It's OK. I'm with the band.

Today during a random e-mail I remembered I was once a band dork. And I thought to myself, "Self, I bet people would like to know your viewpoint of the band dork experience." So without further ado, I will give you the facts, straight up:

Fact: I joined the Middletown HS North marching band in 1991.
Fact: I was in the color guard (meaning, I spun flags around)
Fact: I wore a heavy, ill-fitting band uniform that I carried around in a blue garment bag like a badge of honor.
Fact: I, like the other color guard members, had to french braid my hair and tuck the bottom under with bobby pins before we attached a huge corsage-looking flower arrangement thing to the backs of our heads, all as part of the uniform.
Fact: I attended band camp.
Fact: I suffered a color-guard-related injury.
Fact: I opted not to return to color guard duties once I got wind of the "hideous new uniforms" they were going to switch to the next year. (Also, a crush on a band dork had died down by that point.)

So that's the basics. In truth, being in the school marching band was fun. I make no pretenses of being hip, cool, with-it or bad-ass. I am just a little geek at the end of the day. So deciding to try out for color guard was a no-brainer and I certainly wasn't worried about not being "cool" all the sudden. Besides, my friends were doin' it, and we had other friends that were instrument-playing band dorks, and we could go to all the football games with free transportation this way... so in the summer of '91 Karen and I tried out. And we made the cut.

It was extremely satisfying to be given a long metal shaft... um, flag pole, yeah, flag pole!... with a shiny flag attached and being told you could swing it all over the goddamn place. I remember practicing my flag spins in the backyard and getting quite good at it. At band camp, they gave us plots of the halftime show we were going to perform (that year it was the award winning "Phantom of the Opera," mighty hot stuff) and we spent several days and weeks walking through our places on the field and how we were supposed to move on the beats.

We even had a "Phantom" and a "Christine" (the dame that the Phantom stalks mercilessly) that ran around amongst the band and flagits during the half time show out on the field. It was supposed to add something to the show. I sure hope it did. I never saw them, really. I was too busy trying not to hurt anyone with my large metal shaft.

Here's what you need to have in order to be a "flagit":
* Be able to count to 4, and 8.
* Be able to "mark time" and walk in line with everyone else
* Good hand-eye coordination
* Smile
* An attitude that everything in the Disney store at the mall is "so cute"
* Be willing and ready to kill a man

I made a lot of friends among the flagits. We laughed, we cried, we froze to death out in the bleachers. Seriously, I think that quiet girl, the one with the teeth, what-was-her-name, is still underneath the bleachers dead at Piscataway high school.

Best of all, we got to take our sweet little halftime show to Giants stadium for a band competition. Which, suffice to say, we won. There were even celebratory windbreakers proclaiming us the "CMBC Champions 1991" in the school colors of black and orange. I only just gave mine away to Goodwill back in January. (I think I always thought a day would come where I'd feel a certain chill in the air, and I'd think, "Hmm, it's cold, but not cold enough for a jacket, yet it's too cold for just a light sweater, and there is a chance of drizzling rain... wait, I know! Where's that CMBC Champions 1991 windbreaker! THAT'S what I need!") Because we won the Cadet Marching Band Cooperative championship, we were invited to perform a halftime show at a Giants game. And on the day we did our show, who was standing on the sidelines giving some commentary during the half-time show... none other than OJ Simpson himself (pre-murders). I can now brag to my grandchildren (dogs) that I once was only about 10 feet away from OJ Simpson (pre-murders).

But, like all carefree playthings of youth, I had to put the flags aside and concentrate on other pursuits, come winter. My crush on a boy in the band had waned, so there was no need to infiltrate the secret marching society any longer. Besides, we heard that the following year's show was going to be to the music of "Beauty and the Beast" and we'd be forced to give up the traditional uniforms for one that included blue shiny leotards (I DO NOT wear leotards) and yellow bows in our hair, and we knew the flagits were not in our future for 1992-93.

Plus, there was the final crushing blow, so to speak. It was winter, 1991. Pep rally. Which had been moved inside to the "old gym" due to inclimate weather. During the pep rally, the band played a song and we were to do our flag routine in straight lines, due to space constraints of the old gym (which was very old). So there we are, performing our routine in a hot, crowded gym, face to face with the bored faces of the entire school, when at a key moment in the routine, Christine Thomas brought her flag pole down right on top of my skull, causing me to drop my flag and look around, confused. Half the gym burst out laughing (the other half weren't watching anyway, they were too busy cutting LSD tabs and writing notes) at my misfortune. And at that moment, I decided I didn't need this humiliation anymore. I wanted to be cutting LSD tabs, too. So that was the end for ole' Lisa.

Senior year was all about the Women's Chorale, but that's a story for another day.

And now, for the Completely Obvious Blog Entry:

It isn't so impressive that David Blaine has emerged from the box. Hell, I emerged from the box once, too, and get this: I was in there for nine goddamn months! He only did 44 days? Pshaw.

A simple plan.
I spent the weekend cleaning up my various messes around the house. And I am not finished yet. There are still piles of junk and other crap lying about. I am determined to organize it all and live a simpler, neater life. Why is it that organizing and downsizing feels like it should improve your life? Kind of like a Zen thing. I don't know. It's funny. But either way, I am looking for a more streamlined, less-cluttered existence so I can spend time on creative things easier. Right now, if I wanted to paint, I would have to first dig out my paints and brushes, find where I stashed my canvasses (canvasi?) and then clear off a place either on the table or the back porch where I could paint. But if I were neater, I could just pull that out and start paintin'. Well, that's the idea, anyway.

I am just a schlep. I realize this. I buy Total and Special K cereal because it's healthy, but switch it out every few days for a sugared cereal. I make a concerted effort to always use my blinkers, even in a one-way-only turning lane, but sometimes have to jam on my brakes because I am daydreaming as I drive and not totally always paying attention. I work in an office with white walls and gray carpeting, and my desk is boring gray. Yet I hang up the random colorful picture (or in my case, Bill Murray's picture) to lighten the mood and inject personality. I make feeble attempts. I try.

Speaking of being ordinary, I actually went to Target the other night and thought for the hundreth time: "They really have nice stuff in here!" I am a sucker for the cheap consumerism machine that panders to the masses. And the kicker is, I really don't mind. They have some really nice stuff in there! You should see the cute lamp I bought, it's so 'different'! Really.

Tom gave me sublingual B-12 tablets. Right now I have one under my tongue that is still in the throes of dissolving. The funny thing is, I first placed it there at 7:45, and now it's 9:03. Shouldn't it have broken down by now? Most of it is gone, but there's still a little nub in there.

Maybe I have a mouth that is a harsh environment for vitamins; perhaps my saliva is chemically different than other people's saliva. Maybe I can't break down things with it. Any scientists who are reading this, take note: you cannot trap me in, say, a leg trap, and then harvest my spit for research into cancer cures. I won't abide by that. Simply ask me nicely-- I might share some of my spit with you, neatly and civilized-like, by spitting into a cup for you. No need to turn to violence, all right? Good.

If I was a cartoon, I think my character would be named Bloaty McBloatbelly. That's because I am getting to that age where I start to complain about "bloat."

What is bloat? I know, scientifically-speaking, it's water-retention. But does it really make that much of a difference? Can people visibly notice the bloat, or is it all in the eye of the bloat-ee? I always wonder that. Because when people say, "Oh, I am so bloated today," I look at them and think to myself, "Well, damn, she doesn't look any different than all the other days I see her." I always think this.

Anyway, today I feel like I have a case of the bloats. But I think I can track the reason. I ate a bowl of something yummy called Lasagna in a Bowl today for lunch. Then I had soda. I feel like my stomach looks about four months' preggers, but I know if I asked anyone they would say, "Oh, you look fine." Because either a)bloat doesn't really show or b) "they" are liars.

My cartoon would have me saving kittens from fires, and prying open elevator doors (even when people aren't trapped). The theme song would be something like this:
"Ole' Bloaty McBloatbelly/ she will save the day
Bloaty McBloatbelly/ look out, she's on the way!
She always has an answer
Can always lend a hand
But watch out for her bloated belly
It's the largest in the land!"

A superhero who saves the innocent, and those that maybe don't openly "want" to be saved. The catch is she has an enormous bloated belly. I have a feeling this will be very big in Japan. And if not there, probably some other market like Finland would do the trick.

I honestly wish right now I had some brownies. Anyone got a brownie? Preferably with frosting? Mmmmm. Must. Complete. Bloat. Cycle.

I just called my dad at work. During our conversation he said he doesn't really listen to music anymore. A few minutes later, I distinctly heard Dido's new single playing in the background, just ringing out in his shop. It was so loud I could even make out the words.

I just never fancied my father a fan of Dido.*

Huh.

(* denotes unnecesary usage of alliteration. Please accept my apologies)

While I hadn't intended to have so many mentions of Germans in my blog-- this last week I have talked about the Deutsch a lot, I realize-- I need to bring up one more thing I came across today: the Heil Hitler dog.

In summary, a German man has trained his dog, who happens to be named Adolf, to give the Nazi salute. Here's a picture.

Well, um, what can you really say about this? Not only is it "wildly inappropriate," it's just wrong. Really wrong. Say this man comes to an untimely end, Adolf-style. Which is likely, because who really likes the neo-Nazis these days, right? Now the dog will have to go to a shelter. Guaranteed-- a dog that "shakes paws" or "rolls over" is going to be a lot more appealing to adopters than one that "gives the salute." So this guy is limiting his dog's career options, as well. Which is not fair.

I have to wonder something, though: do you think that maybe the spirit of Hitler has gotten trapped inside this dog? If you believe in reincarnation, it could have happened. About a year ago, we went on a little road trip to San Diego and while at Sea-World, Tricia and Kane started talking about "the Hitler Manatee." Basically, they speculated on what would happen if Hitler had been sucked into a cosmic whirlwind of torment and punishment, and at some point it was decided to reincarnated into a harmless, adorable manatee. For, as a manatee, he would be forced to keep his evil silent as he floated along languidly just below the surface, too heavy and slow to do much of anything but be a manatee, swimming. Inside his head, all you could hear would be his evil thoughts and lots of loud, screaming German. But as a manatee, what could he really do with all his evil thoughts? Nothing. That's why it's a perfect torment.

The Hitler Manatee was, quite possibly, living at the Sea World in San Diego last year. We watched one manatee slowly eating cabbage leaves and turning slowly on its fat back, and we knew that the cute, chubby exterior was a possible front for pure evil.

I had the pleasure of an hour-long conversation with my Oma last night. (If you're not hip to the German lingo, "Oma" means Grandmother. Bling! There ya are, you learned someffing today!) I ended up grabbing a pen and paper and writing down some of the things she said so I could blog about them today, because it was Comic AU all around.

Some of the more interesting snippets included:

*She tells me she brings a radio to bed with her every night, and listens to the radio through her headphones, but she cannot put the headphones on her ears since they "bother her." So, she wears them on her face. "What I do is wear them on my face," she said.

*She has a problem with sugar these days. It makes some condition flare up. (This is probably related to her mysterious sleeping-fits she would fall into after eating sugar. Once, she took Trish and I to see a movie and ate some of our Sweetarts, and then she passed out and snored all the way through "The Little Mermaid.") But she was kind enough to offer me up this very important bit of advice. PLEASE take note of this...

"Stay away from diabetes."

I didn't have the heart to tell her I was sort of dabbling in diabetes these days. I don't think she knows just how hard it can be to stay away from something as tempting as diabetes. And sometimes, diabetes just sees me from across the street and calls to me. Next thing you know, diabetes is running over to me to say hello and asking if I want to go to that open-mic night down at coffeehouse, since diabetes and cyrrhosis will be playing some new songs they wrote. Diabetes can be very persuasive at times.

* In telling me a story about a man who fell asleep smoking pot in bed, she used some very colorful language regarding "cooking." Here's her version of the story (which is a true story):

This man was smoking pot, fell asleep in bed, and a fire started. He had taken the batteries out of the smoke detector "no one knows why he did that, maybe he had another use for the batteries," and he died. Meanwhile, his roommates came home and "smelled something cooking, so they checked the kitchen but there was nothing." So they finally thought to check on this guy upstairs, and they found the room in flames and he was dead. And presumably, he was the source of the cooking-smell.

It gets even worse. I'd better quote her directly for this part. "When the firemen came and tried to pull him out of there, they pulled and he was so cooked his legs came off."

WONDERFUL. All I needed on a nice, relaxing Monday night was to hear my Oma tell me about a man's legs "coming off" because he was "cooked." Yeah, my older family members are always a comfort.

As soon as I finally got her off the phone, I called my sister immediately to share the advice (especially the "stay away from diabetes" thing; I have been suspecting she is getting sucked into diabetes' glamorous lure). She ends up getting the best follow-up to the "cooked" guy story:

"No, Oma, he wasn't cooked... he was BAKED, man." --Trish, laughing maniacally at about 10pm on a weeknight, with the sound of cats meowing in the background.

I did it again, I went to Wal-Mart the other day and purchased more stuff I didn't really need, but somehow or other, it seemed like a fantastic idea at the time, so I bought it and AHHH! Now I have stuff.

OK, so I bought new sheets, and I love them. Leopard print, and some red pillowcases. Very swank. Wowee. But I also bought a new CD for myself, and it's one that I decided all the sudden that I absolutely had to have, no question.

It's Queen+, Greatest Hits III. It opens with a live version of "The Show Must Go On" with Elton John singin' his head off. There are all these other songs I admit I never heard before, like the one that I am listening to right now: "Driven by You." It had cheesy guitars and a dumb beat. I don't like it much. "Everything we do, everything we do, is driven by YOU!"
Oh, now it's breaking down and talking about children losing their way, and life without the elusive "you" "just won't do." Now I am ears-deep in a guitar solo.

I am thinking this song would be great in my movie. In my movie, there would be a little old man who works as a ball washer at a bowling alley. He is in love with the whorey old ex-women's-prison-guard who runs the shoe counter. This song comes on one night while he is having a training sequence with one of the guys who works the snack bar; training, of course, in the ways of the sexy bowler. He wants to impress the bitch. Well, this song would be gold in a scene like that. At the end of the scene, the guy has a massive coronary and the strains of the song would sound fantastic over the vision of him slumping down along the ball return. The shoe counter bitch would light a cigarette, and say over the PA system, "Hey, Louie, get that old guy off the floor, we got customers comin' in, Christ!" What a great movie this would be. And would you believe I only JUST made it up. This movie will go into pre-production soon with Joanna Kerns as the shoe counter bitch.

Thanks Queen. And now, you are giving me some horrendous piano solo on "Living on My Own." It's gonna be a productive Monday here. I love Queen.

Late breaking addition to this post: Right now I am on Track #14, which is a remix of "Another One Bites the Dust" with Wyclef Jean cutting in and saying, "Freddie Mercury, where you at?" It is the best EVER. I am smiling like a prince of the universe over this. I can't recommend this fine crap enough to all y'all.

This has been a good weekend for watching movies. I finally got to see "Underworld" yesterday, and on Friday night it was the big one, "Lost in Translation."

I want to recommend Lost in Translation to everyone reading this (all 2 o' yous). I really liked the sweet, innocent way the story was told... and the best part was it was told heavily without dialogue. So much was said through the direction and the strength of the actors. And Bill Murray is still one of the greatest ever. Think about him for a second... is he ever in the tabloids? Does he seem to make a big show of the fact that he happens to work in a place called Hollywood? Plus, can any actor right now say so much with just a limp stare? Tom and I were wondering how it is that we could be cracking up so hard at him posing with a glass of vodka; but if it were some other actor, say, Jim Carrey, attempting the same thing, we wouldn't laugh. Bill Murray is just intrinsically a funny guy. There is something about him that, even when he is just sitting there, you want to smile.

I keep a framed picture of him in my office. It's him in Stripes mode, pointing a finger right at me all day long. It's really the only picture I will always have in my workspace-- I decided that a couple years ago, when I got laid off at another company and when I went back to clean out my desk, I looked up and saw Bill on my wall, I smiled and pictured how cool it would be to hang him up over a new desk somewhere else. Maybe I am a little crazy or something, but it really helps me get through the day when I can look up and see Bill Murray's wry face there.

Oh, and Underworld was good too. But it wasn't good enough to make me go apeshit. Not like when I saw the Crow about--what, 10 years ago already? I liked some parts of the story, and I appreciated the art direction... but I couldn't help but feel how forced-Goth it was at times. Why is it that vampires always have to live in big mansions decorated with lots of ornate mahoghany furniture, and wear lots of lace chokers, bodices and sparkles? And why, in these movies, is it constantly raining with massive amounts of lightning?

The good news is, the Sweeping Black Duster Jacket market is still going healthy, thanks to the crews making the Matrix movies and things like this movie.

Damn. I really wanted to like this one more. I am always a sucker for the goth stuff, for things that are comic book-y in nature and sci-fi-ish. But since Lost in Translation was such a fantastic coup for me this weekend, I am not complaining. I will take Bill Murray in an inside-out orange and red camo rave shirt over vampire-guy with sequined shirt lapels any day of the goddamn week.

Unless it's the second Tuesday of the month. Crap, second Tuesdays are all about sequined lapels.

I like to watch the "Walk/Don't Walk" signs when I am sitting at a light, waiting for it to turn. I usually count the blinks as the hand flashes... waiting to see how many blinks before it turns to a solid hand. In my 'research' I have concluded that the average number of hand-blinks is 11. This is on a four-lane intersection. For six or more lanes, the number climbs to 13 at average (about 9 being low, 15 being the all-time record.)

So does this make me some sort of savant? Or does everyone else count the blinks, too?

It can be supremely helpful to know the number of blinks at certain intersections as you are driving. You can always know when the light's gonna change. I have never run a red light out of necessity. (I run red lights for the sheer JOY of it! It's a colorful way to add a little excitement to fellow drivers' days, in a Dukes of Hazzard kind of way.)

My favorite moment is when that last blink comes and then it suddenly turns solid. The hand, when it is finished with letting you cross, gets very serious and stern-looking. And I have noticed it is almost always red, which I feel is a color you don't mess around with. It's like the hand is saying, "OK, come on... come on... I invite you to cross...hurry now...hurry...NO! I AM NOT FUCKING AROUND! STAY WHERE YOU ARE!"

Ja, that's gut butter there, ja!
The story is that someone found 70 pairs of shoes filled with butter in Sweden. They say they don't know how they got there. They say it's a mystery.
And I say, I am not surprised at all. Swedes can be weird like that. For instance, I once saw a Swede fucking the hell out of the Land-o-Lakes girl... butter was everywhere that day.
You know what they say: you can lead a Swede to butter, but you can't make him put his dick away.

I get angry very easily these days at trends. The latest trend I am getting really tired of is the Atkins diet.

OK, I assume that there are probably several people who read this that are currently on or have tried this diet. I will probably offend you. But listen, the thing is, this is America and I can say what I want! So here's your gag... sit quietly over there until I am done, with that tightly in your mouth. Ready?

I really can't stand how people are constantly talking about how they can't eat carbs. Carbs are in almost everything we eat. It's really very hard to escape carbs; so just eat some but with moderation. What's wrong with that? We were planning a birthday celebration here at work and there were concerns that the people who are on the Atkins diet can't eat cake, pizza, or certain types of fruit, even. So could we please come up with an Atkins-friendly celebratory food?

Well, guess what, I came up with the perfect Atkins-friendly Birthday Celebratory Food-Type Item! Here's how it works: I carry in a big, glistening pitcher of delicious, cold WATER! Then we can all pour ourselves big, heapin' cups of water and drink till our sodium levels drop dangerously low. What fun!

Tricia put it best last night when she said she is suspect of any diet that tells you to avoid some fruits. Fruits are natural (granted, some are dusted with a wee bit o' pesticides, but at least they have a spot on the food pyramid). Yet you can eat a manufactured soy tortilla chip-food-product that's loaded with all types of preservatives. As long as I live, this logic will never make sense to me.

If you want a diet, here's a diet: eat less, exercise more. It's magical! The pounds will fall off you.

The other diet is to allow me to lock you in a house, chained to the radiator and not come and check on you for oh, about four years. That will have you losing weight so fast, you'll be amazed at the results. But unfortunately, you'll be dead. There is always a trade off. You will be such a sexy, skinny skeleton. Cripes, I really can't wait to see you in a bikini. Those tibulas of yours are probably HOT.

I am ready for another trip to NJ, I think. It's been almost a year since I have been back, and I was thinking today that I really would like to visit my Dad for his birthday. I already looked up airfares and now I am just doing the budget work required before a spur-of-the-moment vacation before I book anything. But I think I am gonna do it.

Best of all, it looks like Trish will come with me. We have yet to visit NJ together in the whole time we've been living out here. There are a lot of sister-specifics that we really need to do when we go back; like drive to the Spy House and go visit our old shoppin' haunts-- things like that. Plus since we get along very well, we can go out to eat and agree on every place we go, and visit friends we both like and not run into any dramas or "issues." That's always a plus of being best friends with your sister. We can just tell each other when one of us is being an asshole or something.

Today is overcast and gray out, which is always great in Arizona. I know I have said it before, but rain here is the best thing ever. I never realized rain could be pretty, and smell really nice, until I moved here. I thought it had to be cold, go-on-for-like-a-week-at-a-time, and smell faintly of fish and garbage. Growing up in towns like Atlantic Highlands and Belford will do that to ya. But here, even in the city, it has a hint of creosote to it every time... all the bushes and trees in the desert give off these sweet, clean aromas when they get wet. I love it. Anyway, I really hope it rains today.

I was reading something on the news today that in Germany, they have set up "kindergartens" for men. What happens is, a German woman will go shopping, but her husband or boyfriend will be complaining and acting like a pissant, so now she can drop her man off at one of these places where, for about $11, he will get 2 meals, some beer, and be able to watch TV while she shops.

Now I am saying right now, I am glad the Germans are doing this. Lord knows we need to do something to keep the German men from getting into trouble; they need supervision, otherwise they are forming Reichs and what-not. But seriously now, I am thinking about this, and haven't they realized we already HAVE places like this? In America, the "kindergartens for men" are simply known as BARS. Drop your man off at a bar or a sports grill, even, and voile! You can shop in peace and he can drink and watch TV.

Well, either way, it made me happy to be German to hear about this development. Know why? The women get little ticket stubs for their men, which they use to "claim" them when it's time to go home and leave the kindergarten behind. I just love the idea of having a claim ticket for a man. It's only going to be a matter of time before there are EZ Passes imbedded in a man's upper arm, so he can be dropped off and picked up in a hurry.

Wait, one important thing I wanted to say: why the hell do women bring their men shopping with them, anyway? Seriously, we women wonder why men cheat or get all grumpy and stupid around us: it's because we force them to watch us shop. Just think back to when you were little, and how your mom would drag you out to the store while she picked out something boring like curtains. Didn't it suck? Didn't you just want to go to the toy store, or to McDonalds? Did you or did you not once fake vomiting in order to get your mother to stop looking at flatware in Macy's and take you home?

Well, maybe men are like we were when we were little. Y'know? Maybe it's boring and dull to them, and maybe they could be doing something else while you are trying on the 12th pair of black shoes in an hour. I always see these guys that are dragged along for a shopping trip to the mall or something, and they always have the same lost, defeated look in their eyes. Just leave 'em at home! I've been doing it for years now and I am not missing anything by not having a guy sighing and shuffling around next to me while I sort through bargain bins of underwear at the big Victoria's Secret sale. Couples do not and should not do every single thing together.

This is not to say there are not times when I do want to just go shopping with a guy. But really, a straight man doesn't do well as an accessory. I'm just sayin'.

One more thought on this topic before I do some actual work: I think, at the German men's kindergarten, it would be good to put up some sort of barrier-- like an invisible fence-- so they can't escape. And perhaps institute the bead-necklace/bathroom break policy, as well. You will need to have some order, after all.

And hey, maybe the Germans can start thinking about setting up kindergartens for the women outside strip clubs or OTBs (if they have them there). Inside the women get ice cream, slippers, aromatherapy and copies of the movie "Kate and Leopold" to watch on tiny pink TVs while their men are busy. We need to make sure that we are always feeding into stereotypes for the sexes, always, otherwise what good are all these penises and vaginas, anyway? Without gender stereotypes, we would all be sexless heathens.

Two new changes: added Cara from Boston, whom I have never met but has a fun Blog; and two, decided to honor one of my favorite poems in a very titular way.

Get a dictionary... it doesn't mean what you think it does.

Sheesh. Bunch of gutter-minds in here!

Here's a great line from a pool party I went to this past weekend:

"I'll go in the pool when it's not as saturated with sexual predators."

I'll blog more soon. It's just that I'm busy and then there's this deal with the German Mafia I need to work out...

I gotta go! Scheisse!

This is the final weekend of the MASH run. It's been a good time, I will say that much. The audiences seem to be liking it; there's chuckles and the occassional guffaw. What the audiences don't know, is that backstage there is more talk about poking people in the O-ring than they could possibly handle.

Backstage talk always amuses me. Even during the times when I am sitting there quiet and not adding to the conversation, I am laughing inside. It reminds me of gym class in school. Very random, very strange humor. I remember one time in gym class, me and one of my friends came up with calling a male member of our gym class "Firm"... based on the apparent, um, firmness of his posterior region. "Firm" had all sorts of adventures. We would stand in the outfield and make up scenarios where he had to work at a bakery, and the owner ran out of pans for the special breads, so she was having him sit on the dough to make Firm-bread. There were also very mature discipline-related scenarios where Firm was being whipped by the puppet King Friday from the Land of Make Believe. At this point, I was only in 7th grade, so you can see I was highly advanced for my age.

Well, now that I have shared that, I think I am ready to continue my work for the day. Carry on. And watch out, your O-ring could be in peril if you're not careful about who's swingin' back there. That's today's word of advice. The More You Know.

What's all this I hear about this new Hurricane "Larry"?

Tropical Storm Larry Sitting Still in Gulf of Mexico

MIAMI (Reuters) - Tropical Storm Larry, the 12th storm of an active Atlantic hurricane season, churned in the southwestern Gulf of Mexico on Thursday and showed little inclination to move.

Yup, sitting still; no inclination to move... that sure sounds like a Larry.

Larry is a funny name for a hurricane. I expect names like Thor, Big John, Leroy, Bruce... but not Larry. Hurricanes are getting so pussyfied lately, it is disgraceful. Larry-- I am not going to board up MY windows for some "Larry." Fuck that.

I wish there was a guy named Larry in my office. I wish this fictional Larry guy would be a real hard ass when it comes to office supplies. For instance, if you tried to take a whole pack of Post-It notes back to your desk, he would flip out and say, "No, leave some for the rest of us!" He'd also be the first one ready to cut the cake at a birthday celebration... all anxious and squirrelly, he would stick his head in your office five minutes before "cake" and say, "C'mon, it's Cheryl's birthday! Cake time!" Some other guy who also doesn't work here, Rick, would always be coming up with excuses why he can't share a hotel room with Larry when they travel. "Larry is creepy, y'know?" he'd say out in the parking lot, where he would smoke with a mess of other fictional smokers that should work here but don't-- "He's always clearing his throat and then he has to unpack his little bag in the bathroom and leave his shit all over the counter. Who wants to see someone else's spitty toothbrush like that? Man, there's no WAY I am staying in with him. Barbara's gonna have to book a second room. Shit."

Ahh, the antics of Larry, Rick, Cheryl and Barbara would really bring this company together. But the cherry on top of this whole daydream for me would be the day Larry flies into a hissy fit because someone ordered the wrong type of paper for the laser printer. He'd lose it! And someone would undoubtedly wisecrack, "Hey watch out, here comes Hurricane Larry." It would be great.

This morning I had to grab a bunch of quarters to take with me today for the parking meters downtown. I am not used to putting money into parking meters anymore. And coins have become a hot commodity for me, since all I ever do is use my debit card to pay for stuff. Seems like I never have loose change on me. When I have to park somewhere, I usually have been going to places where there's an attendant you can get change from a $20 from. But yesterday I had to use a parking meter, and I was shocked with my lack of coins. Not even on the floor of my car. I scrounged up enough to get me through a little over an hour and then just hoped the parking ticket I'd most certainly get would not be too expensive.

Things have sure changed a lot for me over the past 5 years. Back in 1998, I never thought I would be using debit to pay for almost everything, and rarely carrying cash of any kind. I also never realized that I would lose my skills at coin-basket-tossing so quickly.

All this thought about coins reminded me of the little baskets at the toll plazas in NJ. I had gotten so fucking great at driving through, slowing down just enough to whip the 35 cents into the basket, and then only tapping the gas at precisely the right moment the bar started to lift. I was a master at paying tolls in NJ. And as tempted as I was, I never used one of Tricia's Chuck E. Cheese tokens to get through, either. I was by the book, and I was good at it. No time for screwing off, people... pay the toll and get the fuck to where you're going, you know what I'm sayin'?

But here's the funny part. Last December when I went home for a visit, I tried doing my patented "coin whip" as I was heading up the Parkway to visit Kristen in Bayonne, and I found that my shoulder/elbow muscle grouping was atrophied from years without practice. I had to come to a complete stop and reach way out to drop the coins in the basket. Not fling, or throw, or whip, or anything... DROP them in. It was pitiful. I was ashamed. I just know I made the drivers behind me so pissed off over those extra few seconds I spent up at the basket. I should have been shot. Let's be honest.

Well, here's the cool thing in all this: there are no tolls on the roads out here in Arizona. The only places you need to stop at any "toll" booths are at entrances to state parks and the Grand C. So, ultimately, you are spending more time driving and less time stopping/ slowing down to hurl things out the window.

I am finding it amusing that I just wrote about hurling things out the window, and I couldn't think of a sarcastic thing to offer as a humorous alternative for things-to-be-hurled-out-a-window. The only thing that comes to mind is, as always, "Grandpa."

I can always count on a good Grandpa joke to get me through a humorous dry spell. You gotta love the Grandpas.

I am feeling a little sick today. Yesterday I had to get up at 4am to fly to Salt Lake City for a business trip, and then I had to fly back the same night, so I am tired out. But it's really that I have a head cold starting up with a bad headache and then yesterday I got sick at the airport, which is not a good time. If you were thinking to yourself that, perhaps at the next opportunity you have, you'll spend a little free time at the local airport, vomiting into an automatic flush toilet, I advise you to NOT do it. It ain't all it's cracked up to be.

Salt Lake City was kind of nice, from what I could tell. It looked a lot like Phoenix in some spots, and then it looked like Denver in other spots. And for some reason, in some spots it looked like Hazlet, NJ. And I passed an alleyway that looked like Langhorne, PA. And a McDonalds that I swear looked like one I saw in Lake Placid, NY. But I digress. Let me get to the sick stuff. I know that's all you want to read about.

So I had almost 4 hours to waste before my flight to go home. Like any loser who is afraid of Mormon kidnappings, I decided it was safer to just go to the airport early rather than explore downtown SLC. I really had no idea where I was going, I was wearing uncomfortable business shoes and I was already feeling sick and feverish at that point, so I pictured getting to the airport, eating a quick dinner and crashing out on a few seats in a waiting area and reading for a few hours.

At the airport, I had to lollygag around the ticket counter for about a half hour before I could check in because I was there too early. (I did it! I worked my new favorite weird word into a sentence! Lollygag! Tremendous work, self.) My headache was growing worse with hunger, and I was lightheaded. Finally I was able to get my boarding pass and head into the rest of the airport. I looked for a restaurant but came up empty, so I went into a "lounge" area that had the typical food-court selections, like a Pizza Hut Express, a Starbucks, a Burger King-- yup, all the nutrition a traveller could possibly want. I ambled up to the Pizza Hut stand and a sallow-faced lady sold me a personal cheese pizza and some cold breadsticks.

I was already in trouble by the time I finished the first breadstick. Gross gurglings were starting. But I ate anyway, since I thought it would help my headache. It was practically a migraine at that point, with light sensitivity and all the fun stuff. I ate, and staggered off to wander into random little gift shops and book stores. Around the time I was checking out the Brookstone stand for the thrid time, I decided I should try a little fruit to settle my stomach.

I looked for a place that would have fruit, but by that point a lot of the little shops and restaurants were closing up for the night. I ended up at a TCBY.

TCBY does NOT have fruit! I need to remember this for the next time. Sure, they look like strawberries, but they've been molested with sugar glazing. Molested strawberries! Not a good idea to add them to a stomach full of greasy, rubbery pizza and cold breadsticks.

I got this "smoothie" with molested strawberries and bananas in it. IT only took about ten minutes for my body to decide that it was not a halfway house for troubled fruits and bastardized yogurt. I tried to remain calm-- breathing slowly and relaxing the best I could in a near-abandoned airport-- but it didn't work out in the end. I sat in a stall for about 15 minutes willing myself to not puke but it was all in vain.

Funny thing about airport bathrooms. They've always got piped-in music, and it's always that "I Want it That Way" song from either the Backstreet Boys or N'Sync. Ever notice that? It sounds even better while you're heaving. You probably know this already.

I was pretty damn sick after that. I just slumped in a seat and waited for the plane to board. But as I was waiting, I saw the most adorable thing ever: a woman was sitting there with her two little daughters, who looked to be somewhere between 3 and 5 years old. The youngest girl had pale blonde hair down past her shoulders, and she was wearing a Spiderman costume over her clothes. It was one of those little polyester-type costumes with the tie in the back, pull-on pants and shoe covers that looked more like red-and-black leg warmers. She was sitting there eating Lucky Charms out of Ziploc bag and swinging her legs happily.

She got up to throw something in the garbage, and her mother said, "Where are you going, Missy?" and the little girl stomped her foot and said firmly, "I'm Spiderman!" The mother corrected herself and said, "Where are you going, Spiderman?" I guess she only answers to Spiderman right now. That's OK. I remember when Tricia would only answer to "The Governor" following a summer vacation trip to a mini golf course. Long story. Anyway, Spiderman got permission to throw out her garbage, I am happy to report.

A few minutes later the girl pulled on the Spiderman mask. It clung to her head and her blonde hair stuck out the bottom. Next she was eating crackers but without taking the mask off; she was lifting up the bottom and shoving the crackers up to her mouth. It was so cute I almost puked again.

If I ever happen to take custody of a little girl someday, I will most assuredly encourage her to like things like Spiderman and to wear costumes out in public. Unless, of course, she is 15 years old and morbidly obese, in which case I will most assuredly encourage her to take up residence in my hall closet and eat only processed American cheese slices and her own hair for substenance.

I just realized something about David Blaine: All this time, that fucker isn't bathing.

I wonder who the lucky devil is that has to open the box on day 44. Whoever it is, they are gonna get hit with a wall of magical stank.

The new age to be scared of reaching is apparently 54.

Both John Ritter and now Robert Palmer were 54 years old when they died. Both of heart trouble. If you are getting close to 54, please eat less fat and watch your cholesterol, m'kay?

And try not to star in any kooky sitcoms with anyone named "Joyce DeWitt" or hang out with a bunch of zombie-esque lipsticky models with guitars they never actually play. It can only lead to your utter and complete destruction.

I can't think of much to write about today, yet I really want to write, so here is a list. These are Things I Wish We Saw More Of Nowadays:

Old-timey pianos that play cheerful music by themselves. My grandparents would take us to this restaurant called Farrells in the New Brunswick mall when we were kids. They had one of these pianos, and the decor was all white-and-red stripes, and there was a treasure chest you got to go pick something out of on your birthday. I got a plastic harmonica once, and one of those paddleball games another year.

Babies wearing bonnets. I have seen enough little kids wearing logo hats and Baby Gap to last me--forever. Why not bring back those frilly little bonnets that tie under the chin? Especially for the little girls; that's just so cute. Makes me think of the Little Rascals, and that show when they were all babysitting all those babies in the house, and Spanky glues one baby's diaper to the floor to keep her in one place. Or even better, the show when Alfalfa and Spanky have to babysit that baby, but they really want to be out playing football, and the baby is SO CUTE and they keep calling her "Baby" and they sing that song that goes: "Go to sleep, my bay-ay-bee, my bay-ay-bee, yodel-a, a- eee, yodel-a, a-eee!" Awesome! Little Rascals and babies rock.

Cupcake Day: My school used to do this every couple of months or so. The mothers would bake cupcakes, and we'd bring them in and a woman would push a cart around from classroom to classroom selling delicious homemade cupcakes to the students. There were all flavors, but the best was being able to get to the cupcakes that were baked into the ice cream cones before the other classes snatched them up.
If we had cupcake day here, at work, I think it would boost morale and make people cheerful again. Sprinkles, icing and crumbly chocolate cake on your lips-- it's a good thing.

Crab Soccer, Silent Ball and 7-Up: On the same lines as Cupcake Day, it would be wonderiffic if we could all just put down our work for about 15 minutes every day and everyone would have to go play some sort of game. Sitting on your ass all day is against human design. We were forged from materials that were meant to run, hunt, skip and frolic. Therefore, if we all had a break everyday to be kids again it would only make the rest of the workday more productive. C'mon, Boss Man! Listen to what I say. I also think it would give some high-faluting (is that how you spell it?) people around here a kick in the pants to have to get down on the floor, leaning back on your hands and walking forward like a crab and kicking a big reddish ball around at co-workers. And games like 7-Up could be easily incorporated into meetings. Maybe as a good way to begin a meeting. (Tip: Always peek down and look at the shoes of the person tapping you!)

Organ grinders with monkeys: Just one, that would visit me every now and again, would be fantastic. And the monkey must have that little metal cup he waves around for money. And little overalls. Oh, monkey, I love you.

Carol Burnett Show reruns: Harvey Korman losing it and shaking so hard as he tries to contain his laughter is simply a glorious thing. Kids today don't appreciate the goodness of "losin' it" on a live show. That is, until Jimmy Fallon came along and regularly began losing it on the "Jeffrey's" skits on SNL.

Treehouses and forts: I would love to see kids in my neighborhood running around outside playing pretend and building shitty forts and all that stuff you can do even if you are poor. I am going to sound like an old miser here, but really, all they do now is ride around on those loud, super-annoying scooters and play videogames or ride around in their big brother's crappy souped-up VW Beetle, spinning fast around the corner so the hubcaps fly off and land in the bushes outside our front door. I'm just saying.

I'm in a lunch time theatre show right now, which means it's a short one-act and people can come and eat lunch while the show is going on and then go back to work afterwards. It's fun being in a show in the middle of the day-- I get to leave work, drive down to the theatre, go onstage and do the show, and then leave right afterward and then go back to work. But I am telling you right now, people can be so rude.

Yesterday's audience consisted largely of teenagers who were there for some sort of education outreach program geared towards kids who are dropouts, or something like that. There was also a fair share of stupid adults. I don't know what it was, but they were commenting on the action and talking and saying some rude things. This is in a small black-box theatre and the actors are literally within 5 feet of the audience. So yeah, we can hear everything they say. Shut your goddamn sandwichy mouth, you assmunch.

You might as well do away with that rule about no flash photography or, hell, even cell phones, when people are going to be getting up during an actor's speech, walking across the side of the stage area to throw out garbage and then hold a conversation with someone near the door in their normal voice-level. At one point, one actress, in character, says, "I suck!" I could hear some snotty girl in the audience say, "Yeah, you DO suck!" Later on in the show, another cast member says, "I want to die!" as part of her character's inner struggle. And a grown man says loudly enough for those backstage to hear: "Yeah, ME TOO."

It was pretty bad. Have you ever been at a show (or in a show) where the vibe in the room was borderline hostile? You can tell a lot from a general vibe. For instance, I knew these people were irritable and perhaps antsy from the humidity (it was drizzling yesterday), and they did not appreciate the show itself at all. This affected everyone in the room, because that's the thing about bad vibes-- they travel fast and jump from person to person like a spider monkey carrying the Ebola.

Luckily, our other two audiences have been enjoying the show and staying quiet, except to laugh. I know the show is not a bad show; it is generally entertaining. But yesterday I know I left in a down mood, and so did Tom. (He's no stranger to the crowd heckling; in King Lear when he had to strip off his shirt and throw it, kids in the audience started laughing at him. Mind you, he is a good actor and can overlook this, but it's true that on some level, no matter who you are or how good you look, when people laugh at you when you take off a shirt, it's bound to affect you on some level. Try it sometime. Yeah, you too, ladies. You'll quickly see that you don't want peeps laughing at your cans.)

Today was cool because the Red Hat Society was in the audience; they are a group of older women who wear red hats and purple dresses and then go out on the town together. It's something they do based on that famous poem about being an old lady wearing purple. By wearing the bright clothes, these old broads are giving the finger to society: "Fuck you, I'm old and I don't care!" I noticed about 8 women sitting there in red hats, and all of them were smiling these sweet old lady smiles and laughing in all the right places. They cheered me up. I like smiling old ladies. They always make me think of "The Golden Girls"-- the best-ever antidote to a pissy attitude. Many a time I have thrown myself down on the couch, all grumpy and trying to remember if it's a horizontal slit or a long slit you're supposed to make in your wrist, and I'll turn the TV on and flip past Lifetime and then, suddenly: I see those sweet old dames again, and Rose, Dorothy, Blanche and Sophia (and, on occasion, layabout Stan) always make me smile again.

When Tom and I were walking back through the parking garage after the show today, a car with two old ladies went past and they recognized us from the show and started pointing, smiling and waving from inside their car. I smiled and waved back. (Tom didn't see them, but he would have waved too, ladies! I promise!) It was neat to get "recognized" by old ladies that are not your grandmother, or your old guidance counselor, y'know? By the way they were smiling, I could tell they liked the show, and that is just such a nice feeling. Sure, it sucked to have to come back here to work today, but I had this fun little interlude in the middle of the day, during which I got to make an old lady smile. And you know how it is with old people... they've seen all kindsa shit go down. They are not fooling around with all their experience and wisdom. Old people know shit, man. And if you can make one grin? Hell, you are not doing so bad. Not bad at all!

I've decided I want a new template; or, at least, new colors. These ones are too generic.
Also, I might rename this blog, because it is a very long name. If anyone has any suggestions, let me know. Of course, only 3 people are reading this so c'mon guys, help a sistah out.

I am heading home for work, but I just wanted to say I am thinking a lot about these mysterious new apes that have been discovered in the heart of Africa. Read this:
Because of their size and elusiveness, the apes have no predators — not even poachers hunt them, Williams said. With no fear of lions, leopards or hyenas, the large animals hoot at the moon as it rises and sets, which is extremely unusual for apes, she said.

"The people are very afraid of them. They call them the 'lion killers' because they are huge creatures," Williams said. "The folklore is they could kill lions."

I really can't wait until they take a photo of some of these guys and release it to the media. Because I want to see what they look like so bad. I'm glad there's finally something on the planet that scares people so much they actually won't try to kill it.

In other news, they discovered a mystery ape living right in the middle of Apache Junction, AZ. It has the body shape and mass of Danny Devito and the face of Hillary Duff. It hoots at passing cars and throws its feces at people wearing green. Scientists have filmed it but no one wants to get near enough to touch it. Did I mention it also has a "Got Milk?" mustache? Well, it does.
Good night.

I have a new favorite downtime activity. And this one is very cheap; it only costs you the gas to get to Wal-Mart.

Sometime just go to Wal-Mart and visit their scant book section. Last night Trish and I walked around in our local Wal-Mart for quite some time, and we happened upon an awesome book called, "To Kiss a Sheik." On the back cover, part of the book's descriptive teaser read: "What will he find beneath those glasses and oversized clothes?" Hmmm, I really have to wonder: just who is the target audience for these novels? Could it be... dowdy women with glasses and baggy clothes? No, no, that would be silly.

I will tell you now: there is nothing better on the face of this earth than a Harlequin romance book, or a book from the ever popular "Desert Brides" collection. I can't believe I was in the dark this long. I am ashamed to admit I spent my time reading things like the Harry Potter series, the Mike Nelson books, and of course, all the comic books. What a waste. I could have been expanding my mind with literary maelstroms with titles like "Operation: Bassinette" and "The Cowboy's Nanny." And the writing! My God, it is breathtaking. And by breathtaking I mean I feel dizzy and need a smellin' salt to revive me, because the colorful phrasings and the poor use of adverbs bring me to a state of... amazement?

When I got to work today and looked up "To Kiss a Sheik," I quickly realized that it is but one in a series of adventures with the sheik-kissing people. Turns out, someone along the way has the sheik's baby. And there are many brides lined up to marry sheiks. Again, I guess I have been closeted away from the world a little too long, because I really hadn't realized that sheiks were all the rage for hormonal, baby-starved women who love chocolate and kitty cats. I thought "power executive", "sensitive kindergarten teacher", "closeted gay friend" or maybe even just "Earl, who works down at the post office on Third Street" were the prototypes women were chasing nowadays. I also wouldn't think there were too many sheiks to be had. One of the hardest lessons I ever had to learn was when my Granny sat me down one day and told me, "Lisa, the world is not crawling with sheiks who want to marry you! So you had better get a job!"

I really need to mention that the running theme for many of these titles was having babies. It's really "the thing." It was so creepy reading these titles and thinking of the women that are buying these books en masse. I personally am not all itching to have a young'un, so it's odd for me to think of the women with the mindset of, "must have baby...must have baby...must have baby..." This is women's porn. Men yank it to images of busty models wearing black teddies or schoolgirl outfits, and apparently, some women fiddle away to images of themselves holding an infant. How messed up!

When I went home, I told Tom about the wonderous titles I'd seen, and he told me that when he used to work at the local library, those books would be ordered by the stacks. In his words, he said: "They were always being checked out and then we'd have to replace them because they'd come back all covered in chocolate stains and all manner of fluids... I'm serious."

Speaking of fluids, as Trish and I perused the sock department last night, we heard a grown woman laugh and then she ran past quickly with a young girl in tow who looked about 8 years old. We didn't pay it much attention until I happened to glance up and notice that the entire back of the little girl's sweatpants were stained with a very suspicious-looking liquid. From the pattern, I ascertained that the girl had accidentally urinated in her pants. Comedy quickly followed, as the woman tried to lead the girl to shelter but everyone in the store could see the child's pants were wet in the shape of an ass. They were laughing, and I quickly whispered to Trish to look over and see the sight. She noticed it too, and we had to hurry up and run into the shoe section so we could guffaw over the girl's misfortune.

So between the sheik book and the piss girl, it was a fun trip. I highly recommend you take a trip to the Wal-Mart...soon! Maybe not as great as the 99-cent store, but all-American fun any way you look at it. And for my money, if you have a hankering for a book from the "Hot-Blooded Husbands" oeuvre, there is no better place to find it.

I felt like a magnet for rear-ending accidents this past weekend. Whenever I was around, accidents seemed to happen, and I didn't cause any of them (for once).

On Friday night, I was driving down to the show in the far right lane of a six-lane road. I just happened to look over to my left in time to see a little gray sedan slam very hard right into the back of a large black pickup truck. I heard the crash and well, to be honest, there was nothing I could do to help, so I kept driving and went to do the show.

The very next afternoon, I was driving downtown to the other show's rehearsal, and as I was sitting at a light waiting to make a left, I saw a crappy little Toyota bash very hard into the back of a stopped car as they sat at the stoplight in the other direction. In this case, the hood of the little Toyota folded up quickly and almost neatly into a V-shape, and smoke came pouring out from under the hood. That one turned out to be a three-car accident, with the poor car in the middle sustaining damage in the front and the back. And once again, since I was not in a position to stop and help or offer up my services as a "witness," I kept driving.

But the thing that sticks with me is, how come I was witness to two accidents in two days? Was this supposed to serve as some sort of "sign" or "omen" for me? I do know it made me more aware of what's going on in my rearview mirror, but other than that, I don't know for sure what I am supposed to do with this knowledge.

Maybe I am meant to serve on a higher plane of consciousness. Maybe I should sell my possessions and don a long white robe and stand on street corners and hold my hand up in a saintly manner, thereby sending the message of "slow down as ye approach the light, my child" to the driving masses. Maybe I would then get mugged and robbed of my white robe, and left naked huddled under the overpass and muttering about rear ends. Perhaps this is my calling.

Happy Monday!

You know what, I HATE when people say that. That is so lame and stupid to say to someone who has to work in an office job. You say something like that and you open yourself up to the possibility of all manner of bodily injuries. Just don't say that, man.

Callie got two new toys this past weekend: a big stuffed hedgehog that grunts this weird farty-sound when you squeeze it, and a little plastic chick breaking out of its shell that has a long, wheezy squeak to it. For some reason, I absolutely love watching her sitting on the floor just mouthing these toys and making them squeak/ grunt. And when she carries stuff in her mouth, it kills me. So cute. I could watch dogs carry stuff around in their mouths for hours and hours. It would be even better than watching small boys run through sprinklers in the late afternoon sun, their young flesh dappled with sparkling water droplets--

Anycrap, as I was saying, the dog toys were the highlight of my weekend. We also opened MASH, and it went pretty well except for a technical snafu that occurred during one of the only serious scenes in the show. The "doctors" are working on Ho-Jon, the Korean "houseboy", who has been wounded in the war. It's super dramatic, with fake blood and lights flickering and the sound effects of guns firing in the background, and then all the sudden, the super-peppy theme song busts in! It must have looked really weird. I can't help but laugh when I am backstage when things like this happen. I don't flip out, I just start laughing. Chaos is wonderful.

And yesterday sucked. First I left the house without my wallet and had to go all the way back home so I could run my errands; frickin' Walgreens screwed around while filling my prescription again (this is the same Walgreens I wrote about that couldn't figure out how to decipher the written prescription that one time, and also only half-filled another prescription so I had to go back and get the rest, and they treated me like I was a junkie who was selling the extra pills or something) and almost made me late to the matinee; a frickin' Cardinals-Packers football game was going on at the same time as our matinee, and I was trapped in downtown Tempe on a streetcorner, waiting for Tom to pick me up, and drunken fans were coming from all directions, swarming through the streets after the game-- some beligerent and nasty, screaming at one another and leaning on car horns and generally being ridiculous and pig-headed-- cutting one another off in traffic, one guy was walking head-on into Tom's truck, and getting all "fuck you!!!" when we waved him away so we could drive down the street. We were an hour and a half late to our next rehearsal because of the game traffic. Two things: stupid of Tempe Theatre to do a show on a game day (we only had 20 people to see the show), and stupid that they would even plant a huge stadium in a town like Tempe, which simply does not have the street framework to sustain this sort of activity. There was literally no where to go, it was so packed with people. Tempe is a college town, with many two-lane streets and traffic lights at every block. Bad planning all around, gents. I am not pleased.

Well, maybe today will be much better. Also, tonight is the AriZoni awards (theatre), and Tom is a presenter. He's also nominated for Best Director and for Best Overall Production, so I am saying on this relatively-public forum that I hope he wins something! Good luck, Tom. I'm rooting for ya, and by rooting I mean I am cheering you on.

This morning when I woke up I was thinking about the scene in "Back to School" where Robert Downey Jr. is demonstrating something sexual to his buddy while laying on the floor, and Rodney Dangerfield says, "Get up. You look like the poster boy for birth control." Meanwhile, Oingo Boingo is playing "Dead Man's Party" in the background.

Every single morning I wake up with some random scene from a movie, TV show or play (yeah, I've even woke up thinking of my high school drama club performance of "Bring Me My Bride" from "A Funny Thing Happened On the Way to the Forum") stuck in head, where it stays the whole time I am getting showered and dressed.

And it's never a really great scene or anything like that. I don't relive the "Braveheart" speech. I hardly ever think of E.T. telling Elliot to "be good." Nope, instead it's scenes from classics like "Back to School" or perhaps even a snippet from a "Just Shoot Me" episode I saw once while I was sitting awake one night, waiting to puke from illness.

Tonight is opening night for M*A*S*H. Last night, we did a preview performance and it went pretty well. We are playing the whole thing very campy and light, just the way it's written in the script. With an audience, we could tell where the "funny" bits were; it was like having a laugh track. Remember when the TV show MASH added the laugh track... and how much it sucked? Good God. When I was a kid and "The Flintstones" would come on, I always, always thought it was stupid that there was a laugh track. Fred would come and say he was sorry, but he had sex with a triceratops handler, and Wilma would say something like, "Oh, Fred, you're always thinking with your prehistoric dick!" and the laugh track would come banging into the soundtrack to punctuate the joke. And that time when Pebbles got run over by a big stone wheel and Bab-Bam dragged her body all over Bedrock until he found a mystical healer-man who waved saber tooth tiger urine over her body and re-animated her, and the first thing she did as a zombie was grab Bam-Bam's club and whack his head open with it, the laugh track added a slight, "Ohhhh!" to the raucous "Ha Ha Ha!"s. Thank goodness for laughtracks. Otherwise I'm not sure I would have known to laugh or not, in that case.

Speaking of Pebbles and Bam-Bam, I never liked when they would have "reunion" shows later on that showed them as teenagers who were all into each other. It ruined the cuteness of the two lovable cavechildren; she with the bone in her hair, he with the violent smashing tendencies.

And were the Flintstones neanderthals, technically? Shouldn't they have been drawn with sloping, thick foreheads and a shuffling, hunched gait? I also hated how the Bedrock residents enslaved pterodactyls to do their bidding. Baby pterodactyls had to carry shit everywhere and be messengers. Brontosauruses were also forced to lift heavy things and build things with fat old Fred sitting on their backs. It was very much a caste system, with dinosaurs on the lowest rung. If the show had even a smidgen of truth to it, Fred and Barney would be totally creamed by the dinosaurs, who would uprise and overcome the Man holding them down. And the Order of Buffalo or whatever it was would not be able to stop them.

And then there was the issue of Barney's laugh. Can't you just hear it right now when I bring it up? Eeeeheeeheeeheeee! If it was realistic, Barney wouldn't laugh, because he would be too busy picking a wooly mammoth corpse clean after the hyenas finished with it, and trying to keep from freezing to death in the harsh tundra winters. There was no room for laughter in a neanderthal's busy day. Only toil, suffering, hunger and underdeveloped motor and language skills.

I'm not going to get started on those punks the Jetsons.

I just wanted to share one of my favorite George Carlin-isms from one of his shows in the 70s:

"The temperature is 38 degrees at the airport... which is stupid, because I don't know anyone who lives at the airport.

"Tonight's forecast-- dark. Continued mostly dark tonight, turning to widely scattered light in the morning."

I hope you enjoyed laughing with me. Come, my friend... let us retire to the study with our snifters of brandy and reminisce about our old prep school days as we recline by a crackling fire. Mmmmm, what a good life it is. Oh yes.

I don't like the limited choices in menswear today. I think there should be more variety for the menfolk in our midst.

I'm serious. Why is it that guys have primarily the following "looks" to choose from:

1) Polo shirt w/ different color collar and patterned 'design' with ultra-blue jeans or just khakis (the look favored by Dads and ushers at casual churches) Can be changed out with Cosby-esque sweaters purchased at K-Mart.

2) T-shirts of the following subsets:
A-- Witty, retro-looking things (shirts that say "Joe's Car Wash and Hot Dog Stand" or have the logo for "Mr. Bubble" on it, preferably a ringer T-shirt)
B-- Images of wrestlers, country singers or sports figures, preferably on a black shirt.
C-- Plain color T-shirts. (To be worn with Emo-mussed-up hair and black rimmed glasses)

3) The hip-hop look (satiny sports jerseys, anything from P.Diddy's clothing line or FUBU, a visor with the rim slightly off to one side--or tight do-rag--, baggy-ass pants)

4) The neat 'Metrosexual' look (expensive button down shirts, expensive Diesel jeans, or expensive designer pants with polished shoes and a very conservative haircut). Closely tied into the neat Gay (or, "Queer") look.

5) Dirtbag.

These are the five main categories of dress as I can see them. There are, of course, all sorts of subsets for each of these (there's trailer park dirtbag, but there's also old-man-who-doesn't-care-anymore dirtbag, too) and there are even splinter groups, like Guy Who Lives In His Work Uniform, Punked-out Angry Youth/Skateboarder, Goth/Club Kid, IT Guy, and Scuba Diver/ Navy SEAL. It's not the fault of the guys, at all, that clothes don't really matter that much and that clothing manufacturers don't put much effort into what they sell. I always feel so bad that I can go into a typical Target and find 5 great articles of clothes fer cheap and then look at Tom over there trying to find something decent in the paltry men's section... the choices are quite limiting.

I don't like the brand Big Dog. So what's the deal? Is the look basically, "Suburban Uncle On Vacation"? All the pseudo-Hawaiian print shirts for the big n' tall guy on your list, all those T-shirts depicting the logo's St. Bernard standing on a surfboard, lounging next to a beer keg, or working a VCR, or wearing a hooker's dress... oh, so witty and cute.

I tried to like Big Dog when the brand first came out back in what I believe was the late 80s. These were the days when I practically lived in an X-large men's T-shirt with two cows on it that I got on vacation while in Vermont. That was the trend back then; wear big guy's clothes. (Remember that short period, back around 1990, when all the chicks were wearing men's boxers as outerwear? You laugh now, but it was a hell of a lot better than the embroidery floss-between-the-labia and nipple-patches the kids are wearing in the malls today!) My point is, I was already wearing men's clothes with large black and white cartoon animals screenprinted on them... and here comes Big Dog, and hey! I love dogs! Dogs rock. Especially big dogs. I was all set and rarin' to go with my wanting-to-like-Big-Dog self.

But then... it wasn't that great. The shirts weren't very "cute" and I noticed a lot of huge fat guys with beards and mustard stains on their shirts coming in and trying on the Big Dog brand shorts. None of the other girls had picked up on this trend (and this was a little bit premature for the "ironic statement" years I would hit shortly thereafter, when the most uncool shirt was exactly what I wanted to be wearing) and I felt like a weirdo looking around at the Big Dog clothes.

Then I got the job at the video store, and my boss Kenny LIVED in Big Dog T-shirts. He had a different one for every day of the month. Coupled with his almost 300-pound girth and the blond, curly mullet he sported, Big Dog was cemented in my consciousness as a slobby, uncool, stupid brand. Only big fat guys named Kenny with blond mullets wore Big Dog. And I didn't appreciate the big fat guys named Kenny with blond mullets that much. Especially when said Kenny would put me on every single weekend closing shift for three months straight. He'd also wear those wrap-around sunglasses with the mirrored lenses, and his had a hot-pink frame and attached to a thick "sporty" cord that rested around his chubby neck. And would not let me take the poster home for "The Crow". Not cool, Kenny. Not cool.

My advice to all the mens out there is this: just wear whatever the hell you want, as long as it isn't Big Dog, and especially as long as it isn't Big Dog with a pair of mirrored sunglasses. Create your own image and don't let the corporate clothing man keep you down. And if that all fails, go on and try on one of these dresses I got here. Shh, no one has to see. Just give it a try. I won't tell. C'mon, you know you wanna.

Here's the thing: I bet there is a Web site out there somewhere devoted to women who are sitting on toilets talking about pies.

Hope the women aren't real fat. Otherwise the puns about "cowpies" are pretty much the order of the day.

Best overheard conversation of the day:

"...that's what I like. You'd never know there was a way to make a pumpkin pie without any pumpkins."
"Shhh! Someone's walking in."

--Two women in the bathroom stalls here at my office, who stopped this amazing conversation when I opened the door.

Ways to tell if you are Amish:

1) You wear a straw hat or a bonnet
2) Your best friend is a horse named Famous Seamus
3) You like butter. A lot.
4) You don't like the modern folk although you secretly carve the word "zipper" into your forearm out of frustration for the forbidden things
5) You have a "thing" for Kelly McGillis
6) You go up to your father and ask him, "Are we Amish, Pappa?" If he says, "Yes"-- guess what, you're Amish.

That's what I am thinking about today. The Amish. Arizona has a lot of things (heck, there's even Mormons here) but one thing that's missing is Amish.

If you've ever been to Dutch Country in Pennsylvania, you'll know that homestyle dutch country food is always covered in some sort of glaze or sauce. Like if you have green beans, they are green beans in some sort of sugary glaze. Or the chicken has been dipped in honey; some shit like that. Anyway, I get sick if I eat this stuff. Just so you know. One time we ate in one of those homestyle Pennsylvania Dutch restaurants and Trish and I almost puked from all the glazing. And we are kids who liked the sugar. Pop Rocks? Oh, yeah. Lik-M-Aid? Bring it! But glazed beans? Ohhh, god, please, don't make me eat 'em, Mom.

So here's a helpful tip: when you are trying to turn your car off and take the keys out of the ignition, remember to make sure your car is COMPLETELY in park. I spent 10 minutes outside my job this morning, frantically trying to turn the key to the last click, but I couldn't get it to budge. I would turn the car back on again, and then off, and nothing was working. Hell, I even tried switching tactics and applying "the light touch" to turning the key, and that did nothing to help, either.

Finally, I ran into my office and got my Mom, and she came out and sat in my driver's seat and tried turning the key. From my vantage point in the open car door frame, I noticed suddenly that the "park" indicator wasn't completely in the orange-- maybe, just maybe, THAT was the problem?

Umm, yeah. It was. So I spent 10 minutes smacking my steering wheel in frustration and making my fingers red from all the hard turning of the key, and the problem was simply I am a dolt who doesn't put her car all the way into park. Plus I made my Mom drop everything and come running outside to help me. I was all ready to call AAA, even.

If I had called them, they would have pulled up in their tow truck, and a guy named Paulie would have looked over my car with special tools and then said, "We have identified the problem."

I would stare blankly, my pen hovering over my checkbook waiting for the damage.

"The problem is, you're a jackass."

Well, besides that, did anyone else listen to Howard Stern this morning as he was talking to that crazy religious fanatic woman who was saying stuff like the people killed in the WTC attacks got what they deserved; and there was a tape of her 8 year old son-- EIGHT YEARS OLD-- saying that he "hates fags" as he was protesting that all-gay high school in NYC alongside his loving, psychotic parents? WOW. I really thought natural selection would take care of people like this woman; but I have to say, I sure hope nature speeds up the process and makes something terrible happen to her so she can stop poisoning the world with her noxious opinions. Plus, she is raising 11 kids, and if an 8 year old is going around spouting off about hating "fags," the future does not look very good for tolerance. Now I don't proclaim to be an expert in Biblical studies, but I am pretty sure that people like this really, really would piss Jesus off! What is WITH people like this, anyway? Gah! At least people were calling in to the show and sparring with her and getting her to expose what a piece of shit she is. Howard and his staff got in some good comments, too, and used the classic "judge not lest you be judged yourself" argument on her.

Seriously though, since people like her spout off so much hate and try to use the Bible to justify their arguments, doesn't that do the worst kind of harm? I honestly think these people are working for the other side, and they don't know it yet.

I am definitely bummed out today because John Ritter died. That just blows. You know, he just seemed like one of the decent guys. Not all Hollywood-y, or an ACTOR-in-all-capital-letters; just a guy. I liked that about him, and was only recently really getting to appreciate his work in Three's Company. (Seriously, I always disliked that show when I was growing up, and it was mostly because I really hate that theme song for some reason... the woman's voice echoing, "Take a step that is neeeeewwww!" Uggh!) I even admit to a bit of a "Problem Child" admiration, too. Plus, the man was married to Amy Yasbeck, who happened to guest star on one of the all-time best episodes of "Get a Life" as "Elaine from the store," Chris' stalker. She's awesome.

But of course, my first thought was not of Three's Company or even Problem Child. I immediately thought: "Oh, my God! Ted died!" Because he played the evil homocidal robot Ted in an episode of Buffy. He got to say, "I'll smack that smart mouth!" to Buffy. It was good, good stuff.

And, of course, Johnny Cash also died today. I didn't really know all that much about him, but yesterday they were playing patriotic songs on the radio and they played this spoken-word-like song about being proud of "that ragged old flag," and I definitely have listened to my share of "Ring of Fire" in my time. (It preceded Tori Amos' cover of "London Girls" on a mix tape I keep in my car.) But the best thing he could have done was do that cover of "Hurt." Man, that simply was amazing. And the video is by far, one of the greatest videos I have ever seen. I only saw it once, too, back in February when I was home recovering from my surgery. I was already feeling blah and yucky, and then this video came on and I swear, I actually forgot about how I was feeling for a few minutes and soaked in the images of young and wild Johnny Cash juxtaposed with old and tired Johnny Cash, over the strains of one of the most well-written songs Trent Reznor ever wrote. It was brilliant.

Now I feel bad I wrote that post about wanting more celebrity deaths a few weeks back. I was expecting Mickey Rooney. Not two cool guys. Sorry, everyone, if I had any cosmic connection to their deaths. If that's the case, my bad.

I love that it's suddenly cooler out in the morning. That it's getting closer to being fall. Fall is definitely the best time of the year, no matter what part of the country you live in. It means things like windy nights, crisp leaves and apples. Man, I do love the in-season apples! I remember some of the very best apples I ever had were ones we had when we visited Rochester for Joel and Teena's wedding. They were so good I was stowin' away extra apples in my suitcase when it was time to come home. But there's also some good apples up in Oak Creek Canyon if you live here in Arizona. So crisp, juicy, tart apples can be had, you just have to go look for them sometimes.

I also get all psyched and in the mood for more winter-themed activities the closer it gets to winter. Even out here in Phoenix, I still start getting a craving for going ice skating. Lately it's been the new thing I really want to do. I just realized that there are two rinks right down the street from my house: a roller skating rink and an ice rink. I haven't been ice skating in over 5 years, since I moved here. And the last time I went roller skating was on a date, also about 5 years ago, and it really hurt my shins so bad. (I don't remember roller skating hurting like that when I was a kid. Whhhha happened??) But seriously, I am planning to get my ass in that ice rink anyway (it's easier to skate on ice, methinks) very soon and that's a fact, Jack. When I do go, I will probably blog about the experience, because there is never a lack of excitement at a rink. The teenagers! The snack bar pretzels! The video games! Ahh, the smell of it.

The best ice skating experience I ever had was in high school, when I went on a church youth-group trip to the ice rink down in Wall (NJ). I was already in a goofy mood and laughing at almost everything because that's what you do when you are in a church youth group. HaHAhaHAHA, fun! But there I was, skatin' around with my friend Heather, and we skated past a heavy gentleman, probably in his 40s, skating very awkwardly... he was basically step-step-stepping on the ice, not gliding and coasting. He also happened to be wearing high-waisted snow pants (giggle) and a little woolen beanie-hat with a pom-pom on top (more giggles). Anyway, we were already chuckling over the sight, but as we went past and skated ahead of him, we heard a "Whooosh, scrape"... then a one-second pause... and then... "THUD." We looked back and he had indeed wiped out. But it was highly humorous to hear all the sound effects as the fall happened. And for some other reason, this doesn't look so funny to me in writing; it's funnier than hell in my memory, though.

I just wanted to say that today is a beautiful day for Phoenix in September. It's less than 100 degrees, and there are white puffy clouds moving quickly through a periwinkle blue sky, and a breeze that whips your hair up and down like a floppy owl's wing. It's so nice out I want to sing. But I won't, for I wander off-pitch when it's windy out.

Whenever I see a bald guy with an ultra-shiny head, I always wonder the same thing: How the hell did his skin get that shiny? Today we saw a guy crossing the street in front of my car--my Mom called him "Smiley" because he was smiling this dopey, toothy smile as he walked, and we, as native NJ-ians, were like, "what the hell are YOU smiling about, buddy??"-- and his head was so shiny it literally was glaring in the sun. Seriously, a white light hit us in the eyes as he walked past. Very bright. Like his head was the-thing-you-see-when-you-die kind of bright. (And if that's what death is like, I elect to live forever, thankya very much.)

But come on, it's too much! Do they polish their heads or something? Do you have to buff out that kind of shine? What sort of polish do they use? Is there Head Polish somewhere on the market? Does it have a funny odor? And if so, how much does it cost and can I buy a flat? (In case I go bald)

It reminds me of the old Buddhist tale of the stupid children. Hear me out: a stupid child (let's call him Goofus) was trying to kill a pesky insect that landed on his bald relative's head. Nothing was working up until this point, so Goofus went and got an axe. He swung the axe at the bug, and killed it! Hooray! But, he also split his bald relative's head open in the process. Booo! The moral is something like "Some friend! He'll help you, but he'll also kill you, too." I found a version of this story here as well.

Anyway, here's today's tip. If you're bald, or think you will soon be bald, try not to let your head get too shiny. It will only attract bugs and axes.

Yesterday I had to get a prescription filled, and while I was waiting around in Walgreen's they called me up to the drop-off window. When I got there, the woman behind the counter held up the handwritten prescription and pointed to a part of it. "Do you know what this means?" she asked me.

Now this was a first for me; being asked to decipher my doctor's writing for people that I had assumed were professionals at reading bad handwriting. I had handed worse-looking prescriptions in before, and always ended up with the medication my doctor had mentioned I'd be getting.

So I looked at it, and I swear it said, "18 refills" which, under the circumstances, was a strange number of refills. Normally it's like 1, or 2 refills. This was something I knew I'd be taking for at least a year, with 30 pills in each refill. So 18 was a little high, in my opinion. The woman behind the counter said, and I quote, "I think it's 1 POINT 8 refills."

I was sort of blanking out at this point. I didn't have an answer for her, except that I knew I needed to be on this medication for six months to a year. How would you even fill a .8 of a refill? Again, with that math! I don't like that!

Next, she asked me to decode a part that said "3/MD w/cont.s" When I gave her another extended, "Ummmmmmm..." response, she finally told me she would let me off the hook and call my doctor directly. I felt this huge sense of relief, because up until then I was feeling like I was a failure on some level to this woman. Isn't that weird? She was the one who should be able to know what all this jumble means, not me. And somehow she transferred her incompetancy to me in the course of our conversation.

And it did turn out to be 18 refills. I feel like I should cash that shit in and sell it on the street. Because, you know, I would be SO good at facilitating street deals in my Rav-4 and wearing my standard-issue Old Navy clothes.

Next time, I am going through the drive-through drop-off, and speeding away as soon as possible so they can't call on me to figure out the details. I don't like having to think when it's not my time to think. I'd rather go have a slurpee and drive around aimlessly listening to the Eels. I am not a pharmaceutical genius.

I have decided I like the phrase, "wildly inappropriate." Before you even know what subject you're about to hear about, if someone starts out saying that, you know it's going to be interesting at the very least. In my experience, people like the wildly inappropriate stuff. For instance, if I say "check out the wildly-inappropriate baby over there!" you're gonna look. If I was just pointing to an ordinary fat little baby drooling on itself, you'd probably glance and shrug and that would be it. But if I call it "wildly inappropriate," you're going to get a gleam in your eyes and you'll turn your head very quickly to see said baby.

Just to continue this, I will say that the baby is wearing hip-huggers and has been made up in blackface, and is wearing a T-shirt that says "God Hates the Jews." Now that would be one offensive baby right there. You wouldn't want to miss seeing that.

In other news, I turned on SpikeTV yesterday after Trish called to tell me "Elimination" was on. That show is fun. In case you don't know what it is, it's a Japanese show that's been dubbed over by Americans (well, I s'pose they could be Canadians, but it's unlikely for more than one reason I won't get into here). But the contestants (?) on this show have to go through these dangerous obstacle courses for some reason. They never mentioned a prize, so I assume it's just self-nihilism at its finest. Anyway, there were Japanese men and women getting pummeled with balls as they tried to cross a rickety rope bridge, and a guy wearing a peanut costume falling into what looked like sewage. Hilarity did indeed ensue.

I'd like to have a show where Corporate Assholes(tm) have to touch red-hot objects with their 'covered parts', stick their faces into port-a-potty toilets, and swing from ropes into walls covered with acidic razor blades. Why? I don't know. All I know is, I am sick of those guys with the cellphones and the blahblahblah and the trophy wives and the shirts and ties and the SUVs. We have too many of those guys right now. What's a spare corporate asshole here or there?

I, like most Americans, have been chewing Bazooka gum since I was a baby, almost. Today I am chewing it again, and I just wanted to say that Bazooka Joe is such an asshole jerkoff not-funny bastard retard. Those comics are NEVER funny. You'd have to be deep in a coma to laugh at his antics. And even then you'd probably choke on the respirator tube because you would realize on some deep level of consciousness that Bazooka Joe is not funny, and you'd be emabrassed you laughed, so you'd try to stop it-- hence, the choking.

The comic I am holding right now depicts Joe and his friend, Pesty, out fishing. It reads:
"Hi Pesty!"
"Hi, Joe!"
"Did you get any bites yet?"
"No, I don't think my worm is really trying!"

Ohhhh, stop it, Joe. You too, Pesty. You're killing me. I have to go to the hospital now and have them pump all the NOT LAUGHING out of my gut.

And another thing, what does it mean when someone tells you that you are full of, "piss and vinegar"? What a combination. And if I am full of it, through which orifice do you expect this concoction to escape from? You can't stay full of piss and vinegar for long, I know that much. That would burn like... the worst fire in the history of man! And how did the piss and vinegar get inside me? Was there a funnel that was inserted into my skull, or was it soaked-in following a swim? And how do you know that's what I am full of? I could be full of vanilla ice cream and honey-baked ham, but how would you know... you're too busy assuming I am full of piss and vinegar. Looks like you're gonna miss out.

Anyway, I don't mean to yell at YOU, per se. I am really berating Bazooka Joe when I use the phrase "you." That punk's full of nothing but piss and vinegar.

My mother always says the same thing when we go out somewhere: "Well, it's nice to get out and let the stink blow off of us." She is probably so tired of smelling this whole rotten family! And that kind of "stink" (aka: sin) is never blown off.

I changed the template because I think this is a little easier to read. If you don't agree, why don't you just let me know so, and we'll go from there. In other words, write to me and I will dutifully ignore you. Sound good? Good.

I don't really have much to talk about today. I'm sure there were half a dozen funny things I thought of in passing as I drove in today but by the time I got in to work, it was all limp and bland upstairs in my head, much like an unsalted rice cake.

So I figgered I would talk about Malcolm and the time he tried to hatch some chocolate chip cookies. Malcolm is my adorable and sweet chihuahua. He's so freaking cool. He's not like the stereotypical chihuahua; he is mixed with something else; some sort of terrier or maybe even a Chinese Crested. He's got wiry white hair that stands up straight on his head and he is very, very dignified and aloof. He also doesn't bark very much, and he enjoys spending time in his "basket" more than he seems to like cuddling or getting kisses from me. Yet he can be very cute and cuddly when he feels like it. He's like a cat.

About four years ago Trish and I shared an apartment, and one of us brought home a baggie with two or three really tasty chocolate chip cookies from La Madeleine's restaurant. I think it was me. But anyway, the cookies were left on the coffee table in the living room for later eating. They were far enough away from the edge that I knew Malcolm couldn't reach them, so I didn't worry.

I came home later on in the day and saw the cookies were gone. Trish was also gone; probably at work or something. I thought to myself, "Oh, I guess Trish ate the cookies." No big deal. I went out. Later, Trish came home, saw I was gone, and also noticed the cookies were missing. She thought to herself, "Oh, I guess Lisa ate the cookies." No big deal.

But at some point-- maybe the next day, for all I can remember now-- one of us was in my bedroom petting Malcolm as he sat in his basket. He got up, and underneath him was the baggie full of cookies! He had been sitting on the bag for hours on end.

We came to conclusion that Angel, the cat, had knocked the baggie off the table and Malcolm saw his chance to get the goods, so he scooped it up and carried it away to his basket lair. Once there, he didn't try to open the baggie and eat the cookies (we know this because there were no toothmarks on the baggie at all); rather, he decided he'd rather warm them up with his body for some reason. He probably thought he could hatch the cookies.

He is such an unusual little dog. What kind of dog won't eat cookies, given the opportunity? Callie, Tom's dog, will eat anything and everything she can find. (Among her favorites: cucumber, whole carrots, grapes, ice) My old dog, Sam, once cleared out a whole box of Entenmann's butter cookies and I was mad and wanted to punish him, so I put him in the storage room with the empty box for an hour to "think about what he'd done." And I will tell you now: it worked! He was very guilty and sorry after that. Psychological punishments always work best. (Especially with people, for sure.)

Anyway, my point is: I love Malcolm. He rules, big time.

I can't let this whale fart thing go!

My T-shirt idea for today is:

The Truth (AKA: whale farts) Is Out There
---in the style of those "X Files" t-shirts that were so hip back in '97.

When I woke up this morning, and all throughout the day, I felt like something was missing. The sky is blue, birds are singing, I had some delicious Boston Market for lunch, but yet... I needed to see something. I needed proof. No more blurring of the facts, or trumped up fables and fairy tales. No. I needed to know NOW if whale farts actually existed.

Lucky for me, today's the day I found a buried-August 27 news item that cheerfully trumpted the news that they (aka: whale fart scientists) finally confirmed that whale farts are out there, and they do exist, and they do fucking stink. Thank the heavens above we finally know the truth.

And it sure is great that they even captured a picture of this miraculous flatulence on film (not to mention a stream of whale poo)! If you're like me and you're thinking, "Hey, I really want to know more about whale farts," look here.

I drove past a man who was jogging this morning. He looked so uncomfortable. He might as well been on the rack, or inside an iron maiden ("Excellent!!") or maybe even listening to a Jessica Simpson song; he had a look of pure tortured pain on his face. Since he was probably about 60 years old, he was having a bitch of a time keeping up the pace in the warm morning sunshine. His skin was that white, flabby stuff that looks like the consistency of swiss cheese that's been out on your counter for a couple of days; grayish in parts. And the kicker was, he was wearing those shortshort nylon running shorts in deep purple, with a matching purple tank top and a purple headband.

Why do people jog in Phoenix? It never ceases to amaze me how hard people try. Give it up, old man. And everyone else, give it up. Jogging is for suckers. I should know. I jog sometimes and whew, it about kills me every time. That's why I endorse bike riding. And walking. And above all else, sleeping. And don't forget sucking on ice cubes. Did you know that you burn 2 calories when you suck on ice?

How 'bout that! Go on, fat boy, get yerself some ice. I'll wait here.

To all those impressionable kids out there that want to be magicians, here's a tip: Don't follow in David Blaine's footsteps.

I just read that the man supposedly cut off part of his own ear at a press conference and had to leave because blood was pouring down his head. All because a reporter asked him to "do a trick."

Why couldn't he just make a handkerchief chain come out of his sleeve, or release a dove from his mouth? Why did he have to just starting hacking away at his own head? I just don't understand kids today.

And soon he will be suspended in a box over a river for another "endurance feat." And the same article I referenced above says the folks on the ground can view him and his lip balm and diapers while he is going through this pointless stunt. Wow, sign me up for a boat ride. I think that classic song "What the World Needs Now" should be rewritten in 'honor' of David Blaine:
"What the world needs now/ is Blaine, dumb Blaine
He's the only one who will cut his ear off, freeze himself in ice and wear diapers and lipbalm over/ the River Thames."

He is not an attractive man.

This past Friday, Tom and I went up to the Lowell Observatory so we could take a close up look at Mars. It was fun to do this. Have you looked at Mars yet? I mean, really studied that motherfucker? We did! And I have to say, it's pretty amazing to look at a planet like that.

We also got to see some star clusters through a few other telescopes. At Lowell, the crown jewel is the Clarke telescope, which is what Percival Lowell used to study Mars about 100 years ago. It's amazing that this giant telescope is that old, and is still working with almost all the original parts. The dome it's housed in is even the original wood dome they built specially for it. Interestingly, this dome was hit by lightning recently, but I couldn't see evidence of it. Imagine lightning hitting an antique, historic telescope like that and ruining it. Whew!

I also found out that this was the place where they discovered Pluto. We saw the original photos they took of it through a telescope that captures light onto photographic film, but can't be used for observing. All kinds of history and astronomy-stuff to learn. We saw Neil Amstrong's signature in the guestbook when he visited Lowell to prepare for the trip to the moon. Hell, we even looked at the sun itself when we went back for a repeat visit the following morning. Through a mylar lens filter, we could look right at it and see sunspots and everything, which looked like tiny black dots. And we didn't go blind. That right there is a miracle in my book!

And of course, in the presence of all this cool equipment, the breathtaking stars and galaxies and intense knowledge-gathering, there were crowds of people. What with Mars being so close to Earth and all, it seemed to bring the tourists out in hordes. We were surprised that many people would chose to spend their Friday night at the observatory like we did.

We were in line behind some folks who were amazed that Mars "wasn't that red." And I overheard people leaving the Clarke telescope viewing saying, "It wasn't that clear, I couldn't see anything." Then there were other people that were more interested in staring down the hill so they could overlook the lights of the city itself. So you mean to tell me, people, that you are able to look at something 600 million light-years away (which might as well be as impressive as looking at the face of God, in my book) and you would rather stand there all slack-jawed, looking down at a lit-up Little League field? Other people wanted to know how many miles per hour the stars moved. Well, to be fair, I guess this could actually be calculated by those math-types. But still, I heard a lot of dumb things said; witnessed quite a bit of ignorance, and I realized something-- I would NEVER have the patience of one of those astronomer-tourguide guys that were helping everyone out.

I would probably lose it one night and whump someone with a milkcrate. Which reminds me of one more thing: turns out, milkcrates are the accessory du jour at the observatory. You can turn it three different ways to allow humans of differing heights to look comfortably through a telescope. Until Friday night, I am not entirely sure I appreciated milkcrates and their place in the universe. You gotta respect da milkcrate; that's all I'm sayin.