Something different

New blog coming after Thanksgiving, on a new site. All stories, no philosophy. And I won't be writing it - well, I won't be writing my stories. I've got a female partner, and we're switching up writing each other's bizarre experiences. Is she a friend? A lover? Is she, indeed, made up?

You'll see.

So long, and thanks for all the hits.

Today, almost a year and a half after it began, the Parade of Delusion officially comes to an end. What began as a way to communicate with my friends and family back home, evolved into something so much more - a place to write thoughts, post funny stories, share photos, talk about what was going on in the world and in my life. And I am grateful for that, and grateful too for all the readers who have shared in this journey with me. Since I began tracking hits, over 15,000 people have visited this corner of the world wide web. I've done my best to provide all of you with stories worth telling, stories that Mrs. Kennedy so graciously calls "good and true and full of fun." I am humbled by your collective response.

My blog has always been unfiltered. A quick check through the archives will provide any interested party with my full name, my email, pictures of my family, my friends, and the names of some of my former employers. I think stories are somehow less true when told behind a mask, and so, from the outset, I chose to put my information out there front and center. I see now that this was a grave error, because it gave me a sense of invulnerabilty which I fear I may have passed on to the one I care most about.

Sarah, my girlfriend, began blogging shortly after meeting me. She, too, had caught the bug. Unlike me, however, she chose to remain anonymous - or rather, to remain as anonymous as possible. Yesterday, she left a comment on Jen and Tonic, sharing some of her own experiences of having a manic-depressive family member. Some individuals took exception to her post, thinking she was too mean. While I will say that Sarah has one of the kindest, most caring souls of anyone I know - I will refrain from debating the finer points of her comments. Mostly because I don't give a shit, but also because I can't win. People will think what they want to think, and that's ok.

What's not ok is to take something from the INTERNET and use it to hurt someone in real life. Blogger Styrofoam Kitty did some detective work (admittedly not much) and was able to find all of Sarah's personal information, which she then posted online for all to read. Someone, perhaps Kitty herself, then sent it to Sarah's boss. And she was fired. Escorted out by security. For all intents and purposes, her life has been destroyed. And over what? A blog comment.

And the SICKNESS that would lead someone to do that makes me ill.

What makes me particularly nauseous is that I know both Jen and Tonic and Styrofoam Kitty have read this blog, because both are regular Fussy readers and my post "The Juice is Loose" was so kindly linked to by Mrs. Kennedy back in January. I made you laugh and you hurt the one I love. Congratulations. It feels as if I've been punched in the stomach.

I can no longer provide entertainment for people who are so depraved they would use blogs to intentionally hurt another person. I can no longer take the chance that I will get hurt myself.

And so I sign off. I have no delusions of my own importance. At best, I was worth 5 minutes of your day, and while I tried as hard as possible to make those 5 minutes worth it, I doubt very much that I'll be missed. In the event that someone does miss me, however, I've decided to leave my archive up. May you all find as much joy in reading my stories as I did in writing them.
And if I ever see some of you in person, the first round is on me.

Peace be with you.

"I'll tell you what the human soul is," he whispered, his eyes closed. "Animals don't have one. It's the part of you that knows when your brain isn't working right. I always knew. There wasn't anything I could do about it, but I always knew."

Shortly after the tragedy of September 11th I read an article in Time Magazine which has stuck with me ever since, although it had little to do with 9/11 and even less to do with anything that might seem important. It was a back-page tribute to the great biographer William Manchester, whose first two volumes on the life of Winston Churchill were universally hailed as landmark studies. The author noted that while the literary world waited patiently for the promised third volume (which, incidentaly, was to cover all of World War II), it became increasingly obvious that Manchester would never rise to complete it. He had, it seems, recently suffered several strokes, and while he was as smart and as knowledgable as ever, he was unable to make any connections between various facts floating around in his brain. For a writer, this is tantamount to death, for the inability to make connections leaves you as vulnerable and helpless as Alice jumping down the rabbit hole; sure there are wonderous new sights and incalcuable new stories but, well, what does it all mean?

But the author, not finished, took it a step further - asserting that the ability to make appropriate connections is all that's really human about any of us. If we do have souls then their main power seems to be in connecting seemingly random events to make a life - a picture with the face of a loved one, a song with the memory of a first kiss, a scent with a smell of our mothers. And I thought about that, and I liked it. And I liked it so much that I plagarized some of it from memory for an article I wrote a few months after.

Sarah has been stuck at the office this past week, working massive amounts of overtime for E3, an annual gaming conference held in Los Angeles. Hoping to lift her spirits some, and because I had to return a pair of shoes she left at my apartment, I brought her lunch this afternoon and ate with her. Walking to her cubicle I noticed very little in the way of decoration: a few pictures of me, an advertisement for her dance class, and a white sheet of paper with a quote on it. "Our greatest fear is not that we are inadequate," it read. "Our greatest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure." I was the one who had sent her the quote, so I know where she read it first, but I would be lying if I said seeing it displayed so prominantly didn't shock me a little. For the last time I saw it printed like that was in my mother's office, thumbtacked to the wall, shortly before she died. So there it was: a connection. Held together by a stapler and some push-pins.

And I thought about how much I loved my mother, and how much I love Sarah. I thought about how much I've experienced in the years since my mother's death, and how much I look forward to experiencing with Sarah. And, to quote Kurt Vonnegut, "I asked myself about the present: how wide it was, how deep it was, how much was mine to keep."

And, somewhere in there, I thought about my grandfather, who remains one of my all-time heroes. Like William Manchester, my grandfather was plagued by strokes in his old age. One visit he would see me as one of my brothers, the next as my father. Towards the end of his life he didn't seem to recognize me at all. Or maybe he did. Maybe he did recognize me but couldn't place me, couldn't connect me as the son of his daughter, couldn't connect my life to his own. And maybe he knew he should have been able to. I hope not. I hope not because to lose something is a great tragedy, but to lose something and KNOW you've lost it is a hell of indescribable torment.

My grandfather died, by the way, on September 11th.

All this is just to say that a helicopter landed in front of my apartment today.

I come from a place hailed as the safest city in America. Which is true. Err, more or less. While Middletown isn't so much the burgeoning metropolis it's sometimes made out to be, I have read on several occassions that it boasts the lowest crime rate of any comparable township. This all makes sense, of course, when you consider that Middletown is probably the most middle-class place in the known universe. Not poor enough to breed crime, and not rich enough to attract it. Which, frankly, is fine by me. And now that Geraldo has moved out, well, that leaves only Jon Bon Jovi to lure the really rich criminals, the ones interested in million dollar ransom notes. Nobody's dumb enough to kindap Jon Bon Jovi, though. Mostly cause he's so cool, obviously, but also because he could kill you with his bare hands. No lie.

I sometimes like to think of Santa Monica as the Middletown of the California Coast. Makes me feel less homesick. Sure we've got botox clinics instead of Quik Cheks, and I'll even grant you that the populace here is, on the whole, slighty more attractive. But mostly the comparison serves. Beach town, suburb of a big city...you know, the really important stuff. Like, for instance, the police presence. Or rather, perhaps I should say the police non-presence, cause in two years here I've seen cops three times. Well, there was that time that I called them. And how could I forget that time 7 of California's finest simultaneously pulled their guns on me during a fugitive stand-off? Memories, like the corner of my mind. Misty water color memories...Of the way we were.

There's really no closing to this post, or witty tie-in with the beginning. All of this was just to say that I was awoken this morning by a police copter landing in front of my apartment, with a media copter still in the sky.

I want very much to be a part of something important.

When I am King, they will be first against the wall.

My girlfriend works in PR. I tread lightly.

1.) Flagstaff, Arizona politicians propose Proposition 100, which would ban stores of certain sizes from being built within city limits (effectively prohibiting Wal-Mart super centers.)
2.) Wal-Mart hires political PR firm to sway voters.
3.) PR firm takes out full page ad in local newspaper linking ordinance laws with Nazi hate crimes. Picture is of a 1933 Berlin book burning.
4.) My head explodes.
5.) Wal-Mart initially takes stance of plausible deniability, leaving PR firm to take heat.
6.) Anti-Defamation League brings both da Noise and da Funk.
7.) Wal-Mart owns up to its bullshit, acknowledges they approved ad. Issues half-hearted apology.
8.) Everybody keeps their jobs.
9.) I continue to wonder why corporate and political information needs to be channeled through public relations.
10.) Nobody listens to me.
11.) America takes another turn for the worse.

Forgive me Lord, I know all too well what I do: Friend Edition

If I'm going to write a post composed merely of amusing or otherwise worthwhile links, the least I can do is pretend I collected them just for you, dear readers. Did I say pretend? Don't believe it. I got these special! (Everyone else thinks I'm talking to them, but I'm really just talking to YOU!) And away we go...

For Erik, Rosencrantz is dead: I have of late,—but wherefore I know not,—lost all my mirth, forgone all custom of exercises; and indeed, it goes so heavily with my disposition that this goodly frame, the earth, seems to me a sterile promontory. If only I had found this song that you and I used to listen to earlier. Hamlet never sounded so good.

For Pat, Christmas in May: It seems I'll never grow tired of laughing at the lunacies of your ultra christian mother. (Who, of course, it must be noted is a fine, fine woman). Ask her this: What if the fetus someone was going to abort grew up to be a soldier bringing democracy to a godless dictatorship? Now she can protect our troops from the womb to the war, with this stylish baby holding a gun ornament. Collect em, trade em with your friends (Also comes in "brown" model.)

For Pete, A Link to the Past: It seems like a lifetime ago, but one of the first real laughs you and I shared was over a diminutive Asian fellow with a penchant for hammering out old video game themes on the piano, and a talent for sexual poetry. You remember him, of course. We all do. One of these days I'll have to write a post with some of his funnier quotes ("But what about the law of diminishing returns?"), but for now, we'll have to settle for this a cappella performance which would have had him soiling his pants in delight.

For Ian, A Million Dollar Baby: Oh, we chide you Ian. Yes, I've said you drank to mask an inner saddness. Yes, I'm ashamed to admit, I've called you worthless. I now see the error of my ways. You're not worthless Ian. And thanks to Human For Sale, you can now figure out exactly how much you ARE worth. You know, just in case the job thing doesn't work out.

For Clayton, the 6 is Silent: Nobody has more weird names in their family than you. I'm sorry, it's true. Which is why I think the main character from Cax6ton, a very entertaining short story about a man's search for God through the randomness of the universe, would fit right in. Now that I think about it, this story would also make a great movie. Forget I mentioned it actually. These are not the droids you are looking for.

For Sarah, THE Definition of Love: It's a true regret that none of you have had the pleasure of meeting Sarah yet. But I think you'll find you know a lot about her already. Why, just look in the dictionary. And after you've done that, make your own dynamic images (including Uncle Sam and Einstein graphics) over at Hetemeel.

"Among the things Billy Pilgrim could not change were the past, the present, and the future."

God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change...

My grandmother seemed somewhat ashamed this afternoon to admit that she didn't like Mother's Day. "It's ok," I whispered back. "Neither do I." And although they might never admit it, I know my siblings don't either, even given the fact that the older ones are either married to mothers or mothers themselves. In fact, most people I know don't like Mother's Day, which seems near sacrilegious to say outloud. I wonder, though, how many of you secretly feel the same way. How many of you had a bad mother? How many of you ARE bad mothers? How many of you wake up on the second Sunday of each May to a parental legacy of suicide, death, illness, abuse, or guilt? How many of you, like me, wake up on Mother's Day and wish, more than anything else, just that you had someone to share it with? If only one more time...

The courage to change the things I can...

If so, Anna Jarvis feels your pain. If you don't know who Anna Jarvis is, don't worry, I didn't either. But you can thank her for Mother's Day. It was through her repeated efforts that Mother's Day became a national holiday in 1914, which is a curious fact if only because she spent the rest of her life trying to get it abolished. In 1923 she filed a lawsuit to have Mother's Day stopped, and a short time later was even arrested while demonstrating at a holiday-related carnation sale, so enraged was she at the over-commercialization of what to her was supposed to be a sacred time for reflection and prayer. And I love her for that. I love her for attempting to protect the purity of her idea, for her effort to save it from those who would exploit it for monetary gain. As I do so, I recall the only violent act Jesus was ever said to have committed: "And they come to Jerusalem: and Jesus went into the temple, and began to cast out them that sold and bought in the temple, and overthrew the tables of the moneychangers, and the seats of them that sold doves; And He would not suffer that any man should carry any vessel through the temple."

And I think that those two things are somehow related.

And the wisdom to always know the difference...

Which is why I don't believe in Mother's Day; certainly not the slick, Americanized, Hallmark-approved version that is. Lost somewhere in aisle 5 of the greeting card store is the true purpose of the holiday, which is to celebrate those people who "mother" us, even if they are not our mothers. People like my grandmother, my brother, my high school journalism teacher, my aunts, my best friend's parents. People like my father - the best mother after my first mother that anyone in this world or the next could ever ask for. To them I daily raise a glass in praise.

And I don't need a fucking holiday to tell me that.

It's no Tom Cruise...

But it was still kind of devilishly fun.

Paris Hilton interview up over at Cinema Confidential.

"You, sir, are an Ignorant Bigot."



After sitting through the wretchedness that was the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy movie, we were overjoyed when it happened that we caught a BBC documentary on Douglas Adams. Interviewed as part of the program was none other than Richard Dawkins, whose book "The Blind Watchmaker" was a favorite of ours in high school. Not so surprisingly, the two were close friends.

Coincidentally, we came across a recent interview with Dawkins on One Good Move, one of our most favorite blogs. In it Dawkins explains why God is a delusion, religion is a virus, and America has slipped back into the Dark Ages.

Read and be less ignorant.

There was only one catch...

...and that was Catch-22, that specified that a concern for one's own safety in the face of dangers that were real and immediate was the process of a rational mind. Orr was crazy and could be grounded. All he had to do was ask; and as soon as he did, he would no longer be crazy and would have to fly more missions. Orr would be crazy to fly more missions and sane if he didn't, but if he was sane, he had to fly them. Yossarian was moved very deeply by the absolute simplicity of the clause of Catch-22 and let out a respectful whistle.

Dear Lord, please save me from your followers.



But please continue to allow this guy to follow the pope.

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

Two posts on the same day isn't only unprecedented, it's downright foolhardy. But wholly to be a fool while spring is in the air, dear readers. And kisses are a far better fate than wisdom.

Panic: I wish I could tell you that the new Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy movie was the greatest thing ever put on celluloid. I wanted so badly to be able to say that. But I can't, dear friends. It's rubbish. And I have rarely been so disappointed. (Check back next week after I see an advance screening of Star Wars Episode III. Methinks disappointment might be in the water these days.)

Surf's Up at WTF Bay: McDonald's has copywrited the phrase "I am Asian." I sense a great disturbance in the force, as if 2 billion voices suddenly cried out in horror and switced to Wendy's.

One night in Paris: For many years, I've lived with a hole in my heart. No, it's not even that. How can I describe it? Well, it's almost as if a part of me was missing. I thought maybe I was incapable of love, or maybe even that I could love, but I didn't love enough. I realize now what that hole was. It was that I had never met Paris Hilton. She alone can fill all my holes. And, because you all wanted to know- yes, she really is that farking stupid. Continue laughing at, and not with. (By the way, this is going to be my favorite interview to write up. I can already predict that I will be so bitter in my intro, that my piece is going to get rejected five times before I find a way to make it subtle enough to offend her only if she's really paying attention. Be on the look-out.)

Some are born great, some acheive greatness: And some get mentioned on pg. 92 of the latest issue of People magazine (not by name) as having called Drew Barrymore "fat." I won't comment on whether or not this mystery person could, in fact, be me - other than to say that it is.

And finally...: No witty intro. No snarky comments. Sarah and I recently celebrated our six month anniversary. People, that's like twenty years in Shawn-time. No being ironic about it, I'm impressed. And very, very much in love.

And I'm glad I didn't give a shit about a stupid baseball game.

First rule of Blog Club: Do not talk about Blog Club.

So I won't, dear readers, except to say, well, I've been otherwise occupied these last few weeks. Sarah's father got all up and married, you know, and then, as written on her blog, her grandmother passed away. That's not to mention the whole new Pope fiasco. (Short story: There are things you don't know. I was called in. Next time, bet heavy money on the Nigerian. wink, wink.)

I had just about decided to give up on my blog, gather my memories, and move on. Then my brother verbally bitch slapped some sense into me. "I don't read your blog anymore, bro. You're lame." Ah, yes. Where would we be, dear friends, without the wisdom of 36 year olds who call us lame for not blogging?

But, alas. He was right.

And so we travel forth, once again boldly going where many men have gone before. To the utmost reaches of the Blog-o-verse we venture forth. May the journey continue to excite and amaze.

And I would really like it if it weren't "lame."

It's not You. It's Me.

I don't know if this is working anymore blogger buddies. It's just, well, I've started to see other people on the internet.

They make stuff for me.



Look, I think we should still be friends. Maybe YOU can make something for me? Ok, I'm sorry, that probably wasn't the nicest thing to say considering the situation. Chin up. I'll be around.

Until then, maybe you should pick up your stuff.

Were you born without shame, or was that removed in one of your numerous surgeries? Or, "If a tree fell in your vagina, would you even notice?"

It's been a long time since I did any celebrity interviews, a real long time if you don't count my friend Brad (who isn't so much famous as he is almost famous). But when my old boss emailed me yesterday asking if I could be an emergency fill-in at a junket next weekend, I couldn't say no. Who was it? Matt Damon, Tom Cruise, Jennifer Connelley? No, I've met all those stars before.

This one is about pure comedic potential. This one is with Paris Hilton.


I once spent 12 hours inside (the) Paris Hilton.

So I'm opening up the floor to questions. I did this on another blog (Fark), and can't stop laughing from some of the responses. Parade of Delusion readers everywhere: What would you like to know? Best and funniest questions get asked.

You Only Wed Twice

The other day, Sarah posted on her blog that she would be attending her father's wedding over the weekend, and was sure to be back soon with stories of comedy gold. I questioned, somewhat seriously, that if indeed there were stories worth telling, would I be able to write about them honestly and to full comedic effect?

The answer, dear friends and readers, is a resounding "No."

Because I don't want to be the first person in history to ever get dumped over his blog, then, I present for your reading pleasure stories filtered though the space age "Sarah-5000," a new blog-bot guaranteed to not get me in trouble.

Suffer the little children: Because I had to be at the church early with Sarah, I was stuck without much to do while she feted the bride. Bored, I decided to read the Bible - specifically the Gospel of Matthew where Jesus says that anyone who has ever been divorced for reasons other than infertility will go directly to Hell (Do not pass Go.) This led to the following exchange during the reception with one of Sarah's father's oldest friends:

"Hi, I'm Shawn, nice to meet you."
"I know who you are. I sat in front of you during the service. I saw you reading the Bible."
"Why yes! Yes I was! (as loudly as possible, hoping Sarah's Dad would hear) I WAS INDEED READING THE BIBLE!"

Comments from Sarah-bot: You are so duplicitous it fries my circuits. Also, you can't take the French word fete, and make it an English past-participle.

Heart and Soul: Alone with Sarah's uncle and aunt on Saturday afternoon, we decided to play hearts. Now, I play anywhere from 10 to 20 games of Hearts a DAY, and will not lose for love nor money. Thankfully, I wasn't put in that situation because we couldn't get four players. Instead, a lovely game of gin was decided upon. I wound up tying with Sarah's aunt three games a piece.

Comments from Sarah-bot: Sarah-bot knows you count cards. You should never have put down that 7 of clubs when you knew your oppenent needed it for Gin. It's almost as if you...Sarah-bot is intrigued by this human concept you call "love."

We are Family: While not so much a story, I would be remiss if I didn't write about how much everyone I met made me feel like a real part of the family, and welcomed me with kindness and generosity of spirit. From Sarah's cousins who shared cigars and tales from Sarah's past, to her uncles and aunts who listened to my boring speeches about writing, to her father and new step mom who invited me in the first place. To love is great, but to be loved is sometimes even greater.

Comments from Sarah-bot: I seem to be leaking fluid out of my eye socket. Heart pounding. Must stop leaking before.........fizzzzzzzzzzzzzle.........power downnnnnn.

(peaks out from behind keyboard) Is the robot gone? Oh thank god. My plan worked! So, as I was saying, the best story of 'em all concerns what I like to call "An Unusual Lap Dance...."

On second thought, I'm saving that one for leverage.

Comments from Sarah-bot: gurgle, chort...Wise choice.

Do try not to IMMEDIATELY have them sing "Dirty Sanchez."

Holy crap, am I writing a new entry to post just one link? Ok, ok, I know. It's bad. But in my defense I'm kind to children and animals. And that should count for something. Also, shhh, don't tell anyone, but I'm going to Sarah's father's wedding tomorrow. And they're all, gasp, REPUBLICANS!

So, ummm, I won't be back until Sunday. At which time I do hereby swear to tell you stories honestly and with great zest. Hell, maybe I'll even write about my father's marriage last year if I'm in the mood. It's about time I went on the record with that.

In the meantime, dear readers, you can make your own Mariachi song.

Wine all you want. It doesn't get much better than this.



Showing infinite patience with my ignorance, Sarah took me wine tasting Saturday in Santa Barbara. It was my Christmas present. I'd tell you all about it, dear readers, but no. I'm keeping these memories for myself.

Can we talk spoilers? I've got a spoiler for you: You will die ALONE.

As you may or may not know, Sarah lives across the street from the great Grauman's Chinese Theater, one of Hollywood's oldest and most prestigious movie houses. You may know that the last episode of Star Wars is to be released in May, but you almost certainly don't know that there are already over 60 people waiting in line around the block from the theater - six weeks before the film comes out! And I'm positive, dear reader, that, because you don't live here, there's no way you could know the number of the payphone outside, which is:

(323) 462-9609.

THEY WILL PICK UP THE PHONE IF YOU CALL.

This is not an April Fool's joke. I've been pranking all night - mostly revealing spoilers (which is always fun), but also telling them that Star Wars isn't even playing at the Chinese Theater, which IT'S NOT! They are waiting in line for nothing. Haha.

Go forth and do evil my friends. Go forth and do evil.

Post your best prank calls below.

"I heard a rumor, Johnnie Cochran died of an inoperable brain tumor," Or "If I don't get out of bed, I must be dead!"

There's no disputing that Johnnie Cochran was a brilliant legal mind and, quite possibly, one of the most persuavive people to ever enter the public eye. But when Sarah IMed me yesterday to tell me of his death, my reaction was apathetic at best, and, if I'm to be honest, closer really to bemusement. Which is all somewhat tragic really - that I would feel some inner glee at the passing of another - but also not completely irrational.

For Johnnie Cochran hurt America.

Johnnie was a sharp one, there's no denying that, but his high-blown rhetoric and appeals to the most banal of human differences catered to the lowest common denominator in all of us. He persecuted Lenny Bruce. He pulled the race card with OJ Simpson. He was on TV last year defending Pete Rose in a fake trial for ESPN. What the hell is a real lawyer doing on ESPN in a fake trial! Defending Pete Rose! This tainted legacy would be enough damage done for several lifetimes, if his legal philosophy didn't also SPREAD.

For instance, here's what I know about Scott Peterson: Judging from his picture he's an attractive man who was convicted of killing his wife...or his girlfriend, I'm not really sure which. But whichever one it was was pregnant at the time with his baby. That's it. Here's what seemingly every other person knows: Absolutely EVERYTHING. Scott Peterson was on the cover of People and Us Weekly more than Ben and J-Lo. And make no mistake about it, dear readers - when you pick up a trashy mag with the latest celebrity trial on the cover, when you turn into Court TV for re-enactments of the Michael Jackson fiasco, when you eagerly await a verdict as if you YOURSELF were the accused - you are sending a message. And the message is this: Justice is not about right and wrong, not about fairness or a clean shake. Justice is about entertainment.

And I blame Johnnie Cochran. No, he wasn't the first, and, no, he wasn't the ultimate cause. But he was both the best and the most visible.

How many of you heard the news about Cochran and immediately thought "If the glove doesn't fit, you must acquit?" Entertainment. How many of you remembered the Seinfeld character Jackie Chiles, who was patterned after Johnnie? Entertainment. How many of you thought, as I did, about the brilliant South Park parody, "The Chewbacca Defense?" As we say out here in Hollywood, "That's Entertainment."

And that, my friends and readers, is killing us.

So the next time a celebrity scandal comes your way, I challenge you to feel ashamed. Feel downright nauseas that it's on the cover of your favorite magazine. Feel embarassed for the people who watch talking heads debate legal strategy as if it's the goddamn Zapruder film.

Because one day all that will be left is the song and dance. And the song and dance stops for no man.

"If the casket is late, you must cremate!"

If every fool wore a crown, we should all be kings.

Tomorrow is April Fools Day. This is big. This is very, very big.



But is it safe?

Forgive me Lord, I know all too well what I do.

Once again I present to you, dear readers, an assortment of links that have amused me over the last few weeks and which have not found their way into previous posts. I would say that my blog has now taken yet another turn for the worse, but, then, I try not to speak the obvious.

Precious Bodily Fluids: I'm of the strong opinion that Dr. Strangelove is the greatest comedy of all time, and have seen it repeatedly. But even my obsession has limits. For instance, I could never imagine watching it 730 times over a two year period but, then, I'm not Kirstan Horton. And thank God for that. Ms. Horton has "re-created" several shots from the film using simple, everyday objects. The horror begins.

Who Lives in a Bong in a Dormitory? Spongebong Hemppants!

I Prefer her BLEW Periods: I discovered a site the other day which allows you to create pictures in the style of Pablo Picasso, which is actually a whole lot more fun than it sounds. I made this picture for Sarah, which I thought was pretty good at the time (considering I have absolutely zero artistic talent). Of course, she then made this one for me, completely blowing mine out of the water. You can make your own here.

Ladies? Yeah! Ladies? Yeah! Wanna save people from Hades? Yeah! Those wacky Christians make me laugh.

Who the F is this?/Paging me at 7:36/In the morning/Break of Dawning/I'm Yawning: Does the director of this Academy Award nominated short have a camera in my head? How the heck did he know this is EXACTLY how Sarah and I met?

NNNUUGG! AHHHHHHH WAAAAAAAA: I've deliberately stayed away from posting about Terri Schiavo, because I think it is a personal choice and I (my family, your family, the government) have no business commenting. But her blog made me laugh until it hurt. (Yes, I'm a bad person.)

And finally,

To my ex-girlfriends: I've upped my standards. Now Up Yours! The gift that shows her just how you really feel.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the...Holy Shit!



The Easter Bunny died for your sins.

Who are: Three people who have never been in my kitchen?

I've decided it's once again time to try out for Jeopardy, mostly because I have nothing else to do and the last time I tried out for a game show I got hosed. I went to the audition about two years ago, which if I'm not mistaken, was about a week after I stopped living in my car. It was a lot of fun, but also very intense and difficult. Here's the problem: I've only gotten dumber since then. Seriously. Two years in Hollywood and I can tell you more about Angelina Jolie's 's bra size (36-C) than I could about the Holy Roman Empire (neither Holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire.) And I don't even LIKE Angelina Jolie!

The try-outs work like this: They shuffle you into a room and sit you down in a row of chairs. A pre-recorded slide reel projects onto a screen in the front, and 50 questions, from 50 different categories, appear one after the other. You have 7 seconds to answer each question by writing it down on your sheet. You need to get 35 correct in order to advance.

In a pre-quiz announcement they say that if you don't make it you should tell everyone you got 34 right, since they never reveal the test results. Bullshit! I got 32, and was pretty proud of it at the time. I'm not kidding when I say it's the toughest test I've ever taken. The breadth of knowledge needed is just remarkable, and I certainly surprised myself by what I got right and what I got wrong. For instance, I somehow got the "Opera" question correct, even though I know nothing about Opera. (The answer was Salieri, which I knew from the movie Amadeus.) And I got the "Ballet" question right too. (The answer was Swan Lake, which I knew because it is the only ballet I know and I guessed.) But I got the "Sports" and "Movie" questions wrong (the answers were, respectively, Kristy Yamaguchi and Ernst Lubitsch.) I left eleven questions completely blank.

And I've only gotten dumber! But, then again, there's a reason I titled this blog the "Parade of Delusion." Wish me luck.

Spring, the cruelest and fairest of the seasons, will come again. And the strange and buried men will come again, in flower and leaf the strange and buried men will come again, and death and the dust will never come again, for death and the dust will die.

"What is a Mother" by Lea Adler

A mother chooses to share her body with another human being for nine months during which time she gives freely and freely of all she has to offer to bring forth that life. A mother never says no to anything that child needs to grow. A life is begun inside her and that life is born into the world with Joy. The cord is cut and tied and mother and child shall never be one again. That separation and sadness stay with them both all during their lives. Always searching to be one again. A child is always looking for his or her Mom.

What the child does not know is that a Mom is always looking for her child.

My mother, far left, some 25 years ago, pregnant with a very special blogger.

You don't have to look for me, Ma. You're with me already. With me in my heart.

And you are missed.

The Internet Finally Proves its Worth

When I was 19 and working for the Asbury Park Press, I became fast friends with Steve Breen, a gentleman and a scholar if ever I met one. Steve was fresh off becoming the youngest person to ever win the Pulitzer Prize for editorial cartooning, while I was fresh off embarrassing myself by dropping out of Harvard. We made a good pair. The first thing I ever asked him was whether or not I could attach his Pulitzer Prize to a gold chain and wear it around my neck for a fake rap video. The second thing I ever asked him, however, took even less thought to answer. "Steve, what's your favorite comic of all-time?" "Calvin and Hobbes," he blurted out.

And he was right.

I recently discovered a complete online compendium of every Calvin and Hobbes strip ever drawn. Each individual panel is glorious. I would link to it, dear readers, but it has already been shut down. I suppose I would be vigilent with copyrights too, if my greatest character's bastardized legacy was to piss on things.

During my search I came across this comic - obviously doctored - which purports to be an alternate final strip. It's the saddest thing I have ever seen. Honestly, don't look. TURN AWAY!



You looked didn't you? Sniff. Is it just me, or is it getting "dusty" in here again?

After reading that strip I was desperate for another Calvin fix. Thank god I anticipated that the site would get shut down and ripped all the comics off the page and downloaded them to my hard drive.

I mean, ummmmm.....errrr.......What's that behind you!

(A door slams. Footsteps down a staircase. Screech of tires. A plane takes off.)

Of course, in the immortal words of Calvin himself: "Why should I have to WORK for everything?! It's like saying I don't deserve it!"

We don't deserve something as good as Calvin and Hobbes, dear readers. But we can, and should, appreciate it.

Behold the Power of Fark!

Over 20,000 people saw my picture on the internet yesterday. I'd say that was some sort of record, but that's so obviously true it makes my head hurt. What I'll say instead is that the picture they saw is of me flanked by four incredibly beautiful women....proudly displaying a Star Wars figurine. And smiling. Well, see for yourself:



Now, the story of how I wound up in between Chesty McChesterton and Boobs McGee holding, again, a Star Wars action figure (Sing it with me: "One of these things is NOT like the other. One of these things just doesn't belong.") is really the story of a website. And that website is Fark.com. If you don't know about Fark.com, well, congratulations on being able to get your work done. Fark is essentially a blog run by Drew Curtis, with links to various stories across the net. More than that, though, Fark is a community, a place you can go for a few laughs and some great stories. Picture a local pub on the net and you'd have a good idea of what Fark means for its users. But not really, cause no description really does it justice. Go ahead. Check it out for yourself. I'll be here when you get back.

You here? The figure, you wanted to know about the figure. Well, Fark has photoshop contests, and one of the more abused cliches is to inject Admiral Akbar from Return of the Jedi into various situations, along with his catchphrase "It's a trap!" So that's how, when I attended a party and trivia contest with Drew Curtis himself, I wound up grinning like a fool when I won this figurine. It's the ultimate win for a Total Farker like myself. Just ask Sarah: She's a Total Farker too (and I mean that literally. Check out her profile.) Or for those of you from Rutgers, why, you could ask Jim Minardo. He's a Total Farker (and I mean that, of course, metaphorically.)

I know. I know. You don't understand. But, trust me, you will. At the very least, you should.

Behold the power of Fark. And be amazed.

Wisdom is divided into two parts: A.) Having a great deal to say, and B.) Not saying it.

Sometime in the early afternoon of a recent lazy Friday, my blog turned a year old. We hope that it - and I - are somewhat wiser for the journey, filled to the brim, as it were, with memories and laughs and sadnesses and, yes, even a few tiny white lies. But we hope, too, that the truths expressed far outnumber the facts, even when the facts themselves have had to be fudged, or changed, or completely disregarded. In this we are not at fault. My life, alas, is not always as tidy as a movie, and a story not really a story without an ending. I never expected more than five people would read this damn thing in the first place.

So for those five people I dedicate this post. You all started your blogs before I did. That mine has become by far the most popular is surely a matter of chance and nothing more. I continue to write, as I always have, mainly to let you know what's going on in my life, so far removed these days from your own.

But a funny thing happened on the way to Oblivion: My father started reading my blog, and then the rest of my family. And then, too, came the many friends from home and from school who began to check in. Soon other bloggers started reading, enjoyed what they saw, linked and read again. About 6 months in I met Sarah, and she started a blog as well. As my readers grew, so too did my stories. Somewhere in there, I'm afraid, blogging became common.

It is my hope, then, on this - the one year anniversary of my blog - to reaffirm my desire for the uncommon, the oft-kilter perspective, the sideways glance, the little things that make chasing a dream in Hollywood unique for what it is. And I thank everyone who has come along for the ride. May the Parade of Delusion continue for another day.

I was right about one thing, though, from the very start: This sure has been trouble.

First Annual Deluded Awards

Most Read Post: OJ scares the bejesus out of friend while playing golf, which was kindly linked to by the lovely Mrs. Kennedy.

Most Read Post, First Runner Up: "Intelligent Design" is retarded, linked to, surpisingly, by the Progressive Review. (We think it was because of the picture.)

Best Post: An open letter to the Marine who shot and killed an Iraqi POW.

Happiest Picture: The Red Sox are World Series Champs!

Cutest Picture I'm Most Likely to Look Back on in 10 Years and Smile About: Sarah and I visit a photobooth on Valentines.

Best Post About Why I Needed Sarah When I Did: I win a dating simulator.

Best Blog Discussion: The one I had over email with this gentleman - a new transport to LA. I can't wait to meet him.

Best Blog Fight: Conservatives spam my comments.

Best Anniversary Post: Not this one.

Best Inside Joke: For sausage, read hostage.

Second Best Inside Joke: You have been served a manimum sentence.

Best Reason to Read the Archives: Comedy Gold.

Best Blog by Someone I Know: Pete's Automatic Midnight.

Best Blog by Someone I Don't Know: Paper Boats. Ellen writes with a heart-breaking honesty. Which is to say, wholly without irony. We salute her.

Funniest Blog by Either: He Looks Like, the game where you psychoanalyze strangers by looking at their picture, written magnificently by this woman.

Blog Prayer: Oh Lord, please fill my mouth with worthwhile stuff/And nudge me when I've said too much.

Goodnight.

The Ultimate Answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything

I'm usually the last person to recommend internet quizes, but I stumbled across a "Which Book are You" pyramid quiz and was surprised at how clever and intelligent it was. Not to mention the fact that it gave me a pretty good one.

You Are The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy!



Considered by many to be one of the funniest people around, you are quite an entertainer. You've also traveled to the far reaches of what you deem possible, often confused and unsure of yourself. Life continues to jostle you around like a marble, but it's shown you so much of the world that you don't care. Wacky adventures continue to lie ahead. Your favorite number is 42.

I've written much more eloquently about Hitchhiker's before. If you haven't yet, it's worth a few minutes to check out the internet-only trailer for the upcoming movie here. It's decidedly brilliant.

And you can take the book quiz yourself here. Post your results below. (Although, for the love of God, copy and paste. Blogger ain't the best when it comes to imbedded HTML.)

To set yourself free, release yourself from desire

If blogging has been sparse recently, well, we're sad to say it's most likely due to a sparsity of interesting goings-on. Oh, we've started a few posts, enjoyed them, and then promptly had them deleted for egregious crapulence. (A word I invented tonight. Feel free to add it to your vocabulary.)

Don't blame me though, since I'm just following my online calendar - according to which it's National Procrastination Week. I was going to write a funny joke about that, but figured it would be easier done tomorrow. Ugh. These are the jokes tonight folks. I know you're out there; I can see you leaving.

Oh look! A kitty!

To: My "little" cousin
Re: Your Online Photoblog

Dear Sweetie - I am greatly distressed by this picture.

So I just found out the Dalai Lama himself is visiting Rutgers in September. I'm sure this is some terrible mistake. When I was at Rutgers my own brother wouldn't visit me, and he lived 15 minutes away. Still, if it is indeed true, then I suppose I'll have to come back for that. I mean, it's not like there will ever be another one. Oh? There will be? Forget it then.

(Note to future young people of Tibet: If you are suspected of being the reincarnated Dalai Lama, and they make you choose his old personal items to prove it, the walking stick he prefered is brown with a dent three inches from the top. You'll thank me later.)

Oh, pssssst, while we're on the subject of Rutgers - if anyone calls from the AD's office, I now work for ESPN. Don't ask. Long story.

What else? Still no job. Some prospects. Working hard at breaking in. We'll get there.

This post doesn't have an ending, so I'll just say that, of course, Sarah's around and better than ever. So I've got that going for me....which is nice. (sound courtesy of CarlSpackler.com)

Don't tell me to be cool. I AM cool.

I saw Be Cool tonight at Universal City. Actually, let me back up a second so as not to end before I begin.

Right. So my friend Tony turned 30 this evening, and had a little get together in North Hollywood for some of his LA companions. I like Tony. He used to work for Kevin Smith, which is always a plus for old Middletowners like myself, and he's also a former junketeer. We met over cigarettes at Riddick, and bonded over cigarettes at The Bourne Supremacy. I suppose you could call it friends at first light. (But you wouldn't, cause that wouldn't Be Cool.)

Now, North Hollywood is 20 miles from me, all Freeway. With no traffic it would be about a 15 minute ride. Since we were supposed to meet up at 7, I decided to give myself a little extra time and leave at 6:30. That, of course, was my first mistake. To assume no traffic on an LA freeway is to assume the impossible. For 45 minutes I sat in my car and went a grand total of 3 miles. Decidedly uncool. It occured to me while sitting in miserable stop and go, that if I took the next exit I could wind my way through UCLA, past the Sunset Strip, and over the Hollywood Hills. Sure it would be all backroads and a longer trip under normal circumstances, but anything was better than where I was.

We interrupt ESPN's normal sports broadcasting to bring you the UCLA Bruins post-game show. "Well, the Bruins of UCLA game just ended and we're -"

FUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckity, fuck, fuck, fuck!

So I sat in more traffic, and then sat in some more when I got to Sunset, it being Sat. night and all. By the time I got to North Hollywood I had been in my car for two hours. And I had to pee. REALLY BAD. Because I took the wrong exit by mistake, I knew I would never make it to the Diner in time. I found a side street that led to a dead end, parked my car, and got out to do my business behind a bush. And I found paydirt - a park with a line of fences protecting me from sight. Leaning up against the fence, I unzipped and started my relief which, coincidently, was exactly the same time a giant German sheperd on the other side of the chain linked barrier came out from the shadows, decided to bark like a hell hound and lunge at my penis.

I don't need to tell you, dear reader, that this was the most, most, MOST uncool thing that could ever possibly happen. Interestingly, it produced two nearly immediate reactions. Firstly, it caused me to piss all over my pant leg and shoes. Secondly, it caused the near simultaneous ascension of my testes back into my body.

But at long last, after brief periods of meditation and clean-up, I made it to Tony's party. A great time was had by all, and many laughs were had as well. By the end of the night Tony and I were the only ones left, and at 2 o'clock over a cup of coffee, we said our good-byes and parted company. Of course, that was after the Transexuals showed up. But that's a story for another night.

Oh yeah. Somewhere in there we saw Be Cool at Universal Studios. It sucked.

Shave and a Haircut....Two Bits

Victor
I never got an education. I want to go back to school.

Me
You can get your GED.

Victor
English is not my language. I don't know, umm, how you put words together?

Me
Grammar? Syntax?

Victor
Yeah.

Female Hairdresser
Any moron can pass that test.

Victor
(uncomfortable silence)
Oh.

(more silence)

Victor
I know an Afgan woman who comes over-

Female Hairdresser
A customer?

Victor
No, to my place. You know, for "bang, bang."

Me and Female Hairdresser
(uncomfortable silence)
Oh.

By Philboyd Studge

Kurt Vonnegut admits at the beginning of Breakfast of Champions that his book is lousy. He says that anytime he encounters a novel that seems particularly cumbersome it reads as if it was "written by Philboyd Studge," and so it's this character who becomes the narrator. A week of not blogging and I know the feeling. Vonnegut's book begins like this: "Goodbye, Blue Monday." The phrase is an advertising slogan for a new brand of washing machines, the invention of which presumably meant emancipation from household chores.

My own washer blew up yesterday. Not stopped working, mind you. Blew up. With my clothes still inside. This necessitated a desperate late night trip to the Coin and Wash, a local laundromat owned by the President of the California Association of Coin Operated Businesses. I bet you didn't know they had an Association of Coin Operated Businesses. I sure didn't. But there they are, magazine and all. Imagine what it must be like when they get together - the Arcade lobby battling the Vending Machine contingent for more representation. I bet a funny thing to do would be to walk into their meeting and ask if anyone has change for a dollar. I rightly think that would never get old.

What we learn from this brief digression, of course, is to never stare too long at the hypnotic power of the spin cycle.

But I didn't come here today to talk about laundry. I came to talk about Breakfast of Champions, which Vonnegut writes as a cleansing of sorts. He says that he wants to "clear [his] head of all the junk in there--the assholes, the flags, the underpants." I want to clear my head too. This past week was a real hard one for me, one of the hardest I've had since I came to California. My show pitch got rejected by Fox, who called it "too small for network TV." I got in a big fight with Sarah over silly nonsense. I grew angry and depressed by my own shortcomings as a writer, wasted days and energies coming back to haunt me. And, in a final blow to my own self worth, I worked as a telemarketer in an office straight out of Glengarry, Glen Ross, each phone call killing my soul a little more.

These last few days, then - these days without blogging - well, they've been a cleansing period for me. And I'm not giving up. We're taking the baseball show to ESPN. Sarah, well, Sarah is my angel, and I love her very much. My clothes need a little ironing but, hey, don't we all.

I had occasion to visit my safety deposit box today. I've only been there once before, on the day I opened it. Back then I placed a crisp $2 bill and a piece of paper in the box. I had forgotten about both. When I signed in the teller looked at me strange. She told me that it was exactly a year since I had been there last - March 2, 2004. The piece of paper? Well, of course it said "The Year of Shawn."

We're getting there, baby. We're getting there.

Breakfast of Champions, by the way, ends like this:

"Trout's cries to me faded as the distance between us increased. His voice was my father's voice. I heard my father--and I saw my mother in the void. My mother stayed far, far away, because she had left me a legacy of death...Here is what Kilgore Trout cried out to me in my father's voice: 'Make me young, make me young, make me young!'"

To my own father, who I haven't spoken with in almost a year but who I know reads my blog, I say this: I love you and miss you. Some day I hope to justify your unending faith in me. I hope to make you proud. I hope to return half of the goodness you have given me.

I hope to grow up to be just like you.

ETC....

Speeches you didn't get to hear.

Though I'm not at liberty to reveal my sources, I have obtained copies of several "alternate" speeches from tonight's Oscar Ceremony. I am happy to share them with my readers.

Morgan Freeman (Best Supp. Actor)

Wow. I'm so happy to be up here. Of course, I want to thank the Academy. You honor me. I would be remiss, however, if I didn't also mention my fellow nominees. Why, there's the guy who played the retarded mechanic on Wings, and the dude best known as the mischievous doctor from M.A.S.H. (Looking at Alan Alda) What are you, like 90 now? Seriously, my MOM had a crush on you. Let's not forget that dude who starred in all those BMW commercals. I don't even think HE knows who he is. And, of course, the man behind the genius that was Booty Call, the film that single handedly set back the civil rights movement three decades. Honestly, I'm the greatest living actor and this is the best you could come up with? Next time you fools best bring Kryptonite. (walks away in disgust)

Cate Blanchett (Best Supp. Actress)

Will winning an Oscar change my life? You bet asshole!*

Brad Bird (Best Animated Feature)

One day Pixar will make a bad movie. You won't hear about it though, unless of course Death gets advanced screenings. If you're lucky you might just be old and feeble, your deteriating mental faculties allowing brief but heartbreaking moments of lucidity. Just before you have your last conscious thought - a cry for a long lost girlfriend from your youth - a kind nurse will whisper in your ear that Pixar's newest "life-simulation" was a klunker. But I wouldn't bank on it. You can suck it Michael Eisner. You can suck it long and hard. I also want to thank the Academy and my lovely wife.

Charlie Kauffman (Best Original Screenplay)

If you can understand my scripts and appreciate my movies, then I want to congratulate you on being smarter than 90% of everyone else. Do you know how brillant Being John Malkovich, Adaptation, and Eternal Sunshine are? I mean, do you have any idea? You must know, right? I'll tell you what I'm doing next. It' a horror movie. Seriously, I'm not kidding you. I did it just for shits and giggles. Damn thing only took me an hour. Let me just say one thing in closing: Rhubarb.


Clint Eastwood (Best Director)

You just made my day! Haha. I crack myself up. No, but seriously, I've made a brilliant film and I truly appreciate this honor, but the fact that Martin Scorsese doesn't have, like, a half dozen of these things is a sin against nature. How many kids have Taxi Driver posters on their walls? That was thirty years ago people! Let's face it, The Aviator wasn't his best work. I'm sure he'd tell you that himself. But you should all be ashamed. May your lives be short else shame be too long. And, of course, I want to thank my lovely mother. Cheers ma!

Hillary Swank (Best Actress)

So I walked into a bar and the bartender says, "Hey, why the long face?"

And, finally, a man who wasn't even nominated:

Jesus Christ (Best Son of God)



My Oscar day in Hollywood written by someone who should know.

*Cate Blanchett actually said this to a reporter backstage, making her, in one fell swoop, my favorite actress ever.

Who's gonna play me? I think I should play me.

It doesn't mean much yet. Hell, it won't mean much for a long time. In fact, it's quite likely that it won't mean much ever. But...

Today I was granted the exclusive screenplay rights to a novel. A real, honest to God piece of literature. A book you're gonna read about, and know about, and have friends tell you about. And I get to write the movie.

I take back what I said. For me, today, right now, it means just about everything in the world.

Now comes the hard part. (And, hopefully, down the road, the part where they pay me.)

A rose by any other name...

They had a promotional giveaway at a party I attended last night. It was free. We were overcharged.

What others called it:

This tastes like Jagermeister mixed with vinegar. Ass. Pure ass. Sweaty sock water. Like I imagine the devil tastes like. Altoids flavored liquor. The Europeans like this? Are you sure?

What I call it:

The worst thing I have ever tasted. Ever.

There can be only one

Email I received yesterday:

Dear Shawn,

You have a nice website (and a lovely name btw), however, I have noticed that at the bottom of your page you are listing shawn@shawnxxxxx.com as your email contact. This is my email address and domain name. Some bluster and bullshit. Etc. Etc. Some more bluster. Etc.

Love and Blessings,

Shawn

Dear Other Shawn,

My google index is higher than yours.



I fart in your general direction. Your mother was a hamster and your father smelt of elderberries.

Yours-

Shawn

PS: A google search just now shows I've been translated into Russian. Have YOU?

Abandon hope, all ye who enter here.

In the new movie Constantine Keanu Reeves battles alongside a legion of angels against an army of demons in modern day Los Angeles. What's remarkable is that the director's vision of hell isn't fire and brimestone but a deserted Hollywood Blvd, where cars are backed up as far as the eye can see. We are to infer from this that apparently the worst thing that can happen to a man isn't eternal suffering but navigation through LA streets without a traffic helicopter. Granted, these two are easily confusable. Maybe I'm missing the point though. Maybe the point is that Keanu Reeves walks down the busiest street in Hollywood and no living soul can applaud him. Cultural irrelevancy in this town has to be worse than anything Dante could ever have imagined.

Just ask Sarah. Saturday night she attended the Writer's Guild of America Awards Ceremony, yet another opportunity for the cultural elite of this fine city to pat themselves on the back. Except this one really matters. Honest to God it does, and someday, if I'm talented enough, and perserverant enough, and lucky enough, well, I would be honored to go as well. Bless her sweet heart Sarah didn't know if she wanted to go at first, since it's my dream and all, and since she was to be the guest of some starfucker who wanted to get in her pants. But I told her that she should. You don't get opportunities like this every day. And besides, I wouldn't go even if I was invited, I said to her. I mostly meant that, I really did. Sure, a year ago I would have been all over that like white on rice, but here's the thing - I don't deserve to go, not yet anyway. And until I've earned the right to be there on my OWN merits, well, I won't be attending at all. I suppose that's easy to say when I wasn't invited.

Of course, it's not easy to hand your girlfriend over for the night to some older man who wants to make little babies with her, no matter how much you trust her. And I do trust Sarah, trust her with every bone in my body I do. As my mind ever delights in finding new ways to torture me, however, I had the irrepressible thought that she would use the evening to pimp me. Which I would love her for, of course, except next thing you know I'm picturing her in Casablanca asking Rick if she should do something to help her lover, and she would never tell him about it, and is "Captain Renault the kind of man who will keep his word?"

Speaking of ways my mind has conceived to torture me, these last few days have seen a rise in my compulsive behavior, which for years I've been able to keep relatively under control. Friday night I went with Sarah to see her dance at a bar in Hollywood, and for about seven or eight minutes I couldn't stop signing "The Muffin Man" song. You know the one. Couldn't stop. Just keep singing the same damn three lines over and over again. I need a job bad.

And while we're on the subject of bars, I don't drink anymore, and have gotten drunk a grand total of three times in the last four months. And since I only drink to get drunk (There is always a non-alcoholic drink that tastes better to me than an alcoholic one) that means that I've had a drink on only three or four occasions. I had no idea how much of a social pariah this would make me, but trust me dear readers, sobriety is frowned upon in this world of ours. Why this is I will never know. I've tried telling people that I'm a DD, or that I'm on the wagon. I've even told people that I'm a diabetic. You know what the guy said who I told that to? "Well, you can still have wine." Thanks, I'll keep that in mind. From the looks I get when I turn down a drink you'd think I had leprosy.

I guess I've just been depressed recently. And, as my father so memorably said one night, who wants a downer when they're already down?

Thank God I've been reading really up material recently. Stuff like Hamlet. (Do we listen to pop music because we are depressed, or are we depressed because we listen to pop music?) No, actually I've been reading it again for a writing gig, bless the woman a thousand times who offered it to me. One of my favorite lines in Hamet comes from Ophelia, right after she's cracked the last nut in her head and gone completely batshit crazy. "We know what we are," she says. "But not what we may be."

I know that almost two years ago I left everyone I ever knew to chase a dream and catch a falling star. I know that I'm the luckiest guy in the world to have a girlfriend who makes me so happy just being who she is, and who I'm falling in love with more and more every single day. But I also know that I have a meeting with a Fox executive this week for a television show I developed. And, ultimately, I know that a lot of who I "may be" hinges on that single meeting.

And, well, I guess I know that Keanu fighting demons and meeting angels in the streets of Los Angeles sounds just about right.

Yeah. This just about sums it up.

Director Russ Meyer interviewed by The Onion A.V. Club:

Q: Of all the films that you've made, which is your favorite?

A: Beyond The Valley Of The Dolls. [Screenwriter Roger] Ebert and I went for the big time. That was it. Every production person at the time had a couch, the kind with a big hump at each end, so the woman could lay back and accept the dick comfortably. I remember, there was this girl—Elvis Presley had been whacking away at her—and he sent this girl over and put her in there. I told her, "Look, what I want you to do is to lie on the couch and put your pussy right up in the air." So I called Ebert, and I said, "Ebert, I want you to come in here and look at something." And he says, "I'm working on a script; I have no time for that." And I say, "Will you just get in there?! There's something in there that I think you will find very, very interesting." And he went in, and all he did was turn back to me and say, "Hollywood!"

All Work and No Play Make Shawn A Dull Boy

The Shining in 30 seconds....re-enacted by bunny rabbits.

(See other films given similar treatment here.)

I'm sorry, you'll have to speak up. My sweater's just too darn LOUD!

I get a lot of flack from people regarding my favorite sweater, a turqoise number I picked up for free at a J-Crew outlet sale and which, for awhile, became my uniform of sorts (See me wear it in South Bend...and in Chicago....and at the Grand Canyon...and, ummm, the Hoover Dam....and, jeez this does kinda look bad, in Los Angeles.)

Anyway, I found this picture of John Travolta wearing the exact same color and, get this, John Travolta is cooler than everyone I know COMBINED. Seriously. You will never be as cool as John Travolta. I'm sorry, it's just the truth.


Scientology: At least we're not the Branch Davidians.

When I met John Travolta it was for an interview I did with him during a press junket for The Punisher. He walked into the room and commanded everyone to rise, after which he started dancing! DANCING! He then motioned for all of us to join him. This means, technically, that I danced with John Travolta.

Without a doubt, the sweater stays.

Because I'm Still Bitter at Being Laid Off

Films I've seen that you haven't:*

1.) Hostage
2.) Fever Pitch
3.) Sin City
4.) Battleship Potemkin**

Scripts I've read that you're interested in but haven't read:

1.) RENT

*Unless you have, in which case congratulations on being awesome.
**You are so uncultured it kills me.

Santa Monica, California. Winter 2005

So it was Valentine's Day. Again. And I ended up at the Emergency Room. Again. But I've only just begun and already I'm getting ahead of myself.

Sarah and I went out Saturday night for a late and fine dinner, the success of which was greatly buoyed by the fact that A) it contained actual meat, which my budget normally allows only in the form of McDonald's hamburgers and B) it was paid for by Sarah. Praise her with great praise.

The next day we spent walking around Santa Monica. We agreed that Sunday would be our day and, yes dear readers, our day alone. So goodbye to cell phones, farewell to AIM, and see ya later blog-o-nator. Unreachable and off the grid. And it was marvelous. Three irrevocable and demonstrative facts: One, I am the world's greatest skeeball player. Two, Sarah can't play air hockey to save her life. And three, taking goofy pictures in the photo booth is about the cutest damn thing you can do.

And the trip to the ER? Sarah's asthma was acting up.

Come to think of it, my mother did always warn me that someday I would take a woman's breath away.

Forgive me Lord, I know all too well what I do.

While I have no doubt that you would all climb over your own mothers to read my weekend Valentine's Day exploits involving, as they do, tales of how Sarah and I have become that couple that I used to hate when I was single ("Who's my baby? You're my baby. No, YOU'RE my baby.") alas, they will have to wait until another day. In time, dear readers. In time.

Instead I offer up a smorgosbord of interesting links that have amused me over these last few weeks, and which I have been attempting to incorporate into various posts to no avail. And with that, my blog takes another turn for the worse.

Line Up One and All: Some are born great, some achieve greatness, and some build the World's Only Ass-Kicking Machine. Robert P. Booth - I join Virginia and the rest of America in saluting you as a man of true genius.

Shiite Coalition, 72%: Ayad Allawi, 18%: Me, 0%: Turns out Saddam was eligible to vote in the Iraqi elections, but chose not to. Man, that's just like him, cutting his nose off to spite the Great Satan. Thus was democracy subverted. (Note: I can't even begin to tell you how funny I think it would have been had he voted. I spent the last hour trying to write a "Who's on First" style sketch about this near historic moment. The lesson? As always, being unemployed sucks.

I Predict this will NEVER get old: Patrick, your blog is pretty good....For me to Poop On!

The Day After Yesterday: What if there is no tomorrow? It's a question Bill Moyers picks up in a recent column for the Star Tribune (linked to different site as Tribune requires registration.) Belief in the Rapture is landing theocrats in office while simultaneously destroying our global resources. We've joked before about Dubya Dubya III. What Moyers explains so eloquently is that this may be exactly what Bush wants.

We don't do family acts here. Too cutesy: The Aristocrats is a joke as old as stand-up comedy itself (I imagine court jesters standing around telling a similar version in the dungeons.) Except, well, it's not really a joke - it's more an elaborate riff where the beginning and end are set but the middle is left for each individual performer to improvise. The goal is to be more over-the-top than the last guy, and let it be said that Trey Parker and Matt Stone have raised the bar pretty high with their South Park version. Read more about the joke and the upcoming movie here. (Warning: Language used in clip is not safe for anywhere.)

The Incredible Ryan's Steakhouse Story: Oh my. Oh. My.

And Finally: Happy Valentine's Day.

What if This is As Good as it Gets?

My fortune cookie this afternoon: "Today your luck hits a high point."

PS: I was just laid off.

Attention Last Minute Shoppers:


(photo courtesy of fark.com)

Valentine's Day gifts still available for that special someone.

'Fuck Love:' A post revised (and a heart that won't stop pounding).

Many months ago we wrote about our downstairs neighbors, whose late night battle royale filled us with inexplicable glee, not least of all because we sometimes take inappropriate pleasure in the suffering of others, but also because the wife ended the conversation (and the marriage) by screaming "Fuck love," a phrase we likened to a "magnificent sunset...best appreciated in silent awe." Some weeks later we revisted our earlier post, deciding that our schadenfreude was woefully misplaced. The daughter, whose room is no more than 10 feet from our own, would turn her light on late at night and sob for her father. For days we could do nothing but listen as she cried herself to sleep. Her wails pierced our heart like daggers.

Tonight the seeming denoumont. Sarah and I were chatting on instant messanger, saying our goodnights and talking about, of all things, the time Bob Sagat bummed a cigarette off me outside the Whiskey, when outside my window I heard a terrible rush of quick feet across the pavement, three loud bangs, and then a scream of primal horror. A wail that cried "Bloody Murder," and the end of all things. And, in truth, I was afraid.

I rushed up out of my seat and ran to my door. My roommate, who was watching a movie with the volume turned up was already there, unlocking our locks and peeking outside. Although in retrospect I understand my rush to judgement, my immediate thought was that my neighbor had been shot. I frantically reached for my phone and dialed 9-11, only to be PUT ON HOLD and DISCONNECTED for more than 5 minutes. When I did speak with a human it was an officer with the California Highway Patrol, who transferred me to the appropriate department in Santa Monica and dispatched cops to my complex.

Turns out it wasn't a gunshot, but it was the husband, banging on the door and demanding to be let in. It seems serious threats were made and the wife did indeed fear for her safety (as well as her daughter's safety.) A report was filed, people were charged, and a search was set in motion. The husband, if he comes by again, will be put away.

It should be noted that the wife loudly objected to the presence of police. My roommate and I could hear her make excuses for her husband. Although I feel nothing but sorrow for the little girl, not one bit of me is sorry for making the call.

My heart, which pumped so rapidly only moments ago, has mercifully calmed down.

Do I hear $50?

My girlfriend thinks she's funny.

Revealed! "Nikki Capelli" of Godaddy.com

I got a bunch of hits today from internet users the world over looking for the name of the actress from the provocative Super Bowl commercial for Godaddy.com.

Sigh.

Her name is Candice Michelle. Born and raised in Milwaukee, this self-proclaimed "die-hard cheesehead" now calls the City of Angels home. She enjoys watching the Los Angeles Lakers and skating at Venice Beach.

Surprise! She's got a website.

It's called google people. Learn to use it. Now leave me alone.

You should be so LUCKY to hear what I hear.

Since overheard conversations seem to have gone "big time" these days, I offer these two gems for your reading pleasure:

Overheard Conversation One:

Man 1: I was getting my eyebrows waxed -

Man 2: You get your eyebrows waxed? What are you, a metrosexual?

Man 1: No, I'm a HOMO-sexual.

Overheard Conversation Two:

Man: More spam. Waddya think, penis enlargement cream?

Woman: Are you trying to cripple me?

PS: One of these conversations actually involved me. Flame on!

That's SIR Ben to you.

About two months after I got to Los Angeles I inexplicably found myself sitting across a table from Ben Kingsley interviewing him for House of Sand and Fog. There were several other reporters in the room, and Sir Ben made sure to shake each and every one of their hands. Because I was getting coffee when he walked in, I was the last to be greeted. I offered my hand, said my name , smiled, and stammered "It's an honor, sir." The old gentleman grasped my hand with both of his, cradled it, bowed his head ever so slightly, and replied, "The honor is all mine young man." The rest of the interview was a complete blur. I was fresh off the boat, so to speak, and Gandhi just gave me the double handed shake and greet. Stupendous.

I mention this over a year after the fact not to indulge in any celebrity starfucking, but because Sir Ben was in the news today after finding out his wife cheated on him, and this is the heartbreaking part, by finding pictures of her and her lover on the internet.

And if anyone has so much as the slightest notion about the mere possibility of even thinking anything bad about the man, I will fucking end them. I will come to your home and I will kill you. No lie. The man who dishonors the man who honors me, umm, dishonors me. Or something. Think about it.

And........I'm Drunk

Readers looking for intelligent postgame analysis have come to the wrong website. The Patriots were beatable tonight, but Philadelphia shit the figurative bed. Which is why New England now boasts one of the best football teams of all-time, and Philadelphia continues to erect statues of fictional champion Rocky Balboa.

To put it somewhat more bluntly: Tom Brady gets to go home tonight and eat this, while Donovan McNab must soldier another defeat with the soup that eats like a meal. We've all been there my friend. May the chunky bits of sirloin steak and hearty helping of country vegetables help you weather the long, dark teatime of the soul.

But I find no love in my heart for the city of Philadelphia, a metropolis so destitute its symbol remains forever broken like so many shattered dreams. Remember Philly:



Super Bowl Commerical Awards

Funniest Commercial

The Bud Light Commercial where the pilot jumps out of an airplane to grab a six pack.

Creepiest Mustache

Burt Reynolds.

Commerical That Made Me Wish I Were Rich

Cadillac car in tunnel as gun. Holy shit that was cool.

Best Gay Leer at some Dude's Ass

That guy from Queer Eye for the Straight Guy who once kicked me out of an Emmy party when I walked the red carpet behind him. (True story)

Biggest Waste of $2.5 Million

The one with the, eh, you know where the guy goes, ummm. Yes, I'll have another beer. Thank you.

Biggest Proof that Carson Daly is a Tool

The one where he actually plays a poser and drives a Diet Pepsi truck cause P Diddy had one. Don't these guys have agents? Carson, you aren't making fun of your image. You ARE the image.

Company That Should Buy an Ad Next Year

Pen Island, just so they can put their website at the end. Please, please visit their site. I'm actually going to post the domain name in the text so you will go there. Here it is: www.penisland.com

Best Statement That Ever Led to Gratuitous Boobage

Godaddy.com founder Bob Parsons, who told the president of the Ad agency hired to develop his spot that he "would love to have a beautiful woman with a nice ample chest with my company name across her shirt."

The Name You've All Been Waiting For (Perverts)

The girl in the Tabasco commercial is named...actually I have no fucking clue. But the guy who played Spiderman in the Visa commercial is James Pomichter. We're working on a short film together. The name of that girl would've been cool though. You know, just to have.

And then, as it seemed to be the most natural and expected course of action to take, my head finally and mercifully exploded.

You may be through with the past, dear readers, but the past is never fully through with you. Not even, it seems, when you live 3,000 miles away from anyone who knew you more than a year ago. For example, when Sarah emailed me this morning saying she had a crazy "small world" story to tell me, not even for a second did I think it would be related to anyone I knew. Then a few hours later she emailed again, asking if my ex-girlfriend worked for an online magazine. After a few minutes, right around the time my heart started pumping again, all I could wonder was "Why does God hate me?"

You see, it breaks down like this: Sarah works for a PR firm, a pretty great and really well respected one at that. Part of her job is to send out games and materials to writers for review. The ex, well, she occasionally writes columns for an e-zine. From Sarah's two cryptic emails there seemed to be only one plausible connection: She had called or emailed Lauren thinking she was just another writer and would she review such and such game, when it gradually dawned on her that the person she was speaking with was, in fact, someone she knew and, moreover, someone who I used to be in love with. My current (and much beloved) girlfriend on the phone with my former (and formerly beloved) girlfriend. Folks, this is pretty much my WORST NIGHTMARE EVER. I'm not even kidding. I think right now in the 9th circle of hell, Judas's wife is calling his ex-girlfriend for all eternity while Judas is forced to listen.

Of course, it turned out to be much more random and no direct connect was made. But that didn't stop me from later imagining how such a conversation would go.

And, PS, I gave all the best lines to Sarah.

After I regained consciousness.

At least I'm not a "Miserable Failure."

I've been google-bombed..

Rise and shine campers. And don't forget your booties cause it's cold out there today.



"This is pitiful. A thousand people freezing their butts off waiting to worship a rat. Groundhog Day used to mean something in this town. They used to pull the hog out, and they used to EAT it. You're hypocrites, all of you!"

At last I will reveal myself to the Jedi. At last I will have my revenge.

This has been public for at least a few days now, but since there's nothing I would rather do less than get in a street fight with George Lucas and his lawyers (those Indy 4 killing bastards), I've held off commenting. My fears are not unjustified. I got an email from a friend a while back that had the Episode III trailer with the subject, "Show this to anyone and I will kill you and your family." Then I found out that the trailer had been on AOL for a week. You can never be too careful. At any rate, the crawl for Revenge of the Sith has been revealed. Predictably, it sucks.

Episode III
REVENGE OF THE SITH

War! The Republic is crumbling
under the ruthless attacks by the ruthless
Sith Lord, Count Dooku.
There are heroes on both sides.
Evil is everywhere.

In a stunning move, the
fiendish droid leader, General
Grievous, has swept into the
Republic capital and kidnapped
Chancellor Palpatine, leader of
the Galactic Senate.

As the Separatist Droid Army
attempts to flee the besieged
captital with their valuable
hostage, two Jedi Knights lead a
desperate mission to rescue the
captive Chancellor.

First off, I'm assuming that the words "A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away" will appear somewhere before this. In the end I don't think it really matters, of course, my childhood already raped beyond repair. I'm increasingly of the mindset that "violated" is like "pregnant," in that there are very few degrees of difference. You either are or you aren't.

To the text itself: I'm so glad he decided to open with War exclamation point! And the double use of the word ruthless makes me happy. One ruthless is not enough to show how awesomely ruthless this guy is. I've seen this type of writing before. Hmm....

WAR!! WTF DA R3PUBLIC IS CRUMBLNG
UNDAR TEH RUTHLES ATAKS BY TEH RUTHLES
SITH LORD COUNT DOOKU? H3ROES ON BOTH SIEDS
OMG WTF! EVIL IS EVERYWHAR3!!!! OMG!!!

Anytime you write like my 18 year old cousins on instant messanger, I believe it's safe to say the muse has passed you by.

Now I know what this story is all about, and I'm still having trouble parsing the second stanza. I think it has to do with the words "stunning move." What is this intergalatic Monopoly? "In a stunning move, General Grievous landed on Free Parking yet was denied Community Chest funds by the other players." I think what Lucas is aiming for here is something like "surprise attack" or "Act I climax."

Lastly, it hurts more when you realize someone was paid around $1 Million to write this. I like to ruminate on things like that often. Join me if you will.

The Boxer Rebellion.

Yes, she's my senator. And you'll be hearing a lot more from her in the next four years. But I guarantee none of it will be funnier and truer than this.

If your ride is bumpy it's not my fault. And it's not the car's fault either. It's the asphalt.*

To the ever-growing list of things I'll be able to tell my children I did one day to support myself, I can now add celebrity chauffeur. Got a call from a friend of a friend last Thursday night asking if I could drive his sister around town for the day. As it afforded the opportunity to go here, see this, and receive this, I was more than up to the challenge. Not for nothing, but I know this town like the back of my hand. For instance, I can tell you without even looking that there is a scar above my first knuckle on my right hand from when my dog bit me. Another thing to consider: I'm pretty sure if I make one more bad joke the universe will collapse onto itself from the force generated by this post's awfulness.

*It was only through extreme mental effort that I was able to avoid naming this post "Driving Miss Lazy." Mostly because I really liked Eden.

Lady, I'm sorry for your situation, but you are hereby banned from the internet.

2005 is not even a month old, but the award for most ridiculous google search that brought a user to my website is officially over (Parade of Delusion is the sixth hit).

Step away from the keyboard ma'am. For all it's amazing powers, google can not help the clearly insane.

Granted, however, their next frontiers might change that.

The Best Things in Life Are Free

One of the best things about working as a celebrity interviewer was the boatloads of free crap I would get attending junkets. Not all gifts are created equal, though. Henceforth, a partial schwag showdown:

Movie: The Girl Next Door
Gift: A girls' Baby-T with the word "Sexy" on the front.
Relevance to film: 2. The movie was about porn. I did not receive a porn tape, nor naked pictures of Elisha Cuthbert. Nuff Said.
Worth of Gift: 0. I gave it to my then girlfriend. She broke up with me a few days later.

Movie: Starsky and Hutch
Gift: A fondue pot.
Relevance to film: 4. Starsky and Hutch make fondue when Carmen Electra and Amy Smart come to hang out, which is exactly what I would do if Carmen Electra and Amy Smart came to my apartment. God I hated this movie.
Worth of Gift: o. I have not used it once, and I am willing to entertain offers.

Movie: Scooby Doo 2
Gift: A bag of Scooby goodies including coloring books, t-shirts, stickers, a video game, and a really rad remote control car.
Relevance to film: 10. Scooby Doo is a corporate whore.
Worth of Gift: 7. The so-called "Scooby Snacks" were highly disappointing. I sent the rest of the stuff to my nephews and nieces.

Movie: King Arthur
Gift: A broad sword! No, just kidding, I didn't get shit. My desire to work in this town prohibits me from saying anything about Jerry Bruckheimer.

Movie: The Chronicles of Riddick
Gift: The X-box video game of the same name and tickets to the Los Angeles premier.
Relevance to Film: ?. As noted elsewhere, this film was such a load of crap I walked out during the premier.
Worth of Gift: $30. That's how much I traded in the X-box game for at the local Electronics Boutique. All sarcasm aside, walking down the red carpet was, of course, priceless.

Movie: Million Dollar Baby
Gift: A sweatshirt with the name of the gym on it.
Relevance to Film: 10.
Worth of Gift: I just got it today. I plan to wear it often.

Movie: The Last Samurai
Gift: A Kimono and soundtrack CD.
Relevance to Film: 8. Tom Cruise wears a kimono, I think. I can't rightly recall.
Worth of Gift: 5. My first job ever was as a busboy in a Japanese restaurant, where I had to wear a kimono everyday to work. I have vowed never to do this again. Also, real men don't wear robes. I gave it to my brother.

Movie: The Princess Diaries 2
Gift: Nothing worth mentioning, but I did get Anne Hathaway to autograph a movie poster with a personalized note for my friend in Iraq.
Relevance to Film: 4. Who would you rather sleep with, Anne Hathway or Julie Andrews in her prime? There is only one right answer.
Worth of Gift: 11. News from the front lines on the war on terror indicate my friend in Iraq had many, umm, "pleasurable experiences" looking (touching, stroking) at the autograph.

Movie: The Bourne Supremacy
Gift: A t-shirt and sweatshirt with the film's logo.
Relevance to Film: 8.
Worth of Gift: 9. I wore this around everyday for approximately 2 weeks. Also, I have not washed my hand since I shook Matt Damon's.

Movie: Sideways
Gift: I didn't attend the junket for this one, but Sarah and I saw it together and she is taking me to a day of wine tasting in Santa Barbara, her treat.
Relevance to Film: 10. A film about wine tasting inspires the same.
Worth of Gift: 10. Sarah's a keeper.

Terrorists to blow up Grand Canyon, making an even BIGGER hole.

A sampling of Republican billboards from Arizona, courtesy of Cardhouse.com.

My girlfriend is hotter than yours.

Sarah was asked a few months ago to be a part of her gym's promotional marketing. The flier, which just came out the other day, shows her halfway through an intense dance session making what she terms a pretty serious "workout face." (She's the one on the far right.)

I think it's pretty neat actually. But remember Los Angeles: millions of you might get to see her "workout face," but you're missing out. The face to see is this one:



"O." (Sound file from Bullshitjob.com)

The Greatest Story Ever Told Pt. III (Part I, Part II)

"So for three days we didn't hear a thing from George. His parents were divorced and his father, who lived in Ithaka, decided against filing a missing persons report for reasons I'm still not quite sure of. We were positive he was in trouble, and thoughts of him lying dead somewhere filled all our heads. Somewhere out there our friend was wandering the snowy streets of Cornell on 6 tabs of acid. It would be an understatement to say we were all a little worried. Then, out of seemingly nowhere, I get a phone call. It was him."

"Dan," he said. "I'm in trouble and need your help."

"Sudden relief swept over me, and I could barely get out my next few words I was so choked up. Where are you, I asked. You know what he said? You have any idea where he was? Florida, that's where. Florida!"

"Florida!"

"Yeah. I couldn't believe it either. So much so, in fact, that I dismissed his earlier plea for help and demanded he tell me how he got there."

"Well," he said. "It's a long story, but after I stopped tripping I was able to piece a lot of it together. After I got back from my girlfriend's apartment I was so out of my skull with anger and fear that I nailed the cab meter to the front door. Then I got really paranoid. I was afraid the government was coming to erase my memory, so I started running. When I got to the student center I decided there was only one person who could save me...my mother."

"Now you have to understand that George hadn't spoken with his mother in years. Something happened when he was young and she walked out on the family, moved down to Florida. But George figures she's the only one who understands, so he calls a cab from the pay phone and asks to be taken immediately to the airport."

"I thought he had no money?"

"He didn't. But he pays the can driver with a personal check, the first of many it would turn out. Walks out of the cab, strolls to the ticket counter, and demands a first class ticket to Florida, which he also pays for with a personal check."

"Alright, stop right there. You can't buy a plane ticket with a check."

"Well, this was before 9-11. At any rate, George's father is, well, he's somebody you would know. You'll just have to trust me that they accepted it."

"Ok, so he buys an airline ticket same day? How much was that?"

"Over $1500. $1500, I might add, that he does not have. And they take the check as if it's real. So now George is thrilled beyond measure. It's like he has a license to print fake money. He decides to see how far it will take him."

"Uh oh."

"Yeah. Walks into every store in the airport and buys everything in sight. You wanna know his best purchase? A brand new suit. But not just any suit, no no. A bright red suit with silver lapels, which he compliments with a flashy silver tie, silver shoes with gold buckles, and a cowboy hat. As if there needed to be anymore proof that this guy was tripping face, that was it. So he gets on the plane with his new getup, looking like some bizarre accident between a pimp and a box of crayons. For three hours he's on board with his face pressed up against the window looking for angels in the clouds. Says he hallucinated a two hour conversation with God himself. To this day he'll occassionaly slip with some cryptic bullshit. If you ask him where he heard it, he'll say something like, Ummm, nowhere. Bullshit. This guy's full of the Creator's effing wisdom. So, anyway, he gets off the plane, still wearing his suit, hops a taxi to his mom's house, pays the cabbie with another bogus check, and rings her doorbell."

"I can't imagine this ends well."

"You can imagine. I mean, this woman hasn't seen her son in years, and he shows up unexpected, at about the same time the cops are knocking on my door I should add, all the way in Florida when he's supposed to be in school at Cornell, wearing a bright red suit with silver shoes and a cowboy hat, tripping on 6 tabs of acid. And then it starts to get weird."

"THEN it gets weird?"

"Yeah. George sees his mom and suddenly reverts to his childhood. All of a sudden it all comes out - every single thing he ever did wrong, every sin he ever committed. He tells her about stealing and lying and making girls sleep in wet spots. He tells her about doing drugs and how often he masturbates and that he stole $5 when he was 7. Everything."

"So wait, you said you didn't hear from George for three days. How come his mom didn't call?"

"That's why George was in trouble. Remember he said he was in trouble? Get this: his mom takes one long look at him after he's done with his diatribe, throws him in the car, and drives him to the place where he called me from, three days later."

"The police station?"

"The Mental Institution."

"Haha."

"She committed her own son. And the doctors didn't know what was wrong with him. It wasn't until he stopped tripping three days later that he was able to tell them that he wasn't crazy. Still, his mom wasn't buying it. She kept him in there for an extra week. Finally, he protested that he had to get back to school. The mother allowed him, but only under one condition."

"I'm never going to be able to guess it am I?"

"She allowed him only if she lived with him. So for the remaining 4 months of the school year that's how it was. George and I shared a room....with his mom. And you know something? It was alright. The bathrooms at the fraternity had never been cleaner."

Fin.

The Greatest Story Ever Told Pt. II (Read Pt. I here)

"Bang, bang, bang, bang came a loud knocking at the door. Only one type of person knocks that way and being in a fraternity, even one at Cornell, well, we got used to the cops. I was the one who answered the door. 'We're looking for George,' the cop said. Last I saw him he was in the fetal position in the corner, so I did what anyone would have done...I lied. 'Not here,' I answered. 'Bullshit!' the cop screamed. 'We know he's here and we know what he's done.' Now I don't like cops getting in my face, especially early in the morning. 'How in the world do you know he's here,' I answered back. 'Because of this,' he said, and with that he swung the door open all the way. And there, nailed to the door was, I shit you not, a cab meter that had been ripped out from a taxi."

"A cab meter?"

"A cab meter. Nailed to the fucking door like a friggin neon light. I had no idea what to think. I mean, I just woke up. But I told the cops they could come in. George, however, was nowhere to be found. Not in the house, didn't answer his cell phone. It was like he just up and vanished like a fart in the wind."

"Where the hell did he go. Jesus, he must have still been tripping!"

"You have no idea. It took us the whole day to figure out what happened, and even then we didn't have the whole story. Here's what we were able to piece together: Sometime in the early morning after the rest of us went to bed, George went from sleeping to manic. We know this cause he called his ex-girlfriend up. He hadn't talked to her in months, but she could tell he wasn't quite right. Keep in mind, of course, that it's like 5 AM. Anyway he calls her up and tells her he never stopped loving her, wants to have a thousand babies with her, etc, etc. Then he hangs up. 20 minutes later he's at her apartment."

"I take it this is where he took a taxi?"

"No. He RAN there. 3 miles! In the snow! Barefoot! He barges into her room and starts ranting about how the government implanted a device in his brain to moniter his thoughts, how she was the only one he trusted, how they needed to leave THIS MINUTE to get out of the blast zone for a nuclear bomb that was set to go off in Ithaka. Crazy, crazy shit. The guy's on 6 friggin tabs of acid remember. His face is melting. I'm surprised he was even able to string sentences together."

"But his ex had to know something was up."

"Oh she did. No doubt. But she didn't know what. Figured George was just really drunk, so she calls a cab to pick him up, take him back to the fraternity. Only when he gets to the frat house he has no money to pay the cabbie. Driver said when money was brought up George started freaking out. He rips the goddamn meter out of the front of the cab. Do you know how strong you have to be to do that? I wasn't kidding when I said he became the Incredible Hulk. So the cabbie drives away to call the cops. Keep in mind he knows George's name and address. This is going to be an easy arrest. Of course, the cops don't show up until hours later. By this point George was gone and the cab meter was nailed to the front door. And that's the last we heard from George for a long, long time."

"Holy shit. What happend to him?"

"We wouldn't find that out until he called me out of the blue three days later."

Pt. III of the Greatest Story Ever Told later...To be continued.

A: John Paul II, China, Johnny Carson



Q: Name the high priest, the Far East, and the deceased.

The Greatest Story Ever Told Part I

I've told this story many times, and it never gets old for me. It's from a friend who went to Cornell. This is his story, as told to me, about his roommate.

"My friend George wasn't a big drug user. Occasionally he would smoke pot, I suppose, but never anything more than that. But when you live in a fraternity house you get exposed to a lot of bad things, and one day George decides he wants to do acid. Now George has no idea how to get the stuff, of course, so he asks me to pick up some as a favor. Sure, I say. Hell, I'll even do it with you, I tell him. So I pick up six tabs."

"Six tabs! For the two of you?"

"No, no. Don't be ridiculous. I just made a bulk purchase. I never meant for us to do all of it, but I put them on the counter...and, well, George didn't really know any better."

"Holy shit. He did all of it?"

"Well, no. Not exactly. After I put the stuff down I had to run to class. I hadn't been to this class in a month, and it turned out I had a paper due the next day. So I figure I'll work on it back at the fraternity house, you know, do the acid another day. Only I get there and George is freaking out. I mean, licking the walls and shit. He turns to me and says 'Hey, I did my half. Your turn.' My mouth hit the friggin floor. Dude dropped 3 tabs at once. At once! Then I tell him that I have to write a paper and I can't do it with him, and he starts to hit me. He's pounding on the back of my head he's so enraged. Three buddies had to pull him off. He calms down for a bit so that the guys will let him go. Only he's not free for more than five seconds before he screams 'Oh yeah? Well fuck you asshole. If that's the way you're going to be about it, I'm taking your half too.' And as sure as I'm standing here, George reaches into his pockets, takes out the other three tabs, and drops them."

"Uh oh."

"Now he's become the Incredible Hulk. George smash! George smash! We actually had to lock him in the basement, that's how worried we were for our safety. Only we forgot about the three empty kegs down there, which we could hear being thrown against the walls and door. The guy was full-on, batshit crazy. Stays down there for hours, until about 4 o'clock in the morning when Boom! he breaks down the door. He's talking do himself, doing his best Jack Nicholson impression from The Shining. And he's fucking nuts - running into walls, doing cartwheels, throwing knives. And, get this, he's demanding MORE ACID. There's no way in hell we're giving him more acid, but we HAD to shut him up. He was going to get himself arrested and or killed if we didn't do something."

"You didn't think about taking him to the hospital?"

"We tried. But he wouldn't go anywhere with us. Plus he had a knife."

"Good point. So what did you do?"

"We gave him more acid. Well, not really. We ripped up a piece of paper and told him it was acid, hoping he would go off into a corner and pass out. And that's just what he did. Crawled up in the fetal position and went to sleep. Figured we had it all taken care of so we went to our rooms and hit the hay. It wasn't until we were awoken at 10 AM by the cops that we knew something wasn't right...."

Pt. II Tomorrow.

Bush vows to end "tyranny in our world."



I wouldn't feel the need to elaborate, except that Bush explicitly mentioned the Sermon on the Mount. Which is nice. I might not think Jesus is the son of God, but I'm especially fond of this particular wisdom of his. Except, how do I put this...Bush doesn't really follow the Sermon.

Like this part: "Blessed are the peacemakers: for they shall be called the children of God."

Not exactly part of your typical Republican platform is it?

The Juice is Loose

Overheard:

"So I'm out golfing with my wife on the public course, cause, you know, I'm from Australia and sell life insurance. How the hell am I going to get on a private club? Anyway, who am I playing behind but O.J. Simpson. He's paired up with some old fucker. Probably can't buy his way into the ritzy courses since he hacked his wife up. Well I'm on the 13th tee and I smack a ball that goes right onto the next hole's green. Bloody nasty slice. I'm walking over to retrieve it when OJ knocks his ball right past me - hits the fucking pin. I mean, it was a beautiful shot. So he's all excited, jumping up and down, and he's running towards me cause he thinks he might have gotten a hole in one. Now you have to understand, I'm shitting my pants. OJ fucking Simpson is running at me yelling crazy things and waving his golf club. I've been chased by wild kangaroos, and I wasn't as scared. He gets to his ball and sees what an amazing shot it was. Probably only hit a shot like that three times in your life if you're lucky. So he's looking for someone to bask in it with him and since that old codger is 100 yards behind him he looks at me. I'm the only one there. He comes over and sticks his hand out - you know, he's looking for a high five. And I'm thinking, 'Should I high five OJ Simpson?' I didn't know what to do. So I offer him the side slap. Very meek. Anyway, I get my ball and head back to my wife. And, of course, the wife is all pissed cause I just high fived the guy who carved up Nicole. She won't play golf with me anymore."

"Was he wearing his gloves?"

"Oh yeah. Fucker had tight fitting gloves on."

"Talk to the hand, bitch." Romans 5:19

The Official God FAQ.

The Sun Also Rises?

It's an often misinterpreted fact that Ernest Hemingway gave his first novel a hopeful title. Oh, I could go on about how that whole lost generation business was meant tongue in cheek, but I'd much rather take a page out of the old misanthrope's book and talk about things that make me, well, that make me happy. It's an act too often neglected around this little corner of the world wide web.

For instance, if you were with me at around 6 this afternoon, and you walked with me from my apartment to my car, you would have seen a sunset to set your eyes spinning in the back of your heads. From a certain angle in a certain spot, you can actually see the beach from my apartment. Granted, this wasn't what I had in mind when I was promised an "ocean view," but that's a bitter pill which has no place here. Now, I'm not normally one for sunsets, though I have a good friend who once saw 44 in one day - a record which I believe still stands. Always preferred sunrises myself, although that may very well be my East Coast bias speaking. No matter. I knew when I saw this remarkable display of colors, that my chores could wait. I knew I had to go to the beach. I knew that with the melting colors over the blue ocean the Pacific was even more beautiful than I could ever have imagined. And I knew that when a dolphin jumped out of the water and framed the sky with a perfect silhouette that even I wouldn't believe it. I understand, my friends, I understand. But I wish all the same that you could have been there with me.

Confessions of a Dangerous Mind

A story sampler platter from the weekend:

The possibility of this not being used for evil are approximately 0%

My brother got me a webcam for Christmas so I could talk with my nieces who live in Maine. It wasn't set up for more than an hour before I was taking pictures of my penis.

Sarah
Why is it green?

Me
Umm, that's just cause...you know the...light and the...DELETED

And you Madam burnt the Christmas turkey!

I used the word ain't in front of Sarah's mom as a joke last time I saw her. She pulled Sarah aside and said she wasn't sure how smart I was since I "abused the King's English."

I have a dream

While I was waiting for a slice of pizza tonight, a black homeless man came in the restaurant. And by "came in the restaurant" I mean "masturbated next to the soda machine until the cops arrived." He then said, you can't make this up, that I was "moosilicious" and of high "moositude." I celebrated diversity by watching Harold and Kumar go to White Castle.

Sidewalks of LA

Bumped into a certain celebrity at Borders in Santa Monica on Friday. I introduced myself and chatted for a few minutes before he left. What he doesn't know is that I talked to him once before while my good friend was on the can. Speaking of cans...

Some come here to sit and think...

I just discovered that my wireless internet connection reaches into the bathroom. A new and glorious day has dawned, dear readers. Praise it. Praise it with great praise.

Review Questions:

1.) Has anyone ever owned a webcam and NOT taken a picture of their privates?
2.) Seriously?
3.) In five words or less, describe the "King's english."
4.) Draw a picture of someone who is of high "moositude."
5.) He peaked with Brothers McMullen didn't he?

I could use the money

For Parade of Delusion readers only, a unique opportunity to chat with a real-life Hollywood celebrity.*

The highest bidder receives:

1.) The AIM screen name used by a young, incredibly hot, and ultra-famous female celebrity. This actress has headlined many major motion pictures, and has graced the cover of many national magazines. You will not be disappointed. The AIM name has been personally verified and is LEGIT. Think Kirsten Dunst, only NOT Kirsten Dunst. But someone like Kirsten Dunst. Further details will be revealed to the winning bidder.

2.) You will also receive a certificate of authenticity, made by me on photoshop. It doesn't get any better than this folks!

Bids should be placed in the comments section below. Payment by check only.

*Sale is of AIM screen name only. Seller assumes no responsibility for length of conversation or reception from celebrity.

Protecting America, one generation at a time.



The little munchkin in the picture is my nephew Tyler, who has started taking karate as a way to vent his aggression in a non-destructive way. Personally, I think it's working. Whereas he used to wrestle with his little brother for upwards of a half hour, now he just judo chops him once or twice and is done with it. A decided improvement. Not that I see anything wrong with this sort of behavior mind you, but, then again, I'm the same guy who pulled out his little brother's hair when I was 4. And do you know what my little brother is up to now? 250 lbs, that's what. Which means he could kick my ass. Also, he's going to work for NASA so he's smarter than you. I'm sorry, I can't help it. It's the truth.

My older siblings keep saying that one day they'll get me back for how I corrupted their little children. Only they'll take it out on my children. This is because I teach my nephews and nieces about important things, things like rock music, and internet porn, and cigars, and crayola crayons. Well, I'm sorry, but that hardly seems fair. I mean if they teach my kids about these things, what in the hell will I teach them? Most likely about how mommy and daddy don't love each other anymore and why it's all their fault.

I obviously kid. Their mother and I will no doubt stop loving each other long before they arrive.

For a look at the whole crew, check out this photo. It's almost 4 years old, but it's the only one I have of everyone together.

And it goes without saying, of course, that I love em all to pieces.

If only I were paid in product services. Then, oh yes. Then I would be a rich man.

I was recently contracted to write some product descriptions for an online sex store. Here are two of my favorites:

Slender G-Spot Vibrator

First theorized by Sigmund Freud, the G-Spot, or “Grafenberg Ring,” is an invitation to more powerful, intense, and deeper orgasms than with mere clitoral stimulation, a feeling of pleasure so strong it may very well be termed a sexual weapon of mass destruction. Sadly, however, the G-Spot can be just as hard to find.

Let the slender G-Spot vibrator do the dirty work for you. Its unique shape is designed to hit the G-Spot head-on, resulting in a tidal wave of sensation that will send you rolling. Made from plastic, the vibrator is easy to clean, simple to operate, and compatible with your favorite lubricants. It runs on two AA batteries (not included).

Note: The G-Spot is located towards the upper-front vaginal wall, right above the bladder. For this reason, first time explorers may be more comfortable locating the g-spot on a toilet.

Water Toys

Splish, splash, you’ll be taking lots of baths with any of these watersafe vibrators. From the 7.5 inch Clitterific Pink Dong to the classic 8-inch Purple Swing Dong, each of these toys is specially designed for maximum pleasure. Ergonomically crafted from the finest materials for both vaginal insertion and hand-held usability, these toys will leave you singing, “Rub a’Dub, I’m staying in the tub.” Batteries not included.

His name was Mud.

If you were to rank all the possible types of natural disasters, mud slides would have to be pretty close to the bottom right? Earthquakes are impressive. Tsunamis are impressive. A fucking asteroid falling from the sky and slamming into the earth is impressive. Mud? Sliding? What's so impressive about that? Nothing, that's what.

You wouldn't know that though from the news coverage this thing has been getting. It's the top news story on yahoo right now. Apparently six people have died. Are you kidding me? Six? I personally know people in the army who have killed more than six human beings in an hour.

The trouble area in Los Angeles is Laurel Canyon and surrounding canyon roads. That's because rich assholes decided to build their homes on the side of steep mountains. The richer the asshole, the more likely his home got whisked away. Remember that when you grieve. This isn't some poor family who got screwed by nature. The majority of damage is to people who compete with their neighbors for the best canyon view, and then act the victim when, holy shit, the foundation they built in mud erodes because of, get this, rain water! That's inconceivable! Who would have ever thought that dirt could wash away?

I would like to state for the record that Sarah and I attended a New Year's Eve party at one of these homes, and I'll be damned if I didn't say something about how perilous the situation was, specifically mentioning the trouble it must cause if it rains. I love being proved right.

Dear Rich Assholes:



The world's tiniest violin plays for you. I mean mud? Sheesh!

That they all might be damned who believed not the truth, but had pleasure in unrighteousness.

You are invited to a new online community.

As I was saying before truth broke in

I cut my hair yesterday. Well, no, not exactly. Although I think the Flobie rivals only indoor plumbing as our most signifigant technological advancement, I was smart enough to pay someone else to do the dirty deed. Not for nothing, though, but "Did you cut your hair?" "No, I had someone else do it." ranks as the second greatest joke about hair.

I go to Victor, an Iranian fellow who works at "Hairdressers," a sort of Supercuts for those who don't want to actually go to Supercuts. I've been going to him pretty much exclusively since arriving in Santa Monica a year and a half ago. He's perfect, in so far as he does a great job and, more importantly, talks a little but not too much. The first time he cut my hair I told him that I had recently interviewed Shohreh Aghdashloo, the Oscar nominated Iranian actress from House of Sand and Fog. This was a bad idea, since he now asks me about her everytime I go in. You would think she were Julia Roberts by the way he goes on about her, but then, I suppose she is to Iran. (Incidentally, he never says Iran. It's Persia thank you very much.) Bless the good saints that she's going to be in the upcoming season of 24. This, after all, is something I know a little bit about.

Random Clancypants: Michael Landon had long hair at the time of his death because his father's name was Sam, literally making him Samson (Sam's son).

A healthy looking middle-aged man came to the shop and sat down in the stool next to mine. He asked for a buzz-cut. Shave it off, he said. As he had a beautiful head of long hair, the barber hesitated with the clippers. "Please," the man said. "I have cancer. The radiation treatments are going to make me bald. I'll be damned if I'm going to lose my hair without a choice." And as his hair fell about the floor I thought of my mother, who was a hairdresser, and who died of cancer. Looking through the mirror into his face, I was certain I saw a hero.

Anyway, as I was saying before truth broke in, the greatest joke about hair is: "Did you get a haircut?" "No, I got them all cut."

Words, Words, Words...

Our good friend Auto reminded us yesterday of a term we wish would rise in popularity. It is the solemn duty of all Parade of Delusion readers to make this term their own, use it, and actively encourage its use by others. When you read it in Esquire, you can trace it back here. I have just added it to the urban dictionary.

Clancypants: (Noun)

A lie that is told for no conceivable reason. The lie itself is plausible but ultimately unproveable. It disappears as quickly as it is uttered under its own inconsequence.

Derives from the apocryphal tale that author Tom Clancy was unliked as a child and taunted with the nickname "Clancypants."

I can't believe I sat through this shit.

As some of you may know, I used to work as a celebrity interviewer for an entertainment website (I think my last interview is still my favorite.) Anyway, this required that I actually attend the movies I was supposed to talk about, apparently under the assumption that seeing Starsky and Hutch would make me less likely to want to punch Ben Stiller in the mouth. Frankly, I don't understand the rationale either. At any rate, here are the 5 worst movies I saw this year. (Keep in mind I didn't see nearly every film out there.)

No. 5: The Girl Next Door

How many times must I explain this to you? If it is an integral part of your story that people get naked, you MUST give audiences the money shot. Boogie Nights? Money shot. The Full Monty? Money shot. The Girl Next Door? Not one scene with a naked Elisha Cuthbert. Sweet Jumping Jesus on a pogo stick, it's not that hard. Several things worth mentioning: At the roundtable interviews we actually took bets as to what drug the guy was on (You know, the guy. The dude from the movie. What's his name.) I literally gave $5 to the reporter from IGN because crystal meth sounded the most plausible. Another thing: I peed next to the director of this movie at the screening. The next day he went on and on about how The Girl Next Door was Risky Business for a new generation. Sir, I have peed next to Tom Cruise. Tom Cruise was a friend of mine. You sir, are no Tom Cruise.

No. 4: Garden State

"That movie was wicked retahded and anyone who likes it is retahded and if you liked it you are retahded." - My friend Brad from Boston.

No. 3: Agent Cody Banks: Destination London

I know, I know. It's a kid's movie. But fuck that, I had to sit through the motherfucker. For starters, the girl they got to play "not Hillary Duff" in this one is actually older than me, and yet somehow manages to both look around 14 AND get seduced by Frankie Muniz. The only good thing to come out of this movie was that I got invited to a celebrity basketball game as a result and managed to block a shot by Jonathan Lipniki, the little kid from Jerry Maguire. "The human head weighs 8 lbs, bitch!"

No. 2: Godsend

"Hello this is Robert DeNiro. I was curious if I was still relevant?"
"No."
"Oh, well, it's just that I was, you know, in it for the money and-"
"Wait. Are you phoning in an apology? For a performance you phoned in!"
"Oh, umm, - click-"

No. 1 Tie: Troy and The Chronicles of Riddick.

Here's all you need to know about The Chronicles of Riddick. I was invited to the premiere. I walked down the red carpet in front of Vin Diesel himself. For God's sake I sat mere rows in front of the man, and yet I left the movie halfway through! I couldn't even watch the whole thing. That, friends, is a piece of shit.

Honorable mention: White Chicks, Starsky and Hutch, Anchorman, King Arthur, The Punisher.

She might be a winner folks

An actual quote from my actual girlfriend who, mind you, has never met any of my friends from back East:

"He's not a bad guy. He's just got no social skills. You know, like Ian."

I wish this picture didn't exist.



There is something terribly odd about this picture, and I'm not ashamed to admit that while I knew something was not right from the moment I received it - indeed even my sister, who can occasionaly be daft in these matters, sent it to me with the subject line, "A sad picture." - it took me several minutes of intense scrutiny to figure out exactly what. See if you can figure out what it is. I'll wait.

Are you back yet? Good. Odd isn't it? The picture I mean, not the fact that I'm pretending to wait in my blog. For starters, I suppose we should state the obvious and say that it's a picture of a few American soldiers and several Iraqi children. If you take an even closer look, you'll notice that the soldier to the left with his back towards the camera is making balloons for the kids to play with. Now comes the first oddity: not ONE of the children is smiling. I mean, c'mon! It's balloon time! In fact, each and every one of those poor kids seems to be having the opposite of a good time. Notice how the girl all the way to the left holds the baby (a sibling?). The way her body is slightly turned, coupled with the position of her right arm, clearly indicates a protective stance. The two other girls (third and fifth from the left) also have similarly curious facial expressions. Confusion? Anger? I don't quite know.

But take a look for a second at the one person in the picture who is smiling. Notice how he looks directly into the camera? That's usually indicitive of a posed picture. Normally, of course, when a picture is posed, everyone poses. That's not true here. In fact, it looks like he just jumped into frame, oblivious to what's behind him. That would make sense if he were in front of, say, the Grand Canyon, but less so here.

Finally, though, take a look at his left hand. This, I feel, is the nexus of oddity in the picture. The children...the smile...everything could be explained away. But he's holding his gun and pointing it! Now, granted, his finger is off the trigger, but his hand is not off the grip. In fact, the gun is poised to shoot in every possible way save for the fact that his index finger is a full one inch away from the trigger. I can't tell you why he's in that position. But the disconnect is jarring.

By the way. The soldier in the picture? The one with the gun? That's my new brother-in-law.

I wish what I wished before.

Only harder.

Sadly, local culture has not improved.

My car was broken into the other night. As it is my custom to leave my car unlocked for this exact reason (to prevent my windows from getting smashed), I was not so much surprised as I was offended. After all, I don't pay off the homeless person down the street in cigarettes for nothing. I expect, nay demand, protection. Absolutely nothing was taken, however. I suppose I should consider myself lucky.

I even found a book of poems in the backseat which I had thought lost. This saddened me. For surely, above all, the criminal element of this town could use some poetry. I imagine them standing around bonfires discussing bank security, and with the same passion, turning their attention towards a particularly dense passage from Paradise Lost. Getting them off the streets, then, would be easier than ever, as we could have them stand trial before the court of good taste:

Lawyer
Did you know the victim?

Criminal
I never met her in my life.

Lawyer
Perhaps. But how do you explain that a copy of Pound's late Cantos was found in your apartment?

Criminal
I...I...

Judge
(banging gavel)
GUILTY!

As this is beautiful, and beauty equals truth, this must be the way things work. So I can only conclude that my poems were deemed unacceptable by the vagrant who looted my car. It wouldn't really surprise me to be honest. In this town, everyone's a critic.

And to make an end is to make a beginning.

A hearty hip hip and hurrah for 2005. A sincere thanks is due to all who called to wish good tidings, and apologies to those with whom I seemed curt. For above all, New Years Eve is about one thing, and that one thing is getting drunk. NYC may indeed be the center of the Universe, but in my first year away it had the indignity to close the book on 04 a full three hours before I could. I will make it a resolution, then, to get drunk earlier next year. I believe this is one resolution I can keep.

They say that what you do on the First signals what you'll do for the rest of the year. If so, I have a lot of something called "speaker freaking" ahead. Now, never in my wildest imaginings did I ever think I would enjoy an all-night rave, but then, I don't recall ever envisioning myself at one of those things in the first place, my experience of raves hitherto entirely limited to the orgy scene from the second Matrix. Apparently, though, glowsticks and electronica are what I left the East Coast for, despite the fact that I was blissfully unaware of this until last night. Out with the old, etc, etc.

I kid, of course. What I really left the East Coast for was movie stars and flashy cars and life with the top down. And since these merry old gentlemen were the only ones kind enough to indulge my girlfriend and I with free VIP tickets, I felt compelled to make an appearance. Also, no joke, the main DJ's name was John Digweed. For obvious reasons, that's really fucking funny.

But even in a throng of dancing thousands, one can find peace if one looks. Such a moment existed right before the clock tolled the new year. From face to face throughout the crowd, a giddy joy sprung up as midnight approached. In the company of strangers who moved as one I sought the truth, and the truth was this: Dance like no one is watching.

These are words which are as good as any to build a new year upon.

So I welcome you, as is my new custom, to the Year of Shawn. The adventure of a lifetime continues for another day. I, for one, can't wait to see how it develops.

A lovely picture of Sarah and I can be seen here.

I Like Numbers

I hereby do solemnly swear to make this post as incomprehensible as possible.

As of this afternoon, news sources are reporting over 150,000 deaths as a result of the recent earthquake and tsunami. That's a lot. But is it really? I mean, it sure sounds like a lot. For a three-day span, I'd say it was pretty impressive. 150,000 dead is more than a similiar timespan for either Hiroshima OR Nagasaki (though not Hiroshima AND Nagasaki). The total also barely squeaks by both Gallipoli (131,000) and the fire bombing of Dresden (135,000). So it goes. By comparison, the most damaging earthquake in American history only killed 800 San Franciscans (Onion Headline: "San Francisco Flaming: Thousands of Faggots burned.") 800 wouldn't even get you an invite at the big boys' table, not when it's only one-tenth as many as history's worst accident (Chernobyl, 8,000 dead) . Of course, according to the Institute of Medicine, 44,000 to 98,000 Americans are killed each year due to medical mistakes. Whoops!

150,000 would be about half as many Iraqis as Saddam is purported to have had killed during his reign. This, of course, is very bad. But of that number only 512 were considered deadly acts of terrorism against Americans, which is a measly one sixth of the number Osama killed on Sept. 11. Neither can ever hope to match the greatest terrorist in American history, of course. A man responsible for some 360,000 deaths. That man's name? Jefferson Davis. (And if you don't think the Confederates were "technically" terrorists one: look up the definition for terrorist, and two: kill yourself. I fucking hate you and hate the South.)

When you get right right down to it, nature's got nothing on us humans. AIDS killed some 12 million people from 1981 to 1998, but that's only half as many as we killed during the Atlantic Slave Trade. 20 million is also the approximate number of American Indians we annihilated. Remember that next time you sit down for turkey and stuffing. Yummy. And 20 million, as big a number as that is, would still only be about one third the number of people that were butchered in one way or another during World War II.

Yet, through it all (or perhaps in spite of it all) the world population currently sits at approximately 6.5 BILLION. But don't worry. We'll find a way to kill ourselves off one of these days. You can bank on it.

An Open Letter to George Steinbrenner

Dear George,

A 41 year old pitcher with a history of back problems! I don't care if he IS the greatest lefty of all-time. Don't you think a payroll of close to $300 million (when you add those pesky luxury taxes) is a bit of a...



...reaction? Nothing would make me happier than to see your whole team asplode.

Signed,

A Red Sox fan.

The Year of Shawn

Top 5 Quotes of 2004

5.) "The number one goal of 90% of the women out here is to fuck someone famous. When they can't do that, they fuck someone who knows someone famous. That's where you and I come in." - Brad the Great

4.) "Don't fall in love with your dialogue. Fucking Ever. Fuck your dialogue. Fuck you and fuck your fucking words." - Robert the Bruce

3.) "That's it. I'm killing myself. Right now. Shawn, bring me a knife." (After being told that if she killed herself, and I had to call the police, I would make love to her daughter and have many, many babies) "Ugh. Something to live for." - Queen Barbara

2.) "So my friend was having sex with Fabio, when he came on her chest, licked it up, and said 'I recycle my shit.'" - The Whore of Babylon

1A.) "Don't take this the wrong way, but you look like a fat Matt Damon." - Princess Barrymore

1.) "That's funny. I saw you across the room, and I was literally just about to come up to you and say you looked like a fat Drew Barrymore." - King Shawn

City of Angels my ass

It's raining here again in Los Angeles, which can only mean that millions of Californians are terrified of leaving their homes and crashing their cars into storefronts when they do. My cat is less scared of thunder than my neighbors, who this afternoon turned their television set up to "ear splitting" in an attempt to mask the noise outside. Sadly, my lifelong quest to prove God's existence continues for another day, as my prayers went unanswered and a bolt of lightning did NOT strike their antenna and electrify them to death. Now more than ever, I am certain Chicken Little was from Santa Monica.

Of course, you would think that locals might be a little more patient, since at least one meteorologist claimed the increased rain was due to a "tsunami effect." Sure, 100, 000 people might have died but, godammit, how I am supposed to get a tan in this weather! It's days like these that I seriously contemplate throwing eggs at the Botox clinic next door. (And, yes, I REALLY do live next to a Botox clinic.)

Far be it for me to join the chorus of the selfish but, well, the tsunami did have at least one benefit. My roommate, it seems, had bought a ticket for Thailand (he spent last Christmas there as well), and only pulled out when his company offered him time and a half to work over the holiday. To celebrate his good fortune at not being dead, he treated me to dinner at Wahoos.

The fish tacos were, of course, angelic.

Somehow, 'I told you so' just doesn't seem to cut it

Former sausage claims Islamic army wanted Bush re-elected because it would "strengthen [their] cause."

Well no friggin duh.

Let us never speak of this again

Loyal blog readers might remember my friend Tom as the guy who unleashed a scatological "river of sin" on unsuspecting USC students during a recent football game. I, of course, remember Tom as the individual personally responsible for one of the most disgusting things I've ever heard about. I make sure to remind him of this often.

What could only have began as an effort to clear his name, ended somewhat surprisingly in a contest. The rules were simple: The first one to tell a story or email a picture that actually causes the other to vomit wins. Yes, dear readers, I am that depraved. (As a side note, I could never imagine two women doing something like this. Why is that?)

I started slow. My opening was the thrice told tale of Javy Lopez, a famous story of mine which, alas, must go unpublized to the blogging world at large. When this barely made a dent, I knew I was in for a long contest. My will needed to be strong.

Sensing defeat, I brought out my trump card early. "An Evening with the Japanese," a video that still haunts my nightmares on rainy evenings, was a clear attempt at the jugular. Tom's reponse, which will go unlinked here, is clearly the worst possible thing that can be conceived or imagined by the human mind - a video so clearly the work of Satan himself that only a freak and brief power outage saved me from lifelong insanity. I am certain that the portion I did witness will be the last conscious thought I have, an image so horrifying that only a lifetime in the clergy can possibly save me from eternal damnation. Again, we have the Japanese to thank for this. To say their culture must be a little sick is clearly like saying Wilt Chamberlain was a little desirable to women.

But through it all I perservered, and finally, tonight, I claimed victory. Just as he started eating a bowl of hot chilli, I whispered two words in his ear. Two words that caused him to push aside his food, run outside, and throw up next to his car. The two words were this: "lung mover."

Let us never speak of this again.

(Note: Dear reader, do NOT try to figure out what lung mover means. It's an inside joke. Whatever you do, do NOT transpose the first letter of each of those words. Do NOT do a google image search for the first of those words. Do NOT write comments in complaint when you don't heed my warnings.)

Read between the lies.

"Shawn, I hope you like this movie. The main character reminds me of you and the stories you tell."

Said on the gifting of one Shattered Glass DVD. By my girlfriend.

I'm prepared to take this as a testament to the power of my stories. Which are all true. Every one of them.

Trust me.

Your correspondent's mind has been turned to shooting, and he is inspired to offer this information on account of having just shot himself in the calves of both legs...there was absolutely no pain at all. -Ernest Hemingway to Esquire Magazine.

Jobs I won't be applying for, courtesy of Craig's List:

"Community newspaper group seeks experienced political reporter to cover local elections and goings on in Compton. Duties will include covering race, providing candidate profiles, conducting interviews, etc."

It's a Christmas Miracle.

I thought, perhaps, that I would attend church this evening. To put it mildly, I'm not normally much of a church-goer. Don't much believe in it. In fact, I told Sarah I might be heading to a midnight mass and her response didn't much surprise me. "But you hate Christianity," she said. Which isn't really true, of course, (it's the Christians themselves I hate) but close enough. And, yet, there I was with a plate full a fried chicken watching TV on Christmas Eve. By myself. I dunno. Call me crazy but I felt kinda lonely. It didn't seem right.

Problem is I wouldn't even begin to know where to find a church. There's probably close to 8 billion of them in Santa Monica alone, of course. Hell if I know where they are. (And according to the Christians, Hell if I don't!) Well, I needed cigarettes anyway, so I figured I'd ask the guy at 7-11. This is what it's come to for me by the way. I seek salvation and wind up talking to the Mexican who fixes the Slurpee machine.

Now, normally, there are anywhere from 2 to a handful of homeless people outside, begging for change. No matter how many are out there, they all work solo. It becomes a contest. See who can accost me first. Sometimes the rules change, and it's who can accost me the loudest. I enjoy those nights the most.

Tonight, however, was different. All together they joined and, in two uneven rows, sang carols to passing shoppers. I don't need to tell you, dear readers, that they were awful. Off-key when they remembered the words (which wasn't often). But they sang. Like the chant of the Whos down in Whoville. And with positively similar results.

So tonight I bought two packs of cigarettes. One for me, and one that I distrubuted to the choir. And then I sang with them. I really did. (If you're wondering, the cigarettes did not help the performance. One shopper dubbed us the 'Singing, Smoking, Santas' though, which makes it worth it.)

Of course, I never went to church. Why should I? And so, if you'll permit me, I'd like to change that famous remark by one Mr. Tiny Tim:



"This Christmas, let's bless each other."

Happy Holidays to all my blogging buddies. You are missed.

'Cause it's killing me.' Haha. I get it. Very clever.

My face hurts.

They say a man's personal torment is often indescribable. Perhaps. But it's certainly replicable. I suggest you all give the following a whirl:

You're going to need a knife for this. Better yet, two knives. No, make that a knife and an ice pick.

What I want you to do is stick the ice pick as far into your ear as possible. Make sure the tip punctures your inner ear and leave it there. Position is key as we'll discover later.

Now take the other knife - a broad kitchen knife if possible - and jam it between your jaw and skull, right where the two meet. (Using the dull side is fine) With a maximum amount of effort, attempt to separate the two, using your lower jaw as leverage if necessary. Do this everytime you open or close your mouth.

If you've positioned the ice pick properly a large amount of earwax should be building up and cascading down your inner face, as sap from a dead flower might cascade down the inside of a vase. Fiddle around with the ice pick if you're not there yet. (Don't worry: moving the ice pick around and repeatedly jamming it into your skull is part of the process). Ideally, the left side of your face will now be warm and mildly feverish.

The final step is the trickiest, as it requires that you give up your health insurance. If, like me, you had no health insurance to begin with, congratulations, you are well on your way to a life of adventure and really exciting things. This last step is crucial and not to be forgotten, as it fills you with a general dread that a) things actually might not ever get better and b) you could die waiting.

For maximum points, put pain levels on a timer. This will ensure that the pain will be bearable during the day, but will reach dizzying heights at night just as you are trying to fall asleep.

I tell ya, if I could drop dead right now, I'd be the happiest man alive.

Slow News Day

NJ mall suffers power outage...Dozens stuck on escalator.

I'll be here all week. Don't forget to tip your waitress. C'mon, I know you're out there, I can hear you breathing.

Ok, I'm done now.

Release date announced for the new Harry Potter book!



I am now occupied for the evening of July 16th. Make plans accordingly.

Whoo!

This is not a culture that should be tossed aside lightly. It should be thrown with great force.

Social differences between Los Angeles and the rest of the (civilized) world are many, but perhaps at no other time are these differences so pronounced as during the Holidays. For instance, I was told by phone the other day that Christmas is this week which, frankly, came as a big shock to me since I was wearing sunglasses and walking under a palm tree at the time of announcement. Not to be swayed by false prophets (profits?), I decided to check this out myself. Sure enough, immediately upon entering the Santa Monica Mall I was assaulted with Christmas themed musak. I knew then I wasn't being lied to.

Which brings me naturally to a problem and a question. The problem, of course, it's that it's beginning to look at lot like July. It was over 80 degrees the other day. Honest. But, friends, the problem only worsens from there, for surely the spirit can equate with the equatorial. But not here. For instance, while I can't prove it, I'm certain the bell ringer for the Salvation Army was leaving personal headshots around the Promenade. I saw several conspiculously lying about that looked suspicious. Also, nothing against the lovely high school choir that serenaded shoppers, but Aretha Franklin's "R-E-S-P-E-C-T" isn't exactly Jingle Bells. Sigh. This, to me, is a bad thing.

One might be tempted, as I am, to ask: "If a Christmas tree falls in Hollywood, does it make a sound?"

Probably. But only with post production digital enhancement.

Which is why I'm pleased as punch that I'll be spending Christmas Day with someone I care about. In the OC.

Thanks be to Superman.

Bah Humbug

Saleswoman
(holding up a delicate, pink gift)
Aww, how sweet. You must know a very special little princess.

Me
No. I'm desperately trying to confuse my son.

Money's short and life's a bitch
So here's your fucking Christmas gift.



It's a Bag O'Glass!

Cause Christmas is for Suckers

"A Festivus for the rest of us." - Frank Costanza

Festivus occurs on December 23, and should be celebrated by all who wish to herald in the holiday season.

There are three main components to a successful Festivus celebration:

• The Festivus Pole. During Festivus, an unadorned aluminum pole is displayed, in opposition to the commercialization of decorated Christmas trees. Not a tree, a pole. Remember: no decorations. Tinsel is very distracting from the true meaning of the holiday. The pole is tall, silver, hollow, long, skinny, and heavy.

• The Airing of Grievances. This is the part of the holiday where you tell your family and friends all the ways they have disappointed you during the year.

• The Feats of Strength. The head of the family tests his or her strength against one participant of the head's choosing. Festivus is not considered over until the head of the family has been pinned. A participant is allowed to decline to attempt to pin the head of the family only if they have something better to do instead.

Happy Festivus!

"It breaks your heart. It is designed to break your heart. The game begins in spring, when everything else begins again, and it blossoms in the summer, filling the afternoons and evenings, and then as soon as the chill rains come, it stops and leaves you to face the fall alone."

Let's face it: Winter's worse than a four month rain delay, and in the long, dark teatime of the soul spring training can't come soon enough. Which is why I'm thankful to all my friends in the sport who let me question them about the minor leagues for a possible television show I'm developing. You, and you, and you, and I, well, we're all sorta doing the same thing, striving against almost impossible odds as it were. You are an inspiration. But especially you, sir. On some great and glorious day your time will come. And I will be there to applaud you.

"People ask me what I do in winter when there's no baseball. I'll tell you what I do. I stare out the window and wait for spring." - Rogers Hornsby