRANGE DVD EXPERIENCE

Today, as I was unpacking, I was labeling some unlabeled CDs and DVDs and had the strangest experience. For a few years now, I have been unable to watch myself performing on video in front of an audience. I didn't even want to hear any of my live CDs! The only thing of mine I could tolerate listening to were my studio podcasts.

There was a time when I couldn't wait to get a video copy of a performance. Once I had it, I would watch it over and over again and be filled with a great sense of pride at my accomplishment. I was overcome with joy hearing the laughter of the audience.

Then, perhaps, I became sick of myself. I just wanted to do the shows and disappear. I felt sorry for the audiences that they had to look at me while they laughed. Oh, how I hated myself. Even before this, I very rarely laughed at anything I did. It all went through the prism of an intellectual vocation. Yes, I see it--that should connect to that and that should connect to that and that will equal funny.

Last month, I was looking for a particular unlabeled DVD and accidentally inserted one of my theatrical performance videos, the original Good Luck With It. (I might not have been watching them, but I certainly saved copies!)

At first I winced--ooh, I don't want to look at that, I thought. But then, for some reason, I decided to skip ahead and see two bits that I only performed once: "The Retrial Of Scott Peterson" (a defense attorney's convoluted argument that Scott Peterson did not murder his pregnant wife, but that the unborn son burst out of his mother's stomach like the alien in Alien) and "The Philosophy of the Matrix" (a pretentious English professor in the year 5792).

Anyway, I found myself laughing at loud. Later, I called a friend and told him that I thought I was making some sort of spiritual progress because I was able to watch myself for ten minutes and enjoy it.

So today, as I was labeling DVDs, I came across a one-off show I did called For Existence, Press One. I didn't really remember the show at all. I just wanted to pop in the DVD, find out what it was, and then label it. But once I pressed play, I saw myself wearing goggles and a breathing mask with a tube coming out of the mouth. My face was totally hidden behind the apparatus. I was gesturing wildly with my hands as a prerecorded high-pitched voice explained the situation: I was a vegan who could only survive by eating helium.

I laughed my ass off! I remember hating that bit at the time I wrote it, but man--I was in hysterics! It was like I wasn't really a comedian and I was watching somebody else on the screen and really enjoying it. With every bit, I would tell myself--"Okay, after this bit, eject it, label it, and finish the rest"--but I couldn't. I was in hysterics for the whole ninety minutes.

That was a very interesting thing. To enjoy watching myself as if I was somebody else. I'm not sure if it was a good or bad thing. It felt good because it's always nice to laugh. But it also felt strange because I was worried that I was going to get fat and sit on a couch and watch me succeed while I failed.

I am still afraid of failure.

BOOK III: THE FUNNY LINE FROM THE TELEVISION

For some reason, I get free cable in this studio apartment. The only thing I like on television is Turner Classic Movies. Every time I'm in a hotel, I turn on Turner Classic Movies and let it play for the duration of my stay, keeping the sound down low until something comes on that I want to see.

I sleep with the television on. Old movies make me feel warm and comfortable. They're better than a woman sometimes, because the women in old movies are better than women in new movies. And women in new movies are the women that women in today's reality largely model themselves after. Myrna Loy? Veronica Lake? No--they're catching fish with Sarah Jessica Parker's nose, women today.

So this is a studio apartment, but I have this big barricade of dressers which form a makeshift wall between my bed and the living room area. On top of the dresser is the television. In the living room, I watch television. When I go to bed, I keep the television on with its back to me, so I can fall asleep to the sound of old movies.

Anyway, the day after Christmas, early in the morning, Turner Classic Movies began a marathon of the delightful Andy Hardy movies starring the lovable Mickey Rooney. I woke up about 6:30 a.m. and heard the following interchange between Judge Hardy (Andy Hardy's father) and a wealthy and snobbish male defendant.

JUDGE HARDY: I fine you one hundred dollars.
DEFENDANT: (with a huff) That's nothing. I got that right here in my pocket!
JUDGE HARDY: And thirty days in the county jail. You got that in your pocket, too?

I laughed and fell back asleep.

BOOK IV: THE BIBLE

I have been looking into Catholicism. Actually, I have always been intrigued with both Catholicism and Hasidic Judaism. But the Hasids once rejected me when they found out that I didn't know whether or not I was a Jew and it really hurt my feelings. I know, I know, they're supposed to reject you a few times just to make sure you really want it. But I just don't have the discipline. I love gefilte fish, though. I didn't like it when the rabbi prayed and made the weird noises. But when he was just riffing, talking about the Nefish (sp?), man that blew my mind like the Hinduistic thought process.

But I need to get on some sort of spiritual path, I believe, to regain and maintain my love for life and such things as humor and music and visions. We didn't really have any religion growing up in my family. But my father was a lapsed Catholic; born into it, if you will. I always liked the art and the idea of ritual and iconography and guilt and the schoolgirls. So with all the Catholic presence in New York, I figured I'd try to learn that one.

I talked with this priest and he suggested I start by reading the Gospel of St. Mark. He asked if I had a New Testament and I said no. I thought he would offer to give me one, but he didn't. I was a little disappointed. I remember in Missouri they used to give them away like they were going out of style (which of course, they were. But I didn't know it then)

So I went to a Catholic church and asked the guy at the front desk if they had any New Testaments and he said they had run out.

So I looked up the Gospel of St. Mark online and read it from a Greek translation. Well, I had a little problem. Now those of you who know me know that normally I hate historical revisionism. But I just couldn't help it. The more I read of the Gospels, the less I thought Jesus was the Son of God and the more I thought he was just a hell-raising rock-n-roller.

I also wondered, as apparently many others have, if Jesus might not have been illegitimate.

I told the priest of my doubts, but he didn't seem upset. He listened with patience. I told him that I had been reading the Bible online and that it was hurting my eyes--hoping that he would take pity on me and give me a free New Testament. Still no luck.

I also told the priest of something strange I had noticed in The Gospel of St. Mark. There's a bit where Jesus is walking with the disciples and he comes across a fig tree and he's hungry. But he looks at the tree and there's no figs on it. Then he says something to his disciples like, "this tree won't bear any more fruit ever!" (paraphrasing, of course). Later on, they walk by the same tree again, and it's all withered and dying. I told the priest that I thought that made Jesus look sort of hungry and pissed off. Like if he can't have a fig, then fuck the tree. The priest suggested it might be a metaphor for good fruit that comes from a good tree or something like that, but I thought he was reaching a bit there. I think Jesus just got pissed off cause he was hungry and took it out on the tree.

But I wasn't (and still aren't) ready to throw in the towel just yet. After St. Mark, I went back and started reading St. Matthew. But I tell you, I was really getting sick of reading it online.

So as I was moving recently from Woodhaven, I noticed that my now ex-roommate had a Bible--a really cool King James paperback. He also had an I Ching and a Bhagavad-Gita. I was going to lift all three, but I decided to just take the Bible.

I had attempted to read the Bible all the way through two years ago and had given up at Leviticus. But this time, I was going to do it. I packed the pilfered Bible and off I went to New Jersey.

BOOK V: THE BIBLE AND THE FLAG

While I was moving, I remembered that my now ex-roommate had given me an American flag at one point. About seven months ago, he knocked on my door and gave me this really large cloth flag and said I could hang it up if I wanted.

I have one window in this apartment I live in now and it has no curtains. I sometimes walk around naked and I noticed there are children in the condominiums across the street. I thought it would be a good idea to cover the window with something lest the children should see me and get the wrong idea that I wanted to be seen by children--which I do not.

So right after or right before packing the stolen Bible, I took the large folded American flag and packed that as well.

I left Woodhaven that night with a very heavy suitcase. I had to change trains three times, lugging this absurdly heavy bag with me.

Once I got to my new place, I unfurled the American flag and hung it over the window--but it was so massive, it bunched up at the floor. So I hung it sideways with the star portion covering the window and the stripes extending perfectly to the end of my bedroom wall. It was a beautiful fit! I loved it! It gave everything such warmth. I was home. . .after all this time. . .I was home.

I had to go back to Woodhaven the next night and get the rest of my stuff. I had hoped to fit the rest in the same suitcase and had also hoped the suitcase would have been much lighter this time around. As it turned out, it was so heavy, I could only drag it. I even had to pack additional bags. Damn and blast! I wanted to be out of Woodhaven for good!

My now ex-roommate was around, so I asked him if he'd be interested in taking a trip to lovely New Jersey in his 1987 Toyota. He said he would for twenty dollars. I told him twenty sounded fine if he would let me use his food to make myself a peanut butter sandwich so I could defray the moving costs by not having to pay for dinner that night. It was a deal.

As I was packing up the last of my stuff, he came into the room.

"You haven't seen my flag, have you?"

"I thought you said I could have that flag."

"I said you could hang it up in here, not take it with you. That's my dad's flag." He's fifty-seven, my ex-roommate and his father had served in WWII. There's no way I could have lied about taking the flag.

"I thought you gave that flag to me because you knew I was a libertarian."

"They gave that to me when he died. It's the only thing I have from him. That and a hat."

I sighed, "It's hanging up out in Jersey. I can give it back to you when we get out there. I just thought you gave it to me because you didn't like George Bush."

"No, they gave that to me because my dad fought in Normandy."

It was painful, but I had to give him back that flag. But when it came to the Bible, I remained tight-lipped. He noticed a stack of his books on the floor.

"Oh, I left some of my old books in here. That's my I Ching."

"Yeah," I said. Still, I had a guilty conscience. "Say, you don't have a Bible, do you?"

"I got a Bible somewhere."

"You don't have a spare one, do you?"

"No, I don't have a spare one."

Christ. What a wretched thief I am.

On the drive out to Jersey, I kept thinking of his Bible sitting exposed on my new coffee table. My timing would have to be perfect. As soon as I opened the door, I would take my coat off and fling it on the coffee table, right over the Bible. I had already lost a flag, I couldn't part with a Bible.

By the time we arrived, I changed tactics. I told him that I needed to take up my bags by myself because the hallway was narrow and only one person could walk through it at a time. He said he had to go to the bathroom and I said that he could use mine after I made sure that there was nothing in the hallway that would block his progress.

I got inside my apartment and picked up my (his) Bible and stuck it in a dresser drawer. Then I let him in to urinate.

We shared a cigarette and talked briefly about the new place. Then he got up to leave. As he opened the door, I looked at the flag. My god, he's forgetting his flag.

But I could not do it. "Don't forget your flag," I gulped.

"What flag?" he asked.

Jesus Christ. . .would he have forgotten?

"Your dad's flag."

"Oh, right."

I almost cried as I removed it from the wall and folded it up.

BOOK VI: C. S. LEWIS

On Christmas Eve, I told my old Irish Catholic friend, Jimmy, that I was having a hard time believing that Christ was the Son of God. Jimmy said, "Well, if he isn't, it's all bullshit, isn't it?"

"You mean like Pascal's 'Wager'"?

"That," agreed Jimmy, "but also you should check out a book by C. S. Lewis called The Great Divorce. And read anything by Flannery O'Connor."

I had already rabidly devoured everything that Flannery O'Connor had ever written. But I still had much to read by Lewis. I had read The Screwtape Letters many years before and had had my mind blown by his portrayal of the Devil as a thought. But that was about it.

The Great Divorce was amazing. I read it all in one sitting. It did not convince me that Jesus was/is the Son of God, but it certainly did hammer home the necessity for faith and selfless love. It was a simultaneously terrifying and comforting depiction of the afterlife. Usually, I am not too much into visual descriptions in literature. That is why Tolkien always bored me. Page after page describing a forest--who needs that? Give me dialogue or give me death.

But C. S. Lewis is a genius at visual description. His conception of Hell is an ever-expanding town where the light is always just on the verge of becoming night even though its citizens delude themselves into thinking its always just on the verge of becoming morning.

In Heaven, the opposite is the case. It is always just on the verge of becoming morning, but to the unsaved souls who look at it from their unblessed state, it is always just about to become night.

So much beautifully constructed religious philosophy, line after line!

The crux of Lewis' Christianity is mind-bending. Check out this all-or-nothing prospect:

If one chooses Christ, everything that one has ever done in one's life, good AND bad, ALL becomes good retroactively. That is, the totality of a person's life is rendered perfectly good by the final choice to accept Christ. Consider the guy who dressed up as Santa Claus and killed nine people recently. Under this radical Christian doctrine, if that man had not killed himself and had been arrested and later turned to Christ, EVEN THE ACT OF MURDERING THOSE NINE PEOPLE WOULD HAVE BEEN GOOD BECAUSE IT LED HIM TO CHRIST!

But since he killed himself, the act of murdering nine people remains bad.

Contrarily, the same holds true if one rejects Christ. If one has performed noble and kind deeds their whole life, those deeds are rendered retroactively bad if in the final choice the doer rejects Christ. For the good deeds will have served no higher purpose beyond the self.

Consider Pity. C. S. Lewis divides pity into two forms: Pity of action and Pity of passion.

Pity of passion holds true love hostage. It attempts to pervert love by binding the lover to the pitied. Therefore true love is always a slave to the demands of those who wish to be perpetually pitied. It requires Love to be ensnared in misery. If those who wish to be pitied cannot feel love, they will have others always pity them. By instinct, I have always known this to be true. This is why my political outlook has developed in the fashion that it has. Abandon the shackles. Close the plantations. Let us live as Individual Divinities.

Pity of action demands of those who wish to be pitied not to wish to be pitied anymore, but to love as lovers love, truly and without demands.

How pleased I was at the first sentence in the preface to The Great Divorce. For Lewis reveals at once the inspiration for the title. It is an undoing of Blake's "Marriage of Heaven and Hell." It is a return to the either/or of our youth. The dissolution of the convoluted union of irreconcilable dichotomies.

Though I still hold fast to Blake's assertion that "Without contraries is no progression"!

Calling Officer Reeves

2008-12-20T18:27:00.000-08:00

CHAPTER ONE: OFFICER REEVES

Last Monday evening, I was on my way to do a show in Brooklyn. I hopped on the A train at Penn Station. It was just after six in the evening, so the subway was crowded.

I found myself standing extremely close to three NYPD officers. They were leaning near the doors and I was directly facing them, holding on to the overhead bar for balance.

Two of the cops were men: tall, muscular, grizzled--real textbook New York cops.

But the other one. . .man, she was the prettiest cop I had ever seen!

In fact, I don’t think until last Monday that I had ever seen an attractive female police officer aside from in the Police Academy movies. Remember that chick that made out with Bobcat Goldthwait’s character in Police Academy Four: Citizens On Patrol? Corinne Bohrer, that was her name.

Yeah, she was really cute. But most of the time when you see a female cop, they’re usually fat black women or angry looking dykes.

But this cop. . .she was a blonde, real petite. . .had a killer face. Must have been in her mid-twenties. Gorgeous. Absolutely stunning, I tell you. I looked at her badge to find out her name.

Officer Reeves. Mmmm.

She looked so adorable in her big police officer coat. It reminded me of high school when the preppy girls would wear their boyfriends’ letter jackets. I thought for a moment about why it is that female-to-male drag is so much more socially acceptable and generally more attractive than male-to-female drag. You know what I mean? Like Marlene Dietrich in the top hat and tails?

It’s because it makes the woman a present to be unwrapped. Here you have this big police officer’s jacket--not even tailored for a woman--and you know it’s all an illusion. Once you get that thing off, it’s pure uncut female underneath. Mmm.

But with male-to-female drag, the present doesn’t fit the box cause the clothes are tighter. So you already know what you’re getting before you open it. A man. And who needs one of those?

But when you take a cute little thing like Officer Reeves and put her in a big, bulky, policemen’s jacket, it’s almost exciting to imagine how many more layers you could pile on top of her. Wrap her up like a mummy. . .put a ski mask on her. . .and then let the excitement build to an erotic crescendo as you slowly unwrap her, revealing the femininity that she could never shed, no matter what her chosen occupation is. . .

Calling Officer Reeves. . .I know you’re in there. . .mmm. . .peek-a-boo!

And before I’m accused of sexism, let me just say that there was no need for me to probe her personality, for I already knew what type of girl Officer Reeves was simply from the uniform she was wearing. She’s a girl that believes in the law. She’s a girl that believes in right and wrong. She’s a girl that believes in honor and duty. Come on, she’s a fucking NYPD officer! She’s everything a man like me could want in a woman!

Once I figured that out, all that remained for me to deal with was my lust.

I checked her delicate little fingers for rings and found none. Then I wondered if cops were allowed to wear rings on the job or if they had to leave them in a locker. Is it okay to make eyes at a cop? Should I get her badge number? I gotta find out what precinct this chick belongs to.

Once the train took off, the two male cops began talking. It was obvious that they were picking up where they had left off from an earlier conversation.

One was telling the other about a dead body he saw in Washington Heights a few weeks earlier. I was listening intently.

“. . .guy’s got two fucking bullet holes in the back of the head. Pool of blood all over the fucking sidewalk. . .”

The other male cop smiled, “That guy on 181st, right?”

“That’s the one. Thirty minutes later, EMT pulls up, gets out the stretcher, plasma bags, all that shit--”

The lovely Officer Reeves didn’t seem to be listening. With her mystically beautiful blue eyes, she was staring at the advertisements lining the top of the subway car. Meanwhile, the cop listening to the story widened his grin, “Jesus, took EMT that long to get there?”

“They could have taken till next Christmas, it wouldn’t have mattered. This fucking guy wasn’t going anywhere. Half his fucking head was gone--looked like a rotten cantaloupe.”

Suddenly, I burst out laughing. The two male cops dropped their smiles and stared at me.

“I’m sorry,” I said, stifling my own grin, “Please, keep going. It’s. . .funny.”

They stared at me for a second longer and then the narrator cop resumed his tale. “So the mother’s out there screaming, ‘somebody help my baby!’ you know, all that shit. EMT picks him up, puts him on the stretcher. Fucking half the guy’s brains fall out in the fucking process. So I’m like, ‘hey, you think this guy might be dead or something?’”

I laughed so hard at the punchline that I had to wipe tears from eyes. Then I looked over at Officer Reeves, hoping that she had seen me sharing a moment with the Boys in Blue. Oh, how I wanted her to know that even though I had long hair, I still loved dead bodies and guns. I’m not who you think I am, Officer Reeves, I love the police.

I'm all about the Establishment, honey. Cause the most anti-Establishment thing you can be nowadays is pro-Establishment. You get the best of both worlds with me, baby. . .mmm. . .Calling Officer Reeves!

Let me take off your man’s uniform, Officer Reeves. I want to make love to you standing up in this crowded train. Put your glock to my head and make believe I’m a bad guy and tell me, “Keep banging away, stud, or I’m going to blow your fucking head off!”

We made eye contact briefly. I winked at her, but she didn’t reciprocate. And then, at 23rd Street, the doors opened and Officer Reeves left the train with her fellow officers.

CHAPTER TWO: KIRSTEN DUNST

It was a small crowd that night at the show in Brooklyn. However, there were a couple of cute girls in the audience. One of them looked remarkably like Kirsten Dunst.

At the end of my set, I told the audience about what had happened earlier on the train with the two male cops talking about the dead body and my romantic and sexual attraction toward Officer Reeves.

As I told the story, I made one minor embellishment. I said that Officer Reeves had looked just like Kirsten Dunst. Officer Reeves was very beautiful, but she did not look like Kirsten Dunst. She had had her own individualistic beauty that I could not compare to any single actress. I simply added the Kirsten Dunst flourish because I wanted the chick in the audience who looked like Kirsten Dunst to know that I had a thing for chicks who looked like Kirsten Dunst.

When I finished my romantic story, I heard some girls going "Aaaaaw". My friend Steve who had come out to see the show told me that the girl who looked like Kirsten Dunst was the one who had gone “Aaaaaaw” and that Aaaaaaw might be a "good sign".

Steve and I went outside to smoke a cigarette. When we came back into the club, the Kirsten Dunst chick was in the hallway, bending over, with her shirt up over her head, showing off an elaborate tattoo on her back of flowers or dragons or some shit. I hate tattoos. Especially on a woman. For I know that one day she will grow old and what used to be a yin-yang will look like a liver spot.

Still, I couldn't help staring at her backside. After all, it’s not everyday that a woman bends over and lifts up her shirt so you can see her back. Particularly during the harsh winter months.

Her friend--who was also very cute--stopped examining the tattoo long enough to tell me that she enjoyed my set and especially liked the Kirsten Dunst story. I continued staring at the Kirsten Dunst chick’s back. After a few seconds, I snapped out of my reverie. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t hear you. She had her shirt up over her head.”

Both of the girls laughed, which made me feel comfortable enough to invite them to join Steve and myself for a drink.

I have not had a drink in five and a half months, so I ordered a Coca-Cola and Steve and I joined the girls at a corner table. The Kirsten Dunst chick was drinking bourbon. Her friend was drinking beer. I was sitting next to the Kirsten Dunst chick. Steve was sitting next to her friend.

I found out the Kirsten Dunst chick was from Texas. She told me about where she had gone to school and that she was currently an intern with a theatre company in Manhattan.

I told her that I have always liked Texas. I then told her that she looked like Kirsten Dunst and confessed that the police officer in my story didn’t really look like Kirsten Dunst, but that I must have been "subconsciously" thinking of her when I was on stage.

Then I said something about how I had been on the subway earlier that morning and had asked this guy wearing an iPod to move over so I could get past him and he didn’t hear me and I had raised my fist up to punch him before catching myself in the nick of time. I looked over at Steve and he gave a slight frown to discourage me from continuing with that line of conversation. Then I talked about how much I enjoyed guns and how much I missed having one. I then began to talk about the basic precepts of libertarianism and the notion of spontaneous order. I looked over at Steve again and he shook his head slightly with another gentle frown.

I started to feel like Paul Giamatti’s character in Sideways. I wanted to storm out of there and grab a bottle of Jim Beam, take it back to Queens, lock myself away with some old music and drink till I passed out. I felt miserable. I felt that I would never meet another woman again for the rest of my life. I wanted to hide from the world. I felt so repulsive and worthless.

Actually, I remember feeling two distinct emotions at the exact same time. I was simultaneously nervous and bored. I really wanted this girl to be attracted to me and to validate me as a male with some kind of a romantic or sexual sign. Yet I also wanted to put on my headphones so I didn’t have to hear any more small-talk rubbish about where she went to school and what improv classes she was taking.

I had already finished my Coca-Cola and was crunching away at the ice. What utter hell it all was turning into. Compounding matters, I noticed that the girl sitting next to Steve was touching him every now and then when she said something to him. That's one thing that I learned after years of asking my friends how they can tell if a girl is interested. If she touches you on your forearm or shoulder while you’re sitting and talking, it’s a good sign.

That was all well and good for Steve, but I wasn’t getting anything from the Kirsten Dunst chick. So on top of nervousness and boredom, I was now getting jealous.

So I did the only thing I could think of in a situation like that.

“I’m going to go have a cigarette,” I said, jumping up and putting on my coat.

Steve joined me outside and gave me a little manly pep talk. “Man, that Kirsten Dunst chick is really into you! See the way she keeps looking at you?”

“I appreciate what you’re trying to do,” I said, “but this kind of shit makes me absolutely fucking miserable. I don’t know what to say. I don’t how to act. I just want to get the fuck out of here.”

Just then, my friend Blane called. I excused myself to take the call and Steve went back inside. I told Blane that Steve and I were currently sitting with a couple of pretty girls inside a bar and that I was fighting the urge to leave and go home. Blane suggested instead that I go back in and practice talking with the women.

“I’m bored,” I said.

“You’re only bored because they’re not talking about you,” said Blane.

“Well, I’m fucking nervous, too,” I said.

“You’re only nervous because they’re not talking about you,” said Blane.

“Now you're talking some voodoo new age mumbo-jumbo, Blane. Jesus Christ, I’m never going to figure this shit out.”

After talking with Blane for a little while longer, I went back into the bar. The Kirsten Dunst chick was in the bathroom. I found myself sitting at the table with the other cute girl and Steve, feeling increasingly like the proverbial third wheel. As I stared at the melting ice in my glass I overheard the cute girl sitting next to Steve say the phrase “. . .dating a friend of mine. . .”

I wasn’t sure whether or not she meant that the Kirsten Dunst chick was dating somebody, but I decided that I didn't want to stay to find out. The way I saw it, I now had sufficient reason to leave. I gathered my coat, my bag and my headphones.

The Kirsten Dunst chick came out of the bathroom and sat down as I stood up.

“I’m taking off,” I sighed.

“I hope I didn’t break your headphones,” said the Kirsten Dunst chick.

“What?” I asked in a sudden panic.

“I accidentally stepped on them on the way to the bathroom. I guess they had fallen out of your bag or something,” she said.

With trembling hands, I examined my headphones. Sure enough, one of the ear pieces was out of whack. I put them on and winced when I noticed my left ear wasn’t being covered. Fucking clumsy bitch, I fumed to myself.

“I’m sorry,” she cooed in that sickeningly saccharine little girl way.

But what was I to do? I was angry, all right, but I still wanted to look cool and I know that it’s anything but cool to get pissed off at a Kirsten Dunst chick because of a pair of broken headphones. I might as well start talking about baseball cards or Dungeons and Dragons. Instead, I smiled painfully, “No, they’re not too bad.”

“They look like they’re messed up,” she said.

“Yeah, they do,” said her friend.

“It looks like the left one’s messed up,” said Steve.

I smiled at the entire table, “Oh, they’re all right. They're fine. They should still work. Yeah, they're okay." Then, in a mad rush to return to solitude so I could fume privately about my wounded headphones, I shook their hands goodbye.

“When are you playing again?” asked the friend.

“Somewhere on Sunday,” I sighed.

“Where?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I sighed again, turning to Steve, “You hanging?”

“Yeah, I’m hanging,” said Steve.

Like an autistic child, I rode the subway home cupping my left hand over the faulty ear piece, pushing it in, so I could maintain the full stereo effect of Beethoven’s Emperor Concerto. With my right hand, I played air-piano. Boy, did I feel like a zhlub. What could I have said to any girl in a situation like that?

These headphones are more important than your life!

It felt good for the moment to hate again. I had recently been experiencing periods of happiness and lightheartedness over the prior weeks, but this particular night was a return to form for me. For the rest of the night, I allocated myself a certain quota of self-pity and misogyny before awakening the next morning to face another day. We all of us hurt from time to time. We all of us feel the pangs of a primordial loneliness. I am nothing special. I am only one of God’s children striving to do right in this misguided world. . .

Calling Officer Reeves. . .come in, Officer Reeves.

Merry Christmas, Motherfuckers

2008-12-20T15:54:00.000-08:00

First off, let me say “Merry Christmas” to everyone.

I like saying “Merry Christmas” these days because I know full-well that the politically-correct term is officially “Happy Holidays”

Political Correctness is the Middle-Aged Kindergarten Teacher in the Holiday-Themed Sweater of the postmodern generation.

How willingly adults of my generation listen to the Middle-Aged Kindergarten Teacher in the Holiday-Themed Sweater.

We want to be raised by ourselves. Why? Because we no longer believe in God. Because we no longer believe in our parents. Because we no longer believe in individuality.

So we gladly welcome the Middle-Aged Kindergarten Teacher in the Holiday-Themed Sweater so she can remind us to say “Happy Holidays” and “don’t smoke within twenty feet of a business” and “N-word” and “please be sure to do your part to prevent climate change”.

The humanists have now become the goody-two-shoes Christians of our day. Persnickety little cunts.

“Merry Christmas, motherfuckers”.

I have not been writing as much lately as I have been living much more. I am glad to say that I am leaving Woodhaven, Queens in ten days and moving to Jersey City. It will be nice to be closer to Manhattan and to live among white people. I like white people. Especially white women.

I am a bit sad this Christmas season as I fear I will be alone. But if I just wait it out, it will all be over shortly.

But, again, I am exceedingly grateful to be moving into a new place. My life is improving slowly and it’s important for me not to forget this.

Two Girls I Would Have Loved To Have Loved

2008-12-12T18:48:00.000-08:00

One of the most magical things about Facebook (among oh so many) is that people you haven't seen for years post photos of yourself from your younger days. It's funny, I have so few photos of myself that aren't performance or marketing-related. Anyway, here are some that I was surprised to see after all this time:

I was seventeen or eighteen when this one was taken. This is me with my friends Phil and Robin. I shouldn't call Robin a friend. I had a major fucking crush on her. I loved that chick sooooo much and I always thought we would have made a perfect match. She was such a bitch to her mother every time I'd come over, that it would turn me on. "Shut the fuck up, mom!" she'd say, as if she was embarrassed at the thought of even having a mother. Much like me, I suppose. Unfortunately, nothing ever happened between me and her. She was just as afraid of real intimacy as I was and, what's worse, she was always trying to be funny with me. Big mistake. I'll tell the jokes. You laugh and go to bed with me. She used to always do an impression of a gay man, however, which I did find somewhat funny. Why not just speak in a girl's voice?

I guess we were young back then and prone to do stupid things. But Robin dated a deadhead named Nathan for awhile, which was silly because, like me, she was so anti-hippie. (Another major turn-on) Even though I was anti-hippie also, I could be quite sentimental. Not so with Robin. I could always count on her for some wry cynicism. And although I was equally cynical, I still cried during It's A Wonderful Life. Something that Robin could never understand.

I got a phone call from her out of the blue last year and we talked for a good while. She's lived in Maryland for some time, works in a library. Never married. Too bad. She had her chance with me. I would have gotten a job on an oil rig back in the day to support a sweet little woman like her.

But she wasn't sweet. She was nasty, cynical, and depressed. That's why I was so sweet on her.

Remember the scene in It's A Wonderful Life when Clarence is showing Jimmy Stewart what would have happened if he'd never been born and Jimmy Stewart demands to know whatever happened to Mary (Donna Reed) and Clarence says, "You're not going to like it, George. She's an old maid" and then Jimmy Stewart goes to the library to meet Mary as she gets off work?

Well, I never understood why Clarence said that Jimmy Stewart wasn't going to like the fact that his wife would have been an old maid if he'd never been born. That would have made me happy. If I would have never been born and I found out that my wife married somebody else in that alternate universe, I'd kill her as soon as Clarence brought me back to real life. You fucking bitch! Why'd you marry that dickhead when I wasn't born?

Now this is a tasty sandwich.

The girl in the middle is Sharon. I had an even bigger crush on her. I was so sweet on her, it bordered on insanity. Notice that Robin and Sharon have a few things in common: they're both sexy, short, and brunette. But there's where the similarities end.

As Robin was to cynicism and nastiness, Sharon was to lightness and optimism. I always loved it when the two of them were together; it was like a Ying-Yang with four breasts.

Sharon was the kind of girl who I could open up to about It's A Wonderful Life. We used to even sing "Buffalo Gals won't you come out tonight. . .won't you come out tonight. . ." Oh, how I used to fantasize that I would become the Jimmy Stewart to her Donna Reed!

For Sharon, I would have worked two jobs on an oil rig and taken night classes to become a certified plumber to win even just one of her hands in marriage!

After awhile, though, I got tired of pretending to be somebody I wasn't. With Robin, I didn't have to try as hard. Robin and I used to tell racist jokes to each other. Robin's mouth was just as filthy as mine: "nigger", "spic", "kike", "faggot", "cunt"--there was nothing the two of us wouldn't say. I think Robin was a lot like me in that she actually got off on being inappropriate. We were politically incorrect years before politically incorrect became cool. I give Robin extra credit for being that as a female.

In the context of mine and Robin's carefree banter, sometimes Sharon could be a bit of a wet blanket. "Come on, guys," she'd say, "that's not cool."

If Robin was around, I'd get defensive. "Jesus, Sharon, whatever happened to freedom of speech? Just try it. Say 'nigger'. It's just a word. What are you afraid of? Everybody's doing it!"

But if it was just me and Sharon--well, that was a different story entirely. I'd pop on that mask of the gentle and caring young man with flowers in his heart and I was ready to go to town: "Man, Sharon, when is all this fighting going to end?"

"What fighting?"

"The, uh, you know, the fighting in the world. It's crazy. All the fighting. It needs to end. And now."

But too much gentleness and pretending was putting me on the fast track to becoming a gay best friend to Sharon. After the fall of Soviet Russia, Sharon and I drove up to Fulton, Missouri to see Gorbachev give a speech at the university. I had planned on fucking her that day, but it's hard to shift from glasnost to condoms in one afternoon.

Over time, Sharon effectively annoyed me so much with her peace-loving naivety that I began to lose interest. One time she showed up to a party with this scraggly, unwashed, sixty-year old bum and, with her pretty smile of innocence, introduced him to everyone as "Bob Seger".

"His name is Bob Seger?" I whispered to her.

"That's what he said his name was," she said defensively, "Why should I doubt him?"

"Because he's a bum and Bob Seger wrote 'Hollywood Nights'."

"Oh yeah," she rolled her eyes, "Like there's only one Bob Seger in the whole world."

"Where did you find him, Sharon?"

The man who called himself Bob Seger began a drunken air-guitar solo in the background and screamed at the top of his raspy lungs, "I'm motherfuckin' Bob Seger!"

Oblivious to the man's antics, Sharon attempted to explain, "He was waiting outside of the Quick-Trip. He asked me what I was doing and I said I was going to meet some friends. . ."

"And. . .?"

"And he wanted some help getting inside his house because he's afraid the ghosts that live there locked the doors again."

"Jesus, Sharon," I sighed. Then, because I still loved her, I stood up to help Sharon walk "Bob Seger" to his house.

But "Bob Seger" didn't approve. "Wass he doing? Wass that tall boy doing?"

Sharon put her lily-white hand on the man's flannel-covered shoulder, "It's okay, Bob. He's just going to help me get you to your house so we can protect you from the ghosts."

"No! NO! NO!" shouted the man, "JUST YOU! JUST YOU! JUST YOU!!!!!"

Sharon looked in vain for a hint of sympathy on my face as she shrugged her shoulders, "I guess I should go alone. He only feels safe around me."

God, I thought, why am I so in love with this girl? "Okay, Sharon, that's enough," I said, walking past her to the bum, "Listen, Bob, I'm a big fan of your music and everything. But here's the deal. Either the two of us go with you or you go alone. The girl is not going with you by herself. Understand?"

He took the hint and he went off down the road.

"Jesus," said Sharon, "why are you so rude?"

"I'm not rude. I just care about you."

Sharon eventually did get married to my friend Jeff. I didn't mind. I had left Missouri years before their wedding and was pleased to discover that there were plenty of other women to obsess about all over this great nation. Sharon and Jeff live in Kansas City. I drove out there to see them a few years ago, but Jeff threw me out of the house after we got into a political argument which ended with him accusing me of cheating on a Scrabble game earlier in the day. I didn't.

So to sum up: I wanted to marry Sharon. And I also wanted to marry Robin. Robin would have been a better match, but I would have only been able to cry during It's A Wonderful Life with Sharon. At any rate, I am a richer man for having married neither.

One of these days, I'll tell you guys about Sabrina and Nancy. If somebody happens to have any pictures of me with them. I actually proposed to both of those girls and--would you believe it?-- they both said yes (not at the same time, of course).

Oh, but I got cold feet. What was it about the word "yes" that scared me? Even when I asked for it?

Seroquel

2008-12-01T18:40:00.000-08:00

I'm flushing this medication. . .this seroquel stuff.

The doctor thinks I'm bipolar so he put me on wellbutrin for depression (which I'm okay with, cause it's got some get-up-and-go speed to it).

But this seroquel shit? I don't think so. I don't even believe in bipolar disorder. This seroquel. . .man, I was writing some scary shit today.

On seroquel you can sleep for twelve hours and still be groggy and weaving for the first four hours the following morning.

And, boy, does it make you depressed. . .Jesus Christ!

I'm getting rid of it right now.

The Lost Doctor Video

2008-11-23T23:03:00.000-08:00

I just searched my name on YouTube and found this thing I did a while ago. It's a filmed version of one of my early audio podcast ideas. It was shot back in San Francisco and directed by Andrew Moore. I never saw the finished product until now. For a long time, I've been leery about watching myself on film, but I like how this turned out. Also, I'm not sure why Andrew decided to add R&B music underneath, but for some reason I think it adds to the humour.

GO SEE BOLT!

2008-11-19T19:03:00.000-08:00

Oh my god, if there is one movie you have to see this year, it's BOLT!

I don't even know how to describe the experience.
It was a fucking roller coaster.
It went up, it went down--
I didn't know which way was up when the lights went down.

I can't even review it properly, it was such a metaphysical experience.

I thought of Carlos Castenada when he said, "Eat that peyote. Do it. Eat it. What are you, a pussy? Eat the fucking peyote!"

I was reminded of Jack Kerouac when he said, "What do you mean we're out of gas? What? Ethanol? Fuck ethanol, I wanna get on the road, motherfucker! I'm a rock-n-roll artist, I don't need any of this environmental shit! Fill 'er up, man--and hold the guilt!"

When I saw a BOLT! I thought of Stanley Kubrick when he said, "Shelly Duvall, if you don't scream like you mean it the next time Jack plunges that axe through that door, I'm gonna plunge that fucking axe in your heart, cunt! NOW SCREAM!!!!"

Because I'm screaming now with excitment for BOLT!

BOLT!

BOLT! Spelled just like it sounds. . .it's playing everywhere. On the sides of buses, on subway posters, in the underwear of pre-teen girls, even in the space between these (BOLT!) words!

Go see BOLT! Trust me, you won't regret it!

BOLT!

BOLT!

Is it sinking through your head now? Go see it!!! Why are you still reading this? Go see BOLT! and report back to me in the morning. Tell me what you thought of BOLT! And if you don't think it's the best fucking thing since bread, sliced OR unleavened OR leavened OR ANY KIND OF FUCKING BREAD AT ALL, then I've got a bridge to sell you or you should be on medicine and get your head examined and get a life because you have no taste for the finer things in life!!!!!! GO SEE BOLT!!!!! YOU FUCKING HAYSEEDS!!!!!!

For more exciting reviews of BOLT! copy the following link into your browser

http://cdn3.libsyn.com/cyrano/bolt.mp3?nvb=20081120030849&nva=20081121030849&t=00cd884f1275575a2354d

SHY: (a train crash of thought)

2008-11-18T19:41:00.000-08:00

From: Will Franken
Subject: Re: Hi Will
Date: Nov. 18, 2008 12:56:38 PM EST
To: _______.

Dear ______.

Get over yourself. Talk about narcissism. This has nothing to do with you.

I'm serious. I never was even ever thinking about you when I wrote this--ever! Not ever once! Never! So don't say or think that it was you that I was writing about, cause it wasn't. It was a joke. You hear me? A J-O-K-E!!!!

You don't know me, okay? Nobody knows me! All right? Understand?

You don't know me! I don't need anybody! I am my own universe! I can bend the rules of time and space!

I don't like you at all!! AT ALL!!!

GRRRRRR!!!!!

Will

On Nov 17, 2008, at 11:17 PM, ________wrote:

Hello Will,

This is ______.

This e-mail might upset you, but I have to be honest.

I looked up your blog, like you told me to, and read your latest entry and I have to say I find it creepy.

I don't know if I'm supposed to be the girl that you're having this e-mail interchange with or not, but I hope that isn't the case. I find it very disturbing.

If you think that this is funny or that this is going to help you attract women, you need some serious help.

Men should ALWAYS make the first move. You can't expect a woman to read your blog and see how you're pretending to be her in some hypothetical fantasy where she makes the first move and expect anything to happen in real life.

Anyway, I have a boyfriend. One who WASN'T afraid to make the first move.

Please stay away from me,

______.

On Nov 16, 2008, at 2:38 PM, Will Franken wrote:

Hi, ____!

Yes, IT IS YOU!!!

I am so glad you googled my name and found my blog!

I like you and was afraid to tell you in person and that's why I wrote about you ambiguously in my blog, hoping by some chance that you would find out my name and look up my blog online and guess that it was you I was writing about and then send me an e-mail saying that you hoped it was you that I was writing about and then tell me that you actually like me!!!!

That's EXACTLY what I wanted to happen!!!

Thanks for making things easy on me!!!

We should go on a date now that we know we like each other!!!

I like you,

Will

On Nov 15, 2008, at 10:31 AM, _________ wrote:

Hi Will,

This is _____.

I hope you don't think it's strange that I'm e-mailing you out of the blue like this. I got your last name from your friend and looked you up on google--that's how I found your blog.

I just saw the latest one of your e-mail exchange with an unnamed girl. It was really funny, but also really sweet.

In fact, I was kind of hoping that I was the girl you were pretending to be that liked you and that you liked.

You see, Will, I like you very much. I know it's crazy for the girl to make the first move and you probably totally don't respect me for being the first to say it. But I do! I like you!

I get very nervous around you. That's why i was happy to read your blog and think that maybe I was the one you were talking about.

I'll feel like such a dork if I'm not!

I like you (there! I said it!)

Like,

______

On Nov 14, 2008, at 10:26 PM, Will Franken wrote:

Wow, hi _____,

No, i don't think you're a dork at all! I am glad you made the first move! I was so nervous. I did not think you would ever like me!

I like the fact that you made the first move by sending me an e-mail. Because I get very nervous around you also. My heart speeds up and my throat gets dry, too.

I don't believe in rules either! I am a libertarian! That's another reason why I think it's cool that, even though you are the girl, you sent me an e-mail first!

We should go on a date this weekend!

Thanks for e-mailing me and telling me that you like me and making things easier on me!

I like you, too!

Will!

On Nov 14, 2008, at 9:59 PM, ________wrote:

Hi Will,

This e-mail may come as a surprise to you. I don't know if you know who I am. My name is _____. I am the pretty girl with dark hair. We have talked a few times, but you probably don't remember me.

Anyway, I feel I have to tell you something. I am very attracted to you. I get very nervous around you. I don't know if you feel the same way or not, but I just felt that I should be honest about how I feel when I see you. My heart starts to speed up and my throat gets dry.

I know you probably think I'm a total dork for e-mailing you like this. You probably think it's stupid for a girl to make the first move. But I couldn't help it. I just had to say something.

I like you - there, I said it.

Anyway, hope you don't think I'm a dork for not obeying the rule that says a girl should never make the first move.

Sincerely

______.

Update On The New York Welfare Story

2008-11-17T19:27:00.000-08:00

To all of those who ordered both the Assault in Union Square and the New York Welfare Story, the latter is still in progress and I have had to move the deadline for its completion forward a little bit. I now hope to have the NY Welfare Story completed by the end of this coming weekend.

It is very emotional. As I am writing it, I am remembering all sorts of things that are kind of painful. So it is moving slower than I had hoped for. But I want you all to have a good, honest, and entertaining product.

But please be patient.

Also, if you have not ordered your Assault in Union Square story yet, there are still PDF copies available.

I also have a crush on another girl. I tell you, I think I'm going to faint every time she comes near. I feel like a total retard. But I realized something--the feeling I get when I'm around a girl that I have a crush on is the exact same feeling I have when I'm flying through turbulence and I think the plane is going to crash. I sweat. My heart speeds up. And I'm not sure what the right way to sit is.

Crash? Crush? Get it?

Also, I have been re-reading John Stuart Mill. You know, I always blamed him somewhat for the advent of socialism, but I tell you, his grasp on the importance of individuality is unrivaled.

That's all.

Jimmy Won't Let Me Say "Can't"

2008-11-14T21:05:00.000-08:00

I am a child of two cities.

San Francisco is my mother and New York is my father.

One of my closest friends here in New York is a 65-year old Irish-American named Jimmy. I'd call him a father figure, but I didn't really get along with my father, so I think of him more as a grandfather figure--even though Jimmy could have had me when he was thirty, a reasonable age to have kids. Besides, both my grandfathers died when I was very young, so it's good to have a kind soul like Jimmy to fill that void.

Tonight we met for coffee at a diner in Manhattan. "How ya doing, kid?" he asked me as I sat down.

"I gotta get laid, Jimmy. It's been over a fucking year."

He patted my face with his palm like they always do in the mob movies. "Listen to him: 'I gotta do this. I gotta do that'. Take it the fuck easy, kid."

I shrugged and kvetched--like they always do in the Jewish movies. "I'm trying, Jimmy. But, man, I don't know. I can't get laid, you know?"

He wagged his finger at me while taking a drink of coffee, which in Jimmyspeak means: Even though I'm drinking coffee, don't say anything, because when I swallow, I'm going to say something really important.

Which he did, "You gotta talk to 'em, that's what the fuck you gotta do. Fuck this 'I gotta get laid' shit. What? You think you're going to fuck some broad without talking to her first? You're gonna put your dick in some deaf and dumb pussy? There's an order to things here, kid."

I laughed, "I know, Jimmy. But I can't, man. I used to be able to, but I can't anymore."

"You're a fucking comedian, aren't you? Make 'em laugh, for Christ's sake. What? You think you're going to be able to get it up without making some bitch laugh first? I know you too well, kid. Use that sense of yoo-mer God gave ya. Anybody can have a dick."

"Women can't."

Now it was Jimmy's turn to laugh, "Yeah, you ain't been down to the Village lately!" He smiled widely and then brought his voice down a few decibels, "Come on, kid, you know what I'm saying here. If you're gonna get laid without talking to a broad first, you might as well be raping. And there's no honor in that. That's not what we do, you understand?"

"Jesus, Jimmy. Are you crazy? I'd never rape a chick!"

He smiled and took another drink of coffee, "I'm just fucking with you, kid."

I breathed a sigh of relief, "I'm too shy to rape a chick!"

"Yeah, well that kind of shy is all right," he said, "but if you wanna get laid, you gotta talk to 'em. Okay?"

"I can't, man," I said, "It's one thing when they're in the audience and I'm on the stage. But real life? One on one? I can't. . .I can't. . ."

Jimmy brought his palm down on the Formica table, making the silverware jump. "Enough of this 'can't' shit! That's all I ever hear from you. 'I can't do this! I can't do that!'"

"Sorry, Jimmy. I can't help it."

"There he goes again!" he exclaimed with his trademark half-smile of compassion. Jimmy never gets mad at me. He only gets frustrated. "Why don't you just say 'I won't'?"

"Won't?" I asked, befuddled.

"Yeah. That's closer to the truth, isn't it?"

"You mean, 'I won't get laid?'"

"Yeah. I'd respect that a lot more than 'I can't'."

I tried it out a few times in a deep booming voice, wagging my finger sternly and pronouncing the new contraction as a term of selfish refusal. "I won't talk to women! I won't have sex! I won't get laid!"

Jimmy looked to his left and then to his right, muttering softly, "Okay, kid, bring it down a notch. I've been coming to this diner for twenty years and I don't want to get kicked out now."

I was amazed at the difference. "Wow. This 'won't' shit is pretty scary."

"And why do you think that is?" he asked me.

"Cause it makes everything a choice?"

"Exactly."

"And 'can't' makes me a victim?"

"Give him some sunglasses, now he's seeing the fucking light."

My whole world seemed to open up just then into a beautiful garden of infinite possibility. "I feel so stupid. Can you believe I'm a fucking libertarian even?"

Jimmy chuckled knowingly, being a libertarian himself. "Easy in theory, hard in practice, right?"

"No shit."

"But choice is always good, no?"

"It sure is, Jimmy. It sure is."

"So the next time you want to bang some broad. . ." he took another sip of coffee, wagging his finger again until he finally swallowed, ". . .just think of Milton Friedman!"

We cackled so loudly at our inside political joke that the middle-aged group of yentas sitting in the next booth gathered their coats and purses and left in a huff.

On the way home later, I found myself on the subway sitting next to a cute shiksa in a purple beret and leather jackboots. When the train pulled up to Marcy Avenue in Brooklyn and the doors opened, the crowd thinned. I could see from the corner of my eye that the girl had plenty of room to slide over. But she didn't.

Wow, I thought, I don't repulse her. She doesn't feel the need to move away from me. I should say something.

And then, with the clockwork regularity of a bad psychological habit, the fanfare of self-defeat began.

I can't look at her. I can't talk to her. I can't approach her.

But then I remembered Jimmy's lesson from earlier and switched the contractions.

I won't look at her. I won't talk to her. I won't approach her.

Needless to say, nothing happened. The shiksa got off at Myrtle Avenue and disappeared with the closing of the doors into the bittersweet anonymity of a starless November night.

I'll have to confirm with Jimmy, but I suspect there's an essential third stage to this linguistic reshuffling: Changing the negative into a positive.

I will look at her. I will talk to her. I will approach her.

JOEY REYNOLDS SHOW UPDATE

2008-11-11T13:23:00.000-08:00

Hey--I just got an e-mail from the folks at the Joey Reynolds Show (WOR in New York).

Initially, I was supposed to be down at the studio at 1 a.m. (EST) tonight.

But I just received a note from the show's producer that I am requested to be down there at 11:55 p.m. (EST) tonight.

Just in case anyone is listening, I may be on earlier.

I hope I do well. I have to be honest, I am nervous. I love old-school New York radio. I am honored. I hope I do well.

My Upcoming Radio Appearances

2008-11-05T11:39:00.000-08:00

My favorite medium besides live performance (in other words, I hate television)

Friday Nov. 7th 10 a.m.
Guest on Casey Ley's "Morning Show" (promoting Nov. 8th shows at the Purple Onion)
San Francisco, Los Angeles - 87.9 FM
Berlin - 104.8

Saturday, Nov. 8th, 12-2pm
Guest on Melinda Adam's Show (promoting that evening's shows at the Purple Onion)
San Francisco, Los Angeles - 87.9 FM
Berlin - 104.8

Sunday, Nov. 9th, 10pm
Guest on The John Miller Show
San Francisco, Los Angeles - 87.9 FM
Berlin 104.8

AND. . .WHEN I GET BACK TO NEW YORK. . .THE BIG ONE!!!!

Wednesday, Nov. 12th, 1am
Guest on The Joey Reynolds Show!
WOR IN NEW YORK!!! RADIO 710
Call in line: 800-321-0710

I LOOOOOOVE RADIO!!!!!

LOOKING FORWARD TO PERFORMING IN SAN FRANCISCO ALSO!!!!!

"ARREST IN UNION SQUARE PARK" STORY NOW AVAILABLE!

2008-11-02T14:26:00.000-08:00

I'd like to say thanks to all of you who purchased the Will Franken Arrest In Union Square Park story in advance.

It was finally completed this afternoon--and weighed in at 50 pages (PDF format)

I had a lot of fun writing this story. There were many times I found myself laughing pretty hard.

Right now, I'm crying, because I'm listening to my iTunes on here and Red Sovine's country opus "Teddy Bear" just came up.

If you haven't purchased this story yet, it's really funny and really personal. You'll find things out about me that I'll never reveal on this blog.

It's $5 and you can purchase it by clicking the donate button below!

The story will then be e-mailed to you in PDF format (or by other means, if you so specify)

For those of you who purchased the double-story $7 deal, the Thirty Days On New York Welfare Story will be available following my return from San Francisco on November 12th.

Also, between now and then, I'll be taking a break from blogging to get away from the computer a bit so I can focus on writing live material again. (I need to get back in shape and rediscover my roots, as they say--but not to worry, I will be back, stronger than ever)

Thanks again!

Wm. Franken

The Funniest Thing I Have Ever Seen In A Newspaper, Including "The Onion"

2008-11-02T12:40:00.000-08:00

As somebody who once taught (or attempted to) in the toilet that is the New York City public school system and was strong-armed into joining the standard-lowering, money-grifting, anti-education union known as the United Federation of Teachers, this was especially priceless.

From the "Letters" section of Friday's NY Post (paying particular attention to the Editor's Note):

UFT's JUST DESERTS

I have been a teacher in the New York City school system for over twenty years. For all of that time, I have also been a very proud member of the UFT.

Over the last several years, there have often appeared very negative comments presented in your editorials about the quality of New York City teachers.

You have frequently alluded to the fact that many or most teachers cannot spell correctly.

I would personally like to correct your front-page headline "Isiah Getting Just Deserts" (Oct. 27).

Deserts are arid regions. I think you meant to say the word "dessert."

I would like to think this was just a typo. However, perhaps whoever wrote this headline was not fortunate enough to attend school in New York City.

Rita Cooperman
New York Teacher
The Bronx

EDITOR'S NOTE: The American Heritage Dictionary, 4th Edition, defines "desert," as: n., something that is deserved or merited, especially a punishment. Often used in the plural.

OUCH! THAT'S GOTTA HURT!

Heal Thyself

2008-10-29T18:38:00.000-07:00

Oh, little girl,
you've opened a wound so big
just by being adorable.

How dare you. How dare you.
How dare you exist.

What a train wreck you've made of my low expectations of young women.
What punishment shall I now devise as a predicate to the subject of your
egregious. . .
existential. . .
FELONY!

What's that, little girl?
No. Don't flatter yourself.
This is not bad-boy psychotic(!) notebook(!) dementia(!)()!()

This is justice served cold on a linear plate.

For in hatred, everything must have a predicate
because Love is the Mother of all Subjects.

So how to end the sentence your beauty has started?

I could hurt you.
I could smother you.
I could own you.

God, I hope I don't want to become you.

Like our aimless manes of hair,
there are enough tangled complexities in my life
to know that while identities are fluid,
they fail as conditioners.

Nothing can straighten me out.
This reflection cannot be replaced.
This reflection will have to suffice.

And what do you seek from this image, anyway, little girl?

Its M.ind?
Its A.ccomplishments?
Its N.arrative?

or other subtractions from the wholeness of Love?

When you plunged your dagger,
what did you think you would find?
A heart?

Run along, little girl.
I don't need you to speak the truth for me.
This is not the way it works.
No one Loves for posterity.

You're smooth. . .
But not obsidian.

This reflection cannot be replaced.
This reflection will have to suffice.

. . .desreveRReversed. . .

See now, little girl?

The adventures are just routines
and, through clinical predictability,
the magic has been neutralized.

"Come on, you fucking cocksucker!"
I shout down the dim tracks,
waiting for the lights of the late train to finally appear.
Ah. . .there it is again.
That good ol' earthly impatience.
Other people's children are screaming WANT into my ears.
Music I despise is stealing space between my thoughts.
My emptiness overflows into this rat-infested reality
and I know I'll get better soon
once the Light from your Eyes
is extinguished from the landscape
of this unavoidable present.

Little girl, my wound is healing.
And I don't need you anymore.

A WIN-WIN PROPOSITION!

2008-10-26T21:02:00.000-07:00

Hey gang! Aren't I erratic? Don't you get dizzy sometimes reading my blogs?

If it's not politically rabid, it's philosophically heavy. If it's not downright mean, it's filled with self-pity. If it's not dreadfully serious, it's light-hearted and fluffy!

Jeez, don't you wish I could just tell a straight story sometimes?

Well, that's exactly what I want to do. Two stories, in fact. You may remember in the blog entry on my anger management counselor where I mentioned having been arrested for assault in July and having spent 30 days on New York state welfare.

Well, I'm writing out those two stories this week before I prepare for my trip to San Francisco. I just started on the assault one and, even though it's a true story, it's tremendously funny! (And that means a lot coming from me, since I never think anything I do is funny!) I'm putting in a lot of background from my teenage years at the beginning of this one and you'll get to meet some of my friends from those days along the way. It's a hilarious story of drunkenness and Midwestern violent tendencies brought to the Big Apple! I'm sure the New York state welfare story will be just as side-splitting.

Anyway, since I mentioned these two stories, there's been a lot of interest from you guys in hearing them.

But these stories are really personal and, although I'd like to tell them, I feel weird about giving them away for free. New York's an expensive place for an artist/author/comedian--whatever it is that I am. So here's my win-win proposition. For a small donation you can get one or both of these stories either e-mailed to you personally or you can be included on a special private list where only paid members can read these stories.

For a donation of $5, you can get your choice of either "The Assault In Union Square Park" or "30 Days On New York State Welfare".

And for $7, you can get BOTH!

All you have to do is click the paypal donate button at the bottom of this entry, make your donation and, if you're going the $5 route, send me an e-mail at winstonchurchill.will@gmail.com and let me know whether you want to read "The Assault In Union Square Park" or "30 Days On New York State Welfare"

These are really funny stories and I know you'll enjoy reading them as much I enjoyed living them! The projected completion date for these stories is next Saturday--so be the first one on your block to receive your copies!

Thank you and God Bless! (and rest assured, there will be NO politics or philosophy!)

Will

The Reason I Think The Way I Do About Things, Part Three

2008-10-25T20:00:00.000-07:00

[BEGIN PART THREE]

Before we get started let me make one thing perfectly clear.

I am blessed! Blessed beyond my wildest fantasies! Blessed to know the untrammeled joys of recoiling from the status quo as if from a poised cobra! Blessed that I have been spared the ignominy of having to view the world through the dusty prism of mere convention!

Indeed, I have always taken umbrage at the cliche, “ignorance is bliss” for it fails in any way to adequately explain the sense of near-ecstasy in which I madly revel when apprehending my own awareness! Who can say besides the ignorant if the ignorant truly are blissful? Certainly I shall never know, for the only arena in which I have been guilty of ignorance is ignorance itself! Nay, I can only speak to the immense satisfaction I receive at knowing that I am not to be counted among their ranks.

You may say that this is snobbery, or worse, elitism--the very barb I so often fling at others who presume to impose their outlook on the world and their standards of behavior upon unsuspecting parties.

If so, the charge is valid. For, indeed, I am an elitist.

Yet would any true champion of progressive thought deny that elitism based on intellect and reason is vastly superior to elitism based on media presence and money? In fact, were it possible in this country, by some extraordinary overhaul of our declining culture, to replace the current stratification of monetary and fame-based elitism with logic and reason-based elitism, the future of this once-great nation would most likely (if history is to be believed) move again in the direction of objective good--assuring educational, moral, and spiritual prosperity for all freethinking sons and daughters of liberty.

Please note that I say liberty and not equality when referring to America’s future metaphorical progeny. This is no fickle choice of words, no stylistic predisposition, no simple linguistic window dressing. The inclusion of one term and the exclusion of the other is rooted in the logic of linear history and is central to the argument which follows.

It has become the apathetic fashion throughout the aimless decades following the 1960s to render the term equality not merely interchangeable with the term liberty, but in many instances, for the former to replace the latter entirely.

Yet the story of American progress and, by extension, the story of Western progress, is precisely one of liberty and not equality. Only the pridefully obtuse could give anything less than a cursory glance at the annals of Western Civilization and assert that equality has been the predominant theme. This is one of the few areas in which the intellectual find themselves in agreement with the ignorant. Yes, there has been slavery. Yes, there has been genocide. Yes, there has been segregation.

Where the ignorant diverge from the intellectual, however, is in assuming that they are the only ones who care--or, indeed, are even aware--of any historical inequities. That is, unlike the intellectual, who acknowledges a fundamental agreement, the ignorant erroneously insist on the presence of a fundamental disagreement.

Here let us pause for a moment to ask what is meant, in the context of this essay, by the term "ignorant". Bumpkin rubes brimming with glee at never having obtained “book-learnin’”? Whitebread purveyors of free-market middle-classness? Alzheimer's patients? Mongoloids?

No. The ignorance spoken of here is that which is collectively embedded within the thought processes of that portion of society otherwise empirically presenting itself as intellectual--i.e., the pseudo-intellectual.

And all those who unquestioningly follow them.

Despite their degrees, financial acumen, media presence, political and/or academic clout within a community, pseudo-intellectuals stand apart from legitimate intellectuals insofar as they hold either one or both of the following propositions to be the end goal of learning:

a) That nothing is knowable beyond the nihilistic tenets of moral equivalence and cultural relativism, both of which conspire to establish the nexus of an ideological disavowal of objective truth.

and/or

b) That the essence of freedom lies in undermining a free society whose very structure makes their dissent possible.

Though the two propositions are equally ignorant, they are not always congruous. For example, one can be an equal opportunity nihilist, adhering to the pillars of equivalence and relativism, without necessarily devoting time exclusively to the dismantling of a free society.

Therefore, it is the second proposition that merits focus in this current discussion.

In order to wage war (or revolution) against a free society from within a free society (a society, it should be noted, that has grown freer with each passing decade) it often becomes necessary to concoct “shadow causes” in order to elevate the dissenting contagion of pseudo-intellectualism into a limelight of its own making. Therefore, especially in post-1960 rhetoric, arguments for the imposition of a present equality in the context of past inequalities consist of the ignorant pervasively lobbing the fictions that they are the sole dispensers of freedom and justice--combating what is, in their skewed world view, a demonic and ever-expanding citizenry that is either in abject denial of historical inequities or, worse, heralding a hypothetical re-emergence of those inequities.

Vain and delusional, the ignorant are prone to hyperbole and distorted metaphors. Backpack searches in subway stations evoke images of Japanese interment camps, Israel becomes apartheid-era South Africa, Hurricanes in Louisiana pitch in to help reinvigorated white supremacy groups.

Their ears seem to literally burn with slogans that only the paranoid can hear. The South shall rise again! Deutschland Uber Alles! Let’s go git us another Matthew Shepard!

They render evil good in the name of tolerance: Suicide bombers are freedom fighters! They suspend logic in favor of conspiracy: 9-11 was an inside job! And they foam at the mouth at phantasms: America is a racist police state!

They do all this with absolute impunity for one reason only:

They are not alone.

Taken individually, with their beliefs intact, psychotropic drugs might be administered to calm their fevered brains, responsible family members might intervene to inject rationality into their discourse, and ongoing group therapy sessions might be scheduled to make sure they remain on the "straight and narrow"--for fear of a relapse back into self-righteousness.

Luckily for them, they are numerous. They dwell within the reassuring sanctuary of numbers, where too often their shared insanity goes unchecked. It is with a depressing sense of irony, for example, that one observes the frequency by which the ignorant get laid. Whereas isolated from the support of the larger community, their sexual menu would consist of masturbation in a padded cell.

Perhaps the loudest misnomer to emerge intact from their confusing din of contradictory slogans and dogmatic agendas is their unified admonition to “speak truth to power”. In fact, they engage in quite the opposite. Given their blatant disregard for the advancements of post-1960s American society and the free milieu in which they currently operate, a more apt slogan would read: “Shout power to truth!”

On the campus or in front of cameras, the postmodern pseudo-intellectual vomits incessant platitudes about the community, yet remains curiously silent on the role of the individual. Not surprisingly, therefore, their ideology speaks volumes on the topic of equality, but offers nary a word on liberty. For liberty is to the individual as equality is to the community. Hence, the illogical perversion of modern-day activism: The imposition of equality upon communities of people that have yet to be individually liberated.

For it is precisely because of individual liberation that communal equality is made possible. Liberation is the cause, with equality being the desired effect. More pointedly (hearkening back to the first two essays in this series) one may say that liberation is an action, whereas equality is a re-action. Being effects, re-actions are the province of the natural world, qualitatively good or bad depending on the environment in which they take place. That is to say, equality under Soviet-era Russia or the current Islamic sharia laws of Iran are, qualitatively, quite different than the equality between blacks and whites in America following the repeal of Jim Crow.

Conversely, actions are the province of the Divine. Actions may be expressed either through God or through the human individual, inasmuch as God reveals Himself to the human individual via the modality of Divine Inspiration. The most telling proof of God’s inspiration, contrary to the faulty premises upon which pseudo-intellectual activism bases its incredulous claims, are those that are most endemic to our national history: acts of individual liberation leading to continuously improving gradations of communal equality.

Could there have been an end to British control of the colonies without an individually liberated Adams, Franklin, or Jefferson? Could there have been an end to slavery without an individually liberated Frederick Douglass or Ralph Waldo Emerson? Could there have been an end to Jim Crow without an individually liberated Martin Luther King? Or, in a more contemporary vein, how many homosexuals might be still lingering in the closet without an individually liberated Harvey Milk? American history is a continuous linear movement toward a providential good, a progressive journey that began with the spark of individual liberty, not the forced imposition of communal equality.

Here the skeptics might raise a metaphysical point of contention: if the human individual is capable of a Divine Inspiration such as intellectual liberation, then why not humanity as a whole? That is, if both God and the human individual are capable of action, and humanity is composed of human individuals, then why is the larger entity of humanity limited to re-action alone?

The Bible (that fashionably-derided primary source) states that man was created in God’s image. Not mankind. Therefore, God has much more in common with the human individual than it does with humanity--for in its totality and uniqueness, God, like the human individual, is paradoxically singular. Moreover, being singular, both God and its individual human subject are impossible to duplicate (notwithstanding cloning, an ethical subject beyond the scope of this current essay).

Consequently, when the larger human community attempts to assume the mantle of Divinity for itself (the unspoken social impetus behind secular activism) it invariably comes to loggerheads with a Deity that Baruch Spinoza, the 17th century Jewish philosopher, defined as a universal, unchanging, infinite, yet singular substance--the last of these cosmic attributes leading him to conclude:

“. . .there can be only one substance. Proof: If there were two infinite substances, they would limit each other. But this would act as a restraint, and they would be dependent on each other. . .therefore there cannot be two substances” (Ethica, 1677)

The renowned conservative thinker, William F. Buckley, couched the same sentiment in a more political framework when he observed:

“It is the temptation of many educated Christians to doubt that the God who gave us the latitude to behave as we behave is a God we can worship as wholeheartedly as we do those human divinities who labor to abolish Jim Crow, or dissipate the mushroom cloud, or comfort the unwed mother” (“The Duty of the Educated Catholic”, 1967)

All of which brings us to the ultimate question: what ethical value is there in a communal equality devoid of of individual liberation? Answer: None. It is a house of good intentions lacking an individualistic and intellectual foundation. The ignorant, in desiring to impose communal equality without first addressing the necessity for individual liberation, commit the mortal sin of ascribing quality to quantity. And if equality is envisioned not as the effect of liberty, but as a cause unto itself, what frightening results might lay at the end of such a perverse, anti-intellectual and--dare one say--ungodly equation?

To what social ends does equality as entitlement lead? A simple empirical observation of contemporary American culture might yield a few troubling answers: College is now so easy to attend it has systematically been transformed into little more than a glorified grade school; "progressive" instructors at all levels of education have cheapened the classics by likening modern urban poetry to Shakespeare--or hip-hop to Beethoven; minority scholars have been saddled with the nagging worry that they might not have advanced through their own merit, but through the cynical quotas of affirmative action; meanwhile, a Vice-Chancellorship of Diversity and Inclusion at the University of California could net a lucky prospect a staggering $250,000 per annum!

To be sure, the damage is severe--that is, for those who still esteem the antiquated tropes of culture and history, the beauteous by-products of the individually liberated mind.

Even more disconcerting, however, is reflecting on what might have been gained simply by following the tried-and-true protocol of individual liberation first and communal equality second. If a liberated mind achieves equality with other liberated minds, the character of the equality will be of a greater value because, together, the liberated minds will have achieved equality on a higher plateau--resulting, paradoxically, in a beautiful inequality: a strata of liberated minds equal in intellect at the top of the hierarchy and a strata of enslaved minds equal in ignorance at the bottom of the hierarchy--a catalyst, if ever there was one, for the continuity of Western Civilization. In sum, an elitism based on logic and reason.

Western Civilization and America in particular, now more than ever, face a choice between two sociological outcomes.

1) Communal equality void of individual liberation, ultimately resulting in a failed culture driven by platitudes of fairness.

or

2) Individual liberty preceding communal equality, ultimately resulting in a revivified culture driven by acts of merit.

The first equation is secular, being constructed from emotion and instinct. The second is providential, being inspired by logic and reason.

It is interesting to note that when attacked individually with logic and reason, many fervent activists will often freely and unashamedly admit to their intellectual deficiencies in untold areas of objective knowledge, not the least of these being Western history. Unwilling to accept defeat on what they consider an "inferior" plane of learning, however, they will incredulously demand their interrogators to join in the madness by conceding that, however erroneous they may be, their voices still need to be heard.

This is because the ignorant are not ignorant when it comes to this central tenet of Western sociology: If there is no truth to be found in numbers--there is, undoubtedly, power. And much of it.

In this section, I have highlighted the difference between the terms liberty and equality, advancing the argument that individual liberation, being an action, must precede communal equality, a re-action, so that a qualitatively valuable meritocracy might be put into place and the negative effects wrought by the imposition of communal equality upon Western society-- sans individual liberation--might be reversed. Though I have demonstrated agreement with the premise that numbers contain power, I have disagreed with the premise that numbers contain truth, by arguing against the contemporary practice of ascribing quality to quantity. In the next section, I will delve further into an explanation of the metaphysical composition of historical providence emerging from the triad of God, Individualism, and Freewill, specifically drawing upon Gottfried Leibniz's conception of a "City of God" for inspiration.

[END PART THREE]

The Divine Right Of Customers

2008-10-23T13:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Mrs. Shimon,

We were sorry to learn that your family had perished in the Holocaust. We here at Yankee Candles(tm) deplore genocide and have made a firm commitment never to allow it to happen in any of our stores.

We apologize that we do not currently carry banana fragrance(c). Please be advised that this is not because we supported the Holocaust. At present, we are simply out of stock.

At Yankee Candles(phd), we understand that the Holocaust(tm) was a bad thing. That is why we are offering you a coupon for $15 off your next Yankee Candle(pbuh) product purchase of $45 or more.

Yankee candles (aipac) are good for aromatherapy, romance, and the High Holidays.

Sincerely, Rose Ethelberg
Subsidiary-LLC

Dear Mrs. Lamar-Washington,

We here at Old Navy(c) were saddened to hear of the plight of your ancestors as they were forced to board slave ships en route to the New World (!). Our stores resolutely and unwaveringly deplore slavery and have made a steadfast and unshakable commitment never to permit a slave trade to gain a foothold in our company.

Please be advised that all of our cotton products are made from cotton that was picked either from the hands of free men and women--or robots. We are sorry that you felt differently when you urinated on the floor of our Westbrook, VA store and screamed “imperialism.”

We hope you will accept this coupon for $10 off your next purchase of $50 or more as a token of our contempt for the legacy of Jefferson Davis and his despicable confederacy.

Sincerely, Jamal al-Lamaj
Senior Vice Regional

Dear Ms. Songbird Illuminati,
Ms. Crisis Willowsnap,
and Ms. Gentle Touchsoft

At Jiffy Lube (c), our promise has always been to achieve the maximum limit of absolute one hundred percent full-on total commitment to customer satisfaction and beyond.

That is why we were disheartened to hear that Antarctica is melting and Polar Bears are turning beige. Thank you for bringing this to our attention. We have been living in a fog. Until our newly implemented emissions standards went into place, we were also living in a smog.

(rimshot)

By now, you have probably detected the dampness of my tears on this e-mail. As a CEO of a multi-million dollar corporation, I don’t often get a chance to visit the troops on the ground in our local oil changing centers to find out what’s going on in Antarctica. Inspired by your letter, I did just that very thing yesterday morning.

Many of the Mexicans($) that work in our greasy pits of oil and filth are deeply connected to Antarctica and consider it their ancestral home. Like an ideal steering system, they were in complete alignment with your Marxist views on redistribution of ice and snow. “Extender el frio” said the most vocal of them. In English, “Spread the cold”.

So in salutation of agreement upon honoring our unadulterated continuation of exceeding commitment to the greening of the environment, please accept this coupon for $7 off your next Jiffy Lube Signature Service Oil Change (jlssoc).

Respectfulandsincerely,
James P. Jamespee,
CEO and Lubricator

I'm In Love With My Anger Management Counselor

2008-10-22T20:23:00.000-07:00

There will be five more installments of "The Reason I Think The Way I Do About Things", but I'm taking a break because those take a long time to write. I'm trying to be as reasoned and philosophical in those as possible. Because I'm angry at some of the reactions I've gotten for my pro-Palin blogs. I'm mostly angry at myself for being upset by those reactions. It's confusing having a name in the comedy world and being broke. If I'm not getting paid, I could write the word "cunt" five thousand times on this blog if I wanted to and what would it matter? So I'm trying to outline the philosophical argument for libertarianism in those installments. Free market and all that goes with it.

But I needed to get a quick emotional blog out here. One where I'm not as concerned about grammar. I'm in love with my anger management counselor.

This month marks the one-year anniversary of the last time I had sex. Her name was Lisa and we had sex--about two weekends' worth of sex--in this room I was renting in the Bernal Heights neighborhood of San Francisco. It was very good sex. She was Japanese. I had never been with an Asian woman before and it was certainly worth every minute. She also brought over Japanese snacks--these spicy chips and chocolate sticks as well as lemon tea in a thermos. It was fun spending that time with her. Lisa, if you're reading this, I will be back in San Francisco on Nov. 8th and would like to have sex with you again. I'm sorry that I turned emotionally cold when it was time to leave for New York. I will be in town from the 6th of November until the 10th of November.

Now on to my anger management counselor. Her name is Sarah Meehan. (Yes, I know, another Sarah!) When I checked myself into St. Vincent's Outpatient Center, she taught this recovery class on Friday mornings. I thought she was cute right from the start. But she didn't like cursing. She would ask me things like, "What do you mean when you say 'fucking bullshit'"

"You know, 'fucking bullshit'"

After a few weeks of that class, she said that she thought I might need anger management. I disagreed. I told her anger was fun. But then out of curiosity, I asked her who taught the anger management class.

"I do."

Hmm.

One day I saw Sarah in the 42nd Street subway station. She was wearing jogging clothes and looked as if she had just got done running. She was all sweaty. I swear it was her. I said hi and she ignored me.

The next day, I saw her in recovery class. "Did you snub me yesterday?" I asked her.

"What? No, where did I snub you?"

"I saw you in the subway station."

"No, I didn't see you."

"I swear it was you."

"I don't think so."

Anyway, I took her at her word, but still put off the anger management idea for a few weeks, content to see Sarah on Friday mornings. (At this stage, I didn't know I loved her yet. I was just getting off of alcohol and drugs and I had a lot on my plate)

But then--I think it was sometime in mid-July, perhaps early August--I was arrested for assault in Union Square Park. (Would you guys like to know this story? I'll tell you in a separate entry, but only if you want)

Anyway, when I was released I was given a court date and I when I saw Sarah on the following Friday, I told her that I thought going to anger management would be a good idea just in case I needed to show anything to the judge.

Now I saw Sarah twice a week!

Our relationship started grow. One day, she wrote me a note to take down to the welfare office in Queens (would you guys like to know about my thirty-day experience with welfare? I'll tell you in a separate entry, but only if you want. Let's just say that a month of welfare was all I could handle. It takes a special determination to live off of welfare. I don't have it. After all, I'm a libertarian!)

Anyway, I looked at her signature and her office phone number underneath. Wow! I have Sarah's phone number, I thought. (Sarah wasn't my case worker. Umberto was. Normally, Umberto would write me a note, but Sarah was the only one available that day.)

I found myself looking at her name and her phone number on that piece of paper all the way out to the welfare office in Queens. In fact, I didn't even want to give it to the welfare lady. Which didn't matter, because she didn't want it anyway. Big dyke. "I don't want to see your paper! I've got a line here to deal with! 40129A Window 2!"

Fine, I thought, I'll just keep this paper.

After the hassle of welfare, I decided to just get a job. Thus, I had to change my schedule at St. Vincent's. Umberto got me some night classes.

Umberto is an Italian. Not an Italian-American, but a real live Italian. He has an accent which I can't really type out in eye dialiect--but here's what he said the day he gave me the new classes

"Okay, Monday evening, there's this class you should take. Sarah teaches that. And then Tuesday would be a good one for you also. Sarah teaches that one, too. Then you have your anger management, still. So that's with Sarah on Wednesday mornings. You can still make that one, right?"

"Oh, yeah, definitely."

"And then you still have your Friday morning class with Sarah. Can you make that one, too?"

"Oh, yeah, I'll switch my hours around that day."

I tried to show calmness. But boy was I excited. Four days of Sarah Meehan, Licensed Clinical Social Worker!

But it was not all fun. There were other people in the classes. Damn! It made me mad when they talked to Sarah and when Sarah talked to them. I wanted Sarah to be my case worker so I would have alone time with Sarah. Don't get me wrong. I like Umberto. But Umberto is no Sarah. So I only had Sarah during class and there were always other people coming between me and Sarah in class.

So I stopped going to classes. It hurt too much to share Sarah.

After disappearing for a week, I thought I would do her a favor and call her on Monday evening to tell her I would miss the Tuesday evening class.

"Sarah Meehan."

"Hi, Sarah. It's Will Franken."

"Hi."

"I just wanted to tell you that. . .I'm not going to be able to make tomorrow's class."

"Well, you should talk to Umberto about why you're not making your classes."

Wow. I didn't like her tone. She was snippy. I thought she would plead with me to come. Something like, "Will. . .please come to the class. It's not the same without you."

So when Wednesday morning came around for anger management, I had a lot to say to little miss Sarah.

"Yeah, I'm pretty fucking pissed off today. And you want to know what I'm pissed off about? I didn't like your attitude on the phone the other day. You were snippy."

"I wasn't snippy."

"Yeah, you were. You were snippy with me."

"Well, let's talk about that."

"I don't want to talk about it."

I thought she was going to take the bait and beg me to talk about it, "Please, honey, let's talk about it. I love you too much for us not to talk about this."

Instead, she said, "Okay. Let's move on. Kenny, how is your week going so far?"

Just for that, I skipped Friday's class. And the following Monday. And Tuesday.

It wasn't until the next anger management class on Wednesday that I showed up. Sarah was wearing her sexy shoes. Fuck-me pumps in an anger management class. Wow!

A new guy, a Jamaican, began by saying his name and how many days he had clean and sober. I really liked the cadence of his voice, so I laughed (which is what I do when I like something)

"What's so funny?" snapped Sarah.

"Jesus Christ, I liked his fucking cadence! What's your fucking problem?"

When it came my turn, I had a lot to say. "All right, I'm pissed at you again. First you snub me, then you're snippy, and now you're snappy. I laugh when I'm happy. His accent made me happy. I'm not too fucking happy lately. So if I can laugh, I'm going to fucking laugh, understand?"

"I'm sorry," said Sarah, "I didn't know that's why you were laughing."

Oh no, I thought. She's sorry. And I was mean to her. Poor Sarah. How could I do this to her?

I was so overcome with guilt at hurting Sarah that I stopped going to classes for two weeks. I did not want to share Sarah and I did not want to hurt her. It was better, I thought, if I did not see her at all. I also thought that if I stayed away long enough, it would be appropriate for me to call her and ask her out on a date since I wouldn't be a client anymore.

Anyway, last night I had a dream about her. I don't remember the specifics. I just remember in the dream that I asked her out and she was excited at the idea. She didn't say yes or no, but I could tell that she was getting ready to say yes. Do you know what I mean? When a girl is getting ready to say yes, that she'll go on a date with you? You can almost see the "Y" forming in her throat. I haven't experienced that feeling in a long time, even nocturnally.

So I woke up smiling. I was just happy to love her. I had no plans on actually seeing her again. Do you guys know what it's like to have a puppy-love crush? You don't actually have to do anything. . .you just enjoy thinking about them.

But check this out. I'm awake for two hours and who should call? No, not Sarah. Umberto. And he's concerned.

"William, you have not been to your classes for two weeks. I need to know if you want to terminate your schedule here at St. Vincent's."

Oh, jeez, this is it. Time to make a commitment. Can I really live without Sarah? I was kind of hoping that they'd keep me on indefinitely. Just in case I did want to drop in on a little anger management.

"Uh. . ."

"Would you like another week to think about it?"

"Uh. . ." Seriously, I was only thinking about Sarah. If anybody else was teaching these classes, I would have stopped going a long time ago.

"Would you at least be able to make your anger management class in the morning with Sarah tomorrow?"

Oh my god. He said her name. "Yes. I. will. be. there. tomorrow. Umberto."

"Good William. I will let Sarah know."

So I'm going to sleep early so I can get up in the morning and see Sarah. It's fall now. She probably will not be wearing those skimpy skirts anymore.

The Reason I Think The Way I Do About Things, Part Two

2008-10-19T18:34:00.000-07:00

[BEGIN PART TWO]

Before we get started, let me make one thing perfectly clear.

I am a failure. Both in my personal life and in my chosen vocation. At the moment, this may be only a feeling and not a fact, but at the moment, my feeling feels like fact. Thus, my perception has taken on the responsibility of my reality.

My youth was characterized by a selfish ambition, an overriding perfectionism, and a cushioned insularity from the perceived terrors of any outside human contact. What few intimate relationships I accrued during this period of naive oblivion were simply echo chambers for my own narcissism.

Later in life, by fortune--or by fate, if one is not averse to that archaic term--I obtained a modicum of artistic success. Despite the underground recognition and critical acclaim, however, the end goals of economic and sexual security remain continually out of reach, the proverbial artistic dues reflect a perpetually outstanding balance, and a lasting sense of satisfaction lies always just over the horizon.

There are those, myself included, who might say that I have fallen from a great height--if only I had had the gratitude to recognize the precipice for the good thing that it was at the time I was standing upon it--rather than now, bruised and bleeding on the valley floor.

There are other times I am convinced that I have never left the ground in the first place, and thus have neither risen nor fallen. That, of course, is a more palatable proposition; having neither gained nor lost instead of having lost what was once gained. Yet the truth, characteristically elusive as always, lies somewhere in-between.

Like so many others in our decadent age, I extended my childhood as long as I could, borrowing against the predatory lenders of Time, until I awoke one morning and discovered, to my abject horror, that I was nothing more remarkable than an unfulfilled adult.

Regret is no mere abstraction. Not at all.

Regret has physical dimensions. Regret occupies not only time, but also space.

Regret has mass.

For if it did not, Coleridge might have chosen something much lighter than an albatross to represent it.

Alas, the muddled perceptions of the lost chapters of my past lie beyond the scope of this current study: "The Reason I Think The Way I Do About Things, Part Two".

For here in the present, as was promised at the close of the first installment of this series, we now fix our sights on explaining how the Human Individual, itself a composite of varying re-actions, springs forth from the initial idea; that is, the Primal Action of Divine Creation; and how it is that because of this symbiotic, (albeit archaic, hierarchical, and linear) relationship, the Human Individual is not limited solely to works of re-action, but also, in alignment with its Creator, works of action.

At this early stage, the reader may have questions as to what has just been elucidated. Most likely, he or she is now asking themselves: “Would such a theological presupposition as to God’s creativity and the Human Individual’s capacity to mirror such creativity in its own finite existence inadvertently ascribe a value judgment to works of action as being of a higher quality than works of re-action?”

Most assuredly.

The best sociological evidence for this valuation can be witnessed by the stigmatization of the term “reactionary”. Implicit in the insult (which is what it amounts to in its conventional usage) is the logical acknowledgment that action supersedes re-action. Yet the mistake too often made by those brandishing this politically-charged epithet is assuming that they are innocent of doing likewise. Those who do not question the unalterable dictates of nature, however, know that re-action is the default setting for the Individual Human.

Let us therefore consider the ethical qualities, if any, of human re-action upon the spectrum of perfection (that which is aligned with God) and imperfection (that which is aligned with baser existence).

Re-actions cannot be called perfect inasmuch as they are not Divinely inspired; that is, having no discernible beginning. Instead of ideas being wholly snatched from the ether, complete in and of themselves, works of re-action rely upon ideas already set in motion. They are therefore, like the totality of all micro- and macrocosmological existence, bound by the strictures of cause/effect relationships.

Meanwhile, re-actions cannot be called wholly imperfect without first an examination as to the frequency with which they are adopted. “Man does not live by bread alone,” sayeth the scripture. True enough. But man does live by bread to some degree. And the degree to which a Human Individual lives by bread is the variable in determining to what extent a Human Individual is closer to perfection or imperfection.

Thus, we witness the unique position of man in relation to God and in relation to his baser existence. Man cannot aspire to greater creative achievements without relying upon (or at least seeking out) a direct channel to Divine inspiration. Contrarily, an overabundance of alignment with Divinity separates man from his baser existence. See also “The Great Chain of Being”.

One would be mistaken here to assume that all of the above is a call to moderation. Not so. Though an argument obviously must be made against tipping the balance in favor of imperfection, one should also be cautioned against deciding that a middle position represents a satisfactory endgame to human existence.

The original drafters of “The Great Chain of Being” regarded man’s position as unique enough for it to remain comfortably static for centuries. It wasn’t until much later that the restless mysticism of such thinkers as Emerson, Tolstoy, and especially Blake would seek not only to assign the Individual with more fluidity, but to argue vehemently for a slight imbalance favoring the Divine. In particular, Blake envisioned value in baser existence only in that provided an epistemological reference point for better understanding God. Borrowing from the lingo of economics, the overall effect was to introduce a cosmological sense of “upward mobility”.

Were it not for this shift in perception, it is likely that the slaves might never have been freed.

To recap: Works of action are the domain of Divinity. Works of re-action are the domain of Humanity. Yet as we have been taught that Christ left one domain to inhabit another by becoming incarnate, we are also taught that the Human Individual has within itself the capacity to likewise transfer domains by becoming ethereal--either permanently through death or temporarily through dreams.

In sum, the Human Individual is an amalgam of action and re-action.

Therefore, the quarrel that the offended representatives of a given community have with “reactionaries” is never about the re-action, per se, but the qualitative nature of the re-action.

This is to say that if a re-action is of a non-conflicting nature in relation to a larger community, the re-action would not even be recognized as such. It is only when a re-action is in conflict with a person, issue, or institution held in esteem by an offended representative of a given community that a re-action is capable of being noticed. If one has reacted by agreeing with or obeying a larger community, in the fickle eyes of those who constitute that community, that Individual has not re-acted. If one has reacted by disagreeing with or disobeying a larger community, that Individual has run risk of being labeled a “reactionary”.

Contrast is illuminating. Perpendicularity against the larger community provides higher visibility. After all, isn’t it those long stretches of parallel lanes on a dark highway that safety signs warn will lull us to sleep--and perchance to a life-threatening accident--if we don’t periodically pull over?

Speaking of which, it’s now time for a rest stop.

In this section, I have demonstrated how it is that the Human Individual is capable of works of action as well as re-action and how by acknowledging this potential, one is rendered closer to the Divine. I have also shown how it is that offended representatives of larger communities speak selectively when referring to “reactionaries”. In Section Three, I will speak against the postmodern craft of ascribing quality to quantity and how it may be said that an over-valuation of numbers leads one further from Truth and further into Error.

[END PART TWO]

The Reason I Think The Way I Do About Things, Part One

2008-10-14T21:10:00.000-07:00

[BEGIN PART ONE]

Before we get started, let me make one thing perfectly clear.

I hate myself. I always have.

If I possessed anything other than utter contempt for myself as a human being and had any faith at all in my abilities as an artist, I would never have bothered creating anything in the first place.

The whole of my creative work can be roughly divided into two broad categories:

1) Works of action

and

2) Works of re-action.

Let us consider a work of action to be an inspiration that is a cause unto itself within which all of its effects are contained.

Whereas works of re-action are the minor creative results that are antecedents of the causal relationship initiated by a major work of action. Works of re-action are generally created to augment or clarify the substance of either a work of action or even other works of re-action.

Inspiration has no discernible entry point by which an artist may point and exclaim: Aha! From a fixed location in the cosmic ether came this specific idea! Therefore, works of action, it may be said, have no beginning.

Conversely, works of re-action, being effects from which a causal link may be established from itself to either a work of action or another work of re-action, it may be said, have no ending.

This entry falls into the latter.

In today's progressive lexicon, to be labeled a "reactionary" is to be deprived of credibility within many influential circles. Indeed, it has happened to the greatest of our historical figures, often in reference to their noblest intentions. One need only consider the amount of times, throughout his life, and even long afterwards in the myopic views of revisionist history, that Winston Churchill has been labeled a "reactionary" for wanting to do something as undeniably beneficial as confronting Adolf Hitler.

Yet is not all linear existence a reaction of some sort or another? St. Thomas Aquinas spoke of God as the Primal Cause, or the "First Mover", if you will, from which all effects issue forth, either harmoniously in tandem or inharmoniously in conflict. Therefore, regardless of whether one agrees with or dissents from any specific person, issue or institution, within our less than perfect human realm, any stance taken at all is, ipso facto, a reactionary one.

In Aquinas' ontological schemata, to eschew reaction is to simultaneously subvert a Divine hierarchy by stripping from Deity its exclusive characteristic of action independent of reaction. That is to say, if God is not a Primal Cause, God is merely reaction and, therefore, no longer God.

If God is no longer God, what, if anything, becomes of that conglomerate of reactions we call humanity? Man cannot exist in a spiritual vacuum--unless of course he is willing to subsist on the cold gruel of nihilism; an absurd proposition that serves as an adequate justification for suicide (an act of violence slightly less absurd than the absurdity of continuing to live within the absurdity of nihilism.)

Therefore, in the ontological void that remains in the absence of God, humanity--arrogant from its imagined victory over the imagined oppressiveness of Deity--steps forth to prematurely claim the mantle of Divinity for itself. Hence, we witness the advent of Western secularism and, more to the point, its disquieting physical manifestation in the form of an unfeeling and self-perpetuating commercialism.

How many times have we heard, or in some cases uttered to ourselves, the agnostic lament: "If God exists, why is he so indifferent to human suffering?"

I ask, is money any less indifferent?

Few progressives of the humanist school of thought would deny me this central point. After all, a certain amount of vitriol directed against unrestrained capitalistic excesses is not only healthy, one could argue, but also spiritual.

However, if we were to extrapolate further, would progressives concede this same indifference toward human suffering applies equally not just to money, but to all other facets of a secularized West?

Would they reserve the same contempt for the media? Pop culture? Politicians of all parties? Big government programs?

At present, their words and deeds seem to indicate that they would not. This of course, begs a much larger question: How is it that progressives can be imbued with such an unquestioning faith towards the evidentially imperfect tangibilities of humanity and yet still maintain a dogmatic certitude about the intangibility of Divinity?

Therein lies the contagion of hypocrisy which infects the minds and souls of our best and brightest. And such are the philosophical underpinnings beneath my re-action against a Western society's growing denial of the existence of God.

In this section, I have delineated the differences between works of action and works of re-action. In Part Two, I will demonstrate how the larger secular society, being a composite of conflicting and non-conflicting re-actions is secondary in ontological importance to the Individual, which being in many ways a beginning and end unto itself, and thus reflective of the higher nature of God, is not only capable of works of action as well as works of re-action, but is also a more accurate barometer for human progress than the faceless amalgam of disparate ideologies known as the Community.

[END OF PART ONE]

My Ancestors Are Coming Over

2008-10-13T19:54:00.000-07:00

My ancestors are coming to town this weekend to meet my girlfriend and I'm really nervous about it.

I hope my forefathers like her. She's a good cook when she exists. In fact, she makes a mean apple pie. I mean--a MEAN apple pie.

So mean it spits cobra venom in your eyes when you stick a fork in it.

I had to take her last apple pie to the apple pie pound to have it put down.

I don't know what she puts in her apple pie to make it so mean. It really is a vindictive and spiteful apple pie. Because of this, I've advised her not to make an apple pie for my ancestors when they come to town this weekend. So she's going to make an apple instead.

I love watching my girlfriend make apples! She takes an apple, puts it on a tree, and pulls it right back down. She's old fashioned like that. Just an apple and an apple tree and--SHAZAM--you've got apples!

Oh, and a ladder. She needs a ladder to climb up and down from the apple tree. She may be short, but she's definitely not tall.

Meanwhile, I've got to get some indentured servants from the Old World by Saturday. Good luck with that, huh?

Oh, and a girlfriend. I'm gonna need one of those, too. Duh!

I'd like to get Thandie Newton or Lisa Bonet to play her because I think my Uncle Jefferson would get along with either of them.

I'm also going to need a large patch of land where I can cultivate a sizable crop of tobacco in a mere five days. And I'm going to have to find somewhere spacious to put it since my apartment here in Queens is rather small.

Jeez Louise, why does it have to be THIS weekend that my ancestors are coming over?

I was going to spend those forty-eight hours masturbating so vigorously that I leave scars on my genitals!

But it's too late to cancel. They're already in the historical ether and can't receive text messages.

I guess I'll have to wait until next weekend before I can masturbate so vigorously that I dehydrate myself and end up in the emergency room with an I.V. drip.

No, I shouldn't neglect my ancestors. After all, they were there with me in the hospital when my parents died. It's always sad when parents die before their ancestors. I remember my Uncle Washington at my mother's funeral singing "Thank You For Being A Friend". It was so moving. He had sunglasses on, but I could still see the tears in his powdered wig.

What progress we've made since the 1770s! Nowadays, we wear our wigs on our heads and cry out of our eyes. But is that really progress? Take my Uncle Revere, for example. He wears horses for shoes and thinks the word "refrigerator" means "prostitute". Nowadays, we'd call that crazy. But put it into context, folks. After all, he was living in a time when everybody thought the world was fat.

Thanks to science, we now know the world isn't fat. It's slim and attractive and likes to jog and do yoga. But these are my ancestors, people! They brought what brought whatever it was that brought what brought what brought together the elements that brought whatever is was that brought me into the world--fat OR slender.

And they're coming to town to see me this weekend. So the least I can do for them is procure some hipster chick from Williamsburg to play the part of my girlfriend for 100 dollars and new porkpie hat.

So, yeah, I'm definitely going to have to put off masturbating so vigorously that my testicles turn purple, my eyesight is irreparably damaged and what little capacity I had of forming any meaningful interpersonal relationship with a real woman is utterly demolished.

That's what family's all about!

Cash Back

2008-10-12T13:36:00.000-07:00

PREFACE

I keep trying to write something. There's a simple story here, but I keep adding from the front. . .giving it too much exposition, too much prologue, backstory, pre-narrative analysis. . .

Again, I'm done with politics. Obama is corrupt and McCain doesn't want to fight him. The ascendancy of the O is all but guaranteed.

So I have to move on. Which is why I'm trying to write about something new again. And I keep trying to write this story, this harmless little anecdote, and I keep erasing everything that I've written. Twice now this has happened. I get the equivalent of five pages into it (it's hard to tell in a pageless blog screen, but it feels like five pages) and then I delete the lot.

CHAPTER ONE

I went into a Rite Aid drugstore yesterday morning to buy a candy bar so I could get some cash back. There is no Bank of America in my neighborhood and the Washington Mutual takes out money just for checking your balance.

Do you guys remember when Washington Mutual didn't charge any fees if you used their ATMs with a card issued from another bank? I certainly do. Well, apparently, they've changed their policy.

So I got to Rite Aid at 9 a.m. yesterday morning. I took a King-Sized Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar and laid it on the counter. "I'm going to need some cash back while you're at it."

"We cannot give cash back now," said the teenage white girl in the hijab.

"What are you talking about? You always give cash back."

"We just opened. We won't have cash back for another hour."

I fumed, "That doesn't make any fucking sense at all."

"Do you still want the candy bar?"

"Fuck the candy bar," I said, moving aside to let the illegal immigrant woman with the five large boxes of diapers limp forward, "I wanted cash back."

So I returned home and spent the rest of the day doing some writing, some e-mailing, and some recording. Time flew as I became increasingly preoccupied creatively. Soon it was 7:50 pm.

I better get down to Rite Aid before they close, I thought, so I can get some cash back for tomorrow!

When I arrived at Rite Aid the second time, the gates over the plate glass windows had been lowered and the electronic door was shut.

Undeterred, I wedged my palms into the opening of the electronic door and succeeded in prying it open. I then took my place at the back of a long line of illegal immigrant women purchasing large boxes of diapers.

A tall African security guard with a thick Kenyan accent ran after me, "Sir, we are closed! Sir, you have to leave!"

"Oh, Jesus, come on, man. . ."

"We are closing, sir!"

"Easy man," I said, "I just want to buy a candy bar so I can get some cash back."

From behind the register, an African-American woman in a sari shouted, "We don't have any cash back now! We're getting ready to close!"

"Aw, come on, it's 7:55!" I yelled, "What is this, fucking Nebraska?"

Nobody said a word. I defiantly stood my place in line among the illegal immigrant women and their large boxes of diapers.

Eventually, the tall African security guard whispered to me, "How much cash back you want?"

"Just twenty dollars, that's it."

"Okay," he said reassuringly.

My anger subsided, "Thanks a lot, man."

He cautioned me, "It's not up to me, though. She is the manager," he said, pointing to the African-American woman in the sari.

"Well, all I want is twenty dollars."

After the illegal immigrant women had left with their large boxes of diapers in tow, I grabbed another King-Sized Reese's Crispy Crunchy Bar--who knows, perhaps the same one from earlier--and laid it on the counter.

"So I'm going to need some cash back," I said to the scowling African-American woman in the sari.

There was an interminable pause. And then, she relented.

"Okay," she sighed, "swipe your card."

I pulled out my wallet, "Thanks a lot. God bless America."

"God bless everyone," she smiled.

"What?"

"God bless everyone."

I hesitated. "No, you don't understand. I said God bless America."

"I know," she beamed, "but everyone deserves God's blessing."

"Yeah, well America needs it really badly right now. So God bless America." I removed my debit card from my wallet and prepared to swipe it.

She shook her head like a persnickety kindergarten teacher, "God bless everyone."

"Oh, for fuck's sake. Does it have to be this difficult? God bless America."

"Everybody in the world needs God to bless them."

My hands were shaking so badly, I was having difficulty aligning the debit card with the machine. "Look, I'll make you deal. How about God bless America, Western Europe, Israel, Australia, and the non-Islamic parts of Africa?"

"God bless everyone."

"I don't want God to bless everyone! Now God bless America, goddamnit!"

"Do you want the candy bar or not?"

"No, I do NOT want the fucking candy bar!"

I was going to storm off in a rage, but I had to wait at the entrance for the African security guard to come and unlock the front doors.