What I'm Thinking No. 1

In today's society people seem to feel the need to engage others in conversation about whatever the latest societal concern is that has their attention. Since I very rarely respond to these parties when confronted with conversations such as these, I've become a target for those who wish to have them.

When someone corners me to discuss politics, nutrition, religion, etc. I listen politely without speaking and when they're finished say something like "I think my bus is here," or, "I'm due in surgery in five minutes." What I'm thinking to myself is a different story.

Here are two scenarios that happened to me.

SCENARIO 1

One night I was in the grocery store. I made my way to the snack food aisle to buy some potato chips. I'm standing there perusing for sale items when I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's a friend of mine, who I shall refer to as "John:"

JOHN: Hey. Watcha doin'?

ME: Looking for some tasty snack foods to have with my dinner.

JOHN: Get some of those salty snacks with the cholesterol in them. Those salty, cholesterol laden snacks are the best and certainly the most tasty. Try to get a cheese flavored kind to increase the tastiness, not to mention the cholesterol. Have I mentioned how tasty they are?

ME: Yes. I'm considering the "Extra Fat Sour Cream, Cheddar And Endive" flavor.

At this point a woman who neither of us know walks down the aisle. She grabs a bag of baked Soy chips. My friend notices her do this. She turns and starts to walk out of the aisle. My friend continues talking to me. In normal conversation he's loud. Now, he's REALLY LOUD.

JOHN: YOU KNOW, THEY REALLY HAVEN'T PROVEN THAT SOY CHIPS ARE ANY BETTER FOR YOU THAN REGULAR CHIPS. YOU KNOW THAT RIGHT? THEY HAVEN'T PROVEN IT. IN FACT, I HEARD SOY CAUSES TUMORS. BUNCHA LIBERALS WITH THEIR SOY. DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO EAT, YOU LIBERALS. I'M GONNA GO TO MCDONALD'S RIGHT NOW AND GET A SUPER SIZE FRIES! WITH EXTRA GREASE! BUT NOT BEFORE I BUY A BAG OF THESE HIGH FAT CHIPS AND EAT THEM ON THE WAY OVER!

ME: Great, John, I hope that works out for you.

The woman turns around and walks back towards us. She reaches for another bag of soy chips and starts muttering something about being a conservative and how she just had bypass surgery.

WHAT I'M THINKING:

SCENARIO 2:

I'm attending a party at the home of a friend. I just want to relax and have a good time and not get too heavy about anything. There are about twenty people there who have the same idea. The hostess starts an argument about Iraq. One of her neighbors, a burly man resembling Paul Bunyan's Big Blue Ox Babe, chimes in. Apparently, only eighteen of us had the idea about relaxing and not getting too heavy. It quickly becomes one of those "if I were President" discussions. As they begin "debating," I start to glaze over like a man being put under hypnosis:

HOSTESS: If I were President, I'd abolish the military and use the money saved to fund health care and plant flowers on the White House lawn to curb global warming and provide soup in every soup pot, bla, bla, etc. I'd make Hillary the "assistant to the Under Secretary Of Commerce" because I think Hillary is just TERRIFIC, bla, bla, etc.! You're insane, you don't know what you're talking about, bla, bla, etc. I'd fund alternative fuels made from soy and outlaw potato chips not made from soy! You're an asshole! Get out of my house!

BABE THE BLUE OX: What!? You know what!? If I were President I'd throw YOU out of my house! Not only would I keep the military but I would add a new branch called "Arm-nav-force-marines" which would be a combination of all the other branches! They'd only eat potato chips and I'd have them bomb the shit out of all the Iraqi soy fields! These Swedish Meatballs suck by the way! They're probably made from soy! I'm leaving!

ME: This is a Super Bowl party, right? With all the hub-bub I seem to have forgotten. By the way, are there any "Extra Fat Sour Cream, Cheddar And Endive" flavor potato chips left? I hear they're the President's favorite.

Everyone starts to skulk out, red-faced. I hang around and once its just me, the hostess and her husband I ask if they mind if I win the Super Bowl pool by default since everyone's gone. They just glare at me.

WHAT I'M THINKING: No matter who the President is I still make the same lousy poverty level salary that most artists make. And I wouldn't vote for either of you morons even if you were running for the office of local dog catcher and your only opponent was a Saint Bernard.

A friend of mine called me today and started going off about Barack Obama. Kept telling me I should "watch out for him." So I asked if perhaps he thought that Barack Obama was hiding in my cupboard brandishing a knife. As he started to go off, I once again went into my hypnotic trance. This was aided by the fact that in every other sentence he said "Barack Obama," which is a very hypnotic and rhythmic name. Soon it started to sound like an exotic drumbeat so I took out my guitar and played an exotic chord progression. My friend hung up.

So here's the deal kiddies. Eat soy chips, eat potato chips, inhale a fucking goat up your nose if that's what turns you on, just don't proselytize to me in grocery store aisles, at parties or on the phone.

The Most Irritating Day Ever

I'm usually not given to writing first person diatribes about how much my day sucked. This day, however, certainly merits the attention. So then, how 'bout several paragraphs?

First, my DVD player ceased to function. This happened right after I ejected Al Gore's "An Inconvenient Truth," which I was watching because a friend who always likes to engage in "spirited debate" kept haranguing me to ("spirited debate" is when you have friends over for dinner and scream at them for not agreeing with your political viewpoints, until they choke on the pot roast and mercifully die). I put my hand on the DVD player and it seemed extraordinarily warm to me. I called the manufacturer and the customer service person told me that the motor probably shorted from overheating. I couldn't help but wonder if it wasn't global warming that screwed up my DVD player.

Next I called my sister. Why? You think I have money for a new DVD player? Think again, junior. She has all these AMEX points she doesn't seem to use and has become an electronics warehouse for my ever failing devices. She agreed to help. Of course, the only DVD players that you can get with the AMEX points are from the Paleozoic era and are no longer supported or manufactured and have limited features. But in the end they all have one feature that endears them to me. THEY'RE FREE.

In the afternoon I had to do an oil change on my Buick. Since I can't do this in the parking lot of my building, I drove over to a friend's home. He let me use his driveway and was chatting with me about hunting, which he likes, and someone he used to work with, whom he hates, apparently a great deal since he retired in 1985. The oil change went well until the point when I was removing the filter and turned, head under the car, to acknowledge something about a "six point buck" and got hot oil all over my hand whilst banging my elbow on the axle. Then, I inadvertently smacked myself in the head with the filter wrench. I left, thanking my friend for his courtesy and hoping to get some venison in the future.

After dumping my old oil at a local service station and spilling half of it on my pants, I returned home to get "An Inconvenient Truth" and bring it back to the library. All of a sudden I hear a familiar gurgling coming from the bathroom sink. For you see, dear friends, every time someone in my building does laundry there is a point during the wash cycle where the water backs up into my sink. I've been asking to have it fixed for weeks. Getting management to fix this problem and getting the Pope to return my phone call regarding "meeting at Hooters for a quick lunch" are perhaps the two most frustrating things I've ever tried to do. I became quite agitated and unplugging my defunct VCR from the wall beat the bejesus out of it with my bare hands. Then I wrapped it in a paper bag and ran out to the parking lot to throw it in the dumpster, much like what the Sopranos would do with a corpse.

I called management and they finally sent the super over. I then jumped in the shower. While in there two things happened:

1. I could hear an ungodly noise coming from the laundry room, similar to the sound of Laurence Olivier torturing Dustin Hoffman with the dental drill in the movie "Marathon Man."

2. Whatever was being done caused the water temperature in the shower to change from 400 degrees Fahrenheit to -400 degrees Fahrenheit and back in a matter of nanoseconds. As a result my toes got frostbite, yet I have third degree burns on my ass (Maybe it wasn't the super causing this. Maybe it was global warming from my DVD player).

I jumped out of the shower and quickly dried myself. Throwing on my oil stained pants, I ran out to the laundry room. The super told me he had "snaked the pipe" (I don't know either and I didn't ask) and "that should take care of the problem." He left. Ten minutes later the gurgling in the sink started again. I walked out to the dumpster in the parking lot, pulled my DVD player out of it and hit it again. One of my neighbors, an old woman who I believe was one of the authors of the Book Of Genesis, asked me "why was I beating up that projector?"

After leaving the mother of Moses standing in the parking lot, I jumped in the car and drove to the library to return the DVD. Nothing eventful happened, except that I have about ten DVDs the library is holding for me which I now can't watch because I have no player. I then drove to the gas station to buy gas (I forgot to do it when I dumped the oil) and in my irritated state missed the entrance slightly and drove over the curb, causing hideous noises to emanate from the bottom of the car. I got out with a flashlight to look under the car and make sure there was no damage. The flashlight batteries were dead. The gas station mini mart was more than happy to sell me some of those $500 batteries they have which you can get anywhere else, including a bazaar in Egypt run by Gypsies, for a buck. I wanted some quick energy so I bought some chocolate and it went down the wrong way and I began choking. Going back to the car I put the batteries in the flashlight and it still didn't work.

I drove off. The car seemed to be working OK. I went to the grocery store to buy dinner. The cashier was asking some guy for ID to cash a check. It was taking forever. She's a friend of mine so I jokingly say to her "Geez, I hope that's for a couple of hundred thousand." The guy thought I was putting him down and asked if "I wanted to start something." The manager came over. I was too tired to give a shit.

I wanted to hit him with something but I couldn't find a DVD player.

Diet Of The Artist As A Middle Aged Man

Today I wish to take a look at the diet of the artist, be they actor, writer, musician, painter or person standing nude in Times Square playing the trumpet.

The artists' diet must provide them with the necessary energy for creativity and also allow them to eat for an average price of around $4.37 a week.

First let's take a look at the inside of the artist's refrigerator:


1. Large can of Foster's Lager to promote brain cell growth. This is the 25.4 ounce can. Most large brews only come in a 24 ounce can, so this gives the artist almost an extra ounce and a half of creative energy.

1a. A refrigerator thermometer. This is necessary because the artists' fridge protects their high quality foods and must be maintained at optimum temperature. This one has fallen several times and is held together with scotch tape.

2. Pasta in an old corning ware dish. Its cheap pasta so it sticks together but at least provides the necessary carbs.

3. Parmesan cheese, which can be used on the pasta or just eaten with a spoon once the pasta runs out.

4. A tub of "Country Crock Margarine With Calcium." In the interest of avoiding trans fats, the artist uses this as a butter substitute. The calcium nourishes the artist's weak bones. This product can also be used as a salve, let's say, if the artist should get some sort of venereal disease and can't afford a doctor.

5. Week old moo-shu pork in an environmentally safe container. The container shows the artist has a social conscience and also helps to protect the public from the fumes coming out of the rotting meat that the artist keeps forgetting to throw out once it becomes year old moo-shu pork.

6. A half-eaten package of Thomas' English Muffins. Every artist has a package of these lying around, since artists love to appear British even if they're not.

7-8-9. Yodels, Ring Dings and Funny Bones. Artists make these foods a major part of their diets because they contain iron, calcium, dietary fibers and sugars for extra nutrition and energy. But mainly its because they contain chocolate, have funny names and the company that makes them has a duck dressed as a chef for their logo.


The inside of the door of the artists' refrigerator is also important to the diet, for it contains many necessary items:

1. Half a container of one-percent low fat milk. This is to use in coffee but once it sours the lumps can be combined with the margarine as part of the salve described in #4 above.

2. Chock-Full-Of Nuts 100% Colombian Coffee. Artists love caffeine and since the name of this coffee is an apt description of the business its the preferred brand.

3. Medaglia D'Oro Caffe' Espresso. Espresso is a major part of the artists' diet because of its potent strength and because you can make it quicker than regular coffee. Espresso also gives the artist a continental air and makes them appear more stylish and intellectual. Although in English this brand name translates to "Gold Medal Espresso Coffee," the Italian pronunciation makes the artist seem even more worldly to friends and potential patrons.

4. A jar of some strange, sweet tasting Asian sauce purchased at the A & P. This can be used to mask the taste of the rotting moo-shu pork (see #5 above) and to Spackle the holes in the wall of the garret the artist lives in. It has a shelf life of about a century. This jar is actually from the late 1800s.

5. Various types of half-empty mustard squeeze containers. Artists are so concerned with art and creativity, that the minute it becomes difficult to get the mustard out of the container its time for a new one. Painters also love to use it as oil paint when they run out yellow or brown.

6. Tomato products, in this case marinara sauce and ketchup. If an artist runs out ketchup they will use the marinara sauce on a hamburger and if they run out of marinara sauce they will use the ketchup on their pasta. These can also be combined with the Parmesan cheese and English muffins to make "artisan pizza."

7. This compartment can be used to stash the urine samples required by the doctor as a result of this diet.

Bon appetit.

Craigslist Cacophony

Craigslist, according to Wikipedia, "is a centralized network of online urban communities, featuring free classified advertisements (with jobs, housing, personals, for sale/barter/wanted, services, community, gigs and resumes categories) and forums sorted by various topics."

I'll buy that. There's a Craigslist in almost every city. The first was San Francisco, which is where the founder, Craig Newmark, first started the list in 1995 and where the headquarters are still located.

Millions of folks post ads to Craigslist daily. There are classified ads for all sorts of things. Real estate, cars, personals, apartments, jobs, you name it. They also list "job" opportunities for people in the arts.

This morning I was looking through Craigslist New York , as I do most every morning, to try and find out about some of these wonderful opportunities. Here is an ad I discovered today:

COMEDY LYRICIST WANTED

Professional comedy lyricist wanted for Off-Broadway musical comedy going up in the spring. Must have Broadway or off-Broadway credits, and be able to write in all styles, including pop, jazz, and musical theatre. 10+ years experience as a published songwriter/lyricist preferred. Please send a resume and cover letter, along with a writing sample. Compensation: no pay

I must say, its a very tempting offer. There are so many successful Broadway musical theater professionals who will jump at an offer like this, especially the ones with "10+ years experience as a published songwriter/lyricist." I wonder if they throw in for car fare. I'd forward this to Stephen Sondheim, but I don't have his email.

Let's look at another, shall we:

LOOKING FOR HILARIOUS AFRICAN-AMERICAN COMEDY WRITERS

Prestigious animation producer is creating a hip-hop comedy movie. Looking for HILARIOUS and WEIRD African-American screenwriter to work with. Must be knowledgeable of rap music. Please send writing samples / resume / make me laugh Compensation: thousands of dollars

Now that's better! At least the compensation is in the thousands. Maybe its five thousand or maybe five hundred thousand! I love the mystery of it all and am getting tingly! Although I must admit that where it says to "send writing samples / resume / make me laugh" that I'm really not sure what to do. Does "make me laugh" come in a can? Is it some kind of software? "Prestigious animation producer?" Cool! Its probably Mike Judge or Matt Groening. Maybe Walt Disney even, back from his cyronic freeze! I never knew they advertised on Craigslist! The part about "Weird" makes me nervous though, and I'm not African-American. Guess I'll have to pass.

This next ad was listed in the "Talent" section:

LADIES, DO YOU SUFFER FROM ANGER MANAGEMENT ISSUES?

Ladies if you are angry pissed off, mad at guys, annoyed at certain things in your life? Would you like to work out your issues and have an outlet to get your anger out? If so reply with a pic and contact number so we can discuss this further..
Compensation: $50 an hr plus

I must admit, it was the first sentence that intrigued me. By writing "Ladies if you are" as opposed to "Ladies, are you," the writer has rendered the sentence abstract and in a word "meaningless," leading the actor to believe that this is probably some sort of wonderful farce that the ladies in question will be auditioning for. Also, what lady with anger management issues wouldn't want to get "$50 an hr plus." Maybe they mean "$50 an hr plus free Danish" or "$50 an hour plus a complimentary foot massage." The writer of this ad ought to have indicated whether the pic has to be a naked one. Once again, not being a lady rules me out of this one. Oh well.

How about this one:

TROMBONIST NEEDED

I need a replacement for my contract, starting April 2 or 10, the ship does cruises in Europe in May and you may be able to extend. You must be able to pay for a medical (reimbursed) and send me a demo. It is a dance band gig, with opportunities to improvise. Compensation: $2000

There's an old joke in the music business that goes like this:

Q: "What do you call a trombone player without a girlfriend?"
A: "Homeless."

Which is why I chose this ad. Seems legit enough, its just that you never see any ads for trombone players and I hardly ever get to tell that joke. Since I play guitar, however, I'm going to have to pass it by.

And finally there was this ad:

SEEKING KEVIN BACON'S PUBLICIST

Please contact 555-555-5555 between 8am-4pm
Compensation: no pay

You may think this is a joke because there's one of those fake "555" numbers in the ad. The person actually inserted a number, but I figure why expose it here? After all, I wouldn't want the warden to find out this person is posting or perhaps tip off the staff at Bellevue, who may be looking for this party. Maybe they need some free P.R. to highlight their upcoming release from death row, and I don't want to ruin their chances of getting it by having the authorities see the real number, which perhaps leads to the prison laundry. It may be that the publicist is being sought out because he owes the poster some money which he wishes to use in the commissary to purchase a carton of Chesterfields with which to pay off his pimp. Its all conjecture at this point.

If I knew Kevin Bacon's publicist I'd be tempted to forward this ad to them because I'd imagine they'd love to provide free publicity to an inmate. I'm sure, however, that they spend all day perusing the most arcane and buried sections of Craigslist for this sort of golden opportunity so its not really necessary.

Unfortunately there are no jobs in the "arts" that I can take advantage of today and I'm nauseous from all the caffeine I've been ingesting while writing this. Time to go throw up, probably all over my monitor which is now showing me a Craigslist ad titled ""Producer With Vision."

My vision is 20-10, which may be two much for them to handle.

The New Sinatra

On a recent episode of "American Idol," the genius impresario Simon Cowell criticized a young man named Jonathan Jayne. At first it was reported that Mr. Jayne was mentally challenged and had competed in the Special Olympics, but later, this was changed to "slight autism." He sang "God Bless America." Apparently it was a choice between that and Lush Life, but he couldn't find any sheet music in his key for the latter.

You know, as a musician and actor with actual training there's nothing I like better or enjoy more than people with no experience and less talent getting work. Nothing gives my heart more joy as I drink my morning coffee and try to think of ways to keep my electricity from being shut off than turning on the "Today Show" and seeing Ann Curry interview yet another of society's most compelling entertainers.

While being interviewed by Ms. Curry today I heard Mr. Jayne and his friend Kenneth Briggs (another contestant) say that they now have agents. FANTASTIC! That's great! I also heard Mr. Jayne exclaim that he wishes to "do Broadway" (to be honest, I tried that once but ran out of Vaseline). He also wants to "do commercials and films." Sounds good to me. Perhaps I can sell him my union cards at a discount to help him save some money and thereby raise the cash to pay off my burgeoning electric bill.

In my excitement I digress. I personally consider Simon Cowell to be the most important and innovative man musically since Mozart and maybe even Thelonious Monk. And this kid Jonathan Jayne? He's got to be the next Frank Sinatra. And what of Jonathan's friend Kenneth Briggs, the other contestant who Simon dissed, calling him a "Bush Baby" and "odd looking?" Why he must be the next Jilly Rizzo!

Allow me to compare these two titans of the music industry for you. There are some amazing similarities and differences:

Frank Sinatra Vs. Jonathan Jayne

SIMILARITY: Frank Sinatra was male. Jonathan Jayne is also male.

DIFFERENCE: Frank Sinatra was from New Jersey. Jonathan Jayne is from Washington.

SIMILARITY: Frank Sinatra was a guy from Hoboken, New Jersey who performed many times in Hawaii. Jonathan Jayne wears Hawaiian shirts made in Hoboken, New Jersey.

DIFFERENCE: Frank Sinatra married Ava Gardner  in a small civil ceremony attended by a few close friends. Jonathan Jayne married a picture of Paula Abdul  in a ceremony performed by his cat, Mr. Tibbles.

SIMILARITY: Both Frank Sinatra and Jonathan Jayne have sung into a microphone.

DIFFERENCE: After finishing his performance Frank Sinatra would leave the microphone, exit through the stage door and go to dinner. Jonathan Jayne just eats the microphone for dinner and then buys another one.

SIMILARITY: Frank Sinatra was once chased down the street in front of the Paramount Theater by bobbysoxers. Jonathan Jayne was once chased down the street in front of the Paramount Theater by security.

DIFFERENCE: Frank Sinatra's first exposure to fame was winning a talent contest with his singing group, "The Hoboken Four."  Jonathan Jayne's first exposure to fame was winning an "Andy Milonakis  Look Alike Contest" thrown by his local Elks Club.

SIMILARITY: Frank Sinatra sang standards on the "Frank Sinatra Chevy Hour" in the 1950s. Jonathan Jayne drives a 1957 Chevy with a standard shift.

DIFFERENCE: Frank Sinatra was well hung. Jonathan Jayne wishes he were William Hung.

The entertainment business is a mystery my friends, the biggest mystery being how it manages to survive with the crap it shoots out of its collective ass.

Remembering Schlechter Hundemaler

Schlechter Hundemaler was born on October 15th, 1885 in Berlin, Germany to a Romanian Gypsy and an Admiral in the German Navy. The baby was born with a full head of embarrassing hair which stood straight up in a tuft, and so his parents left him at the door of an art supply store, Der Kunst-Versorgungsmaterial-Speicher, and ran away never to return.

Taken in and raised by the store's owner, Alter Kunsthändler, Hundemaler started showing an immense aptitude for art by the age of five. He would bathe in turpentine and drink oil paints with his dinner. After eating he would relieve himself on a canvas, allowing the oil paints to splay onto the surface along with whatever else was in there. These early works of genius were referred to as the "Poop Series."

Hundemaler moved out of the art supply store in 1900 at the age of fifteen to go live in an attic with a single light bulb and no heat. This was strange considering the fact that his adoptive father was rich and he had a fully furnished studio in the store which was stocked with all the necessary supplies. Hundemaler, however, felt that to be a true artist one must "starve and live on the edge of disaster." His adoptive father Kunsthändler felt that Hundemaler "was a schmuck."

In 1915 at the age of 25 Hundemaler joined an abstract art movement known as "Die Absract Schmieren," or "DAS," which loosely translated means "Dopey Abstract Painters." Since the word "das" means "that" in German, some critics took the abbreviation to mean "That bunch of morons who really can't paint." This of course infuriated Hundemaler, who could often be seen chasing critics down the streets of Berlin throwing canvases at them and attempting to urinate on their shoes.

At the age of 35 in 1920 Hundemaler left the "DAS" movement after a bitter disagreement with one of the movements founders, Erzürnter Büffel. They were collaborating on a painting called "BLT With Oils" in which they planned to smash a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich into a plywood canvas until it became part of the canvas, then dump oil paint all over the work. Hundemaler felt that they should use the color "Thalo Blue;" Büffel thought they should use the less popular "Cadmium Red." Hundemaler threw the sandwich at Büffel and it bounced off his head and fell out a window into the street where it was eaten by a stray dog. Since there was a tomato shortage in Germany at the time, it was now impossible to complete the work. If anyone had found out they wasted tomatoes it could also mean death from the Gestapo. Despondant, Büffel threw himself out the window and was also eaten by the dog, who it was later found out was Salvador Dali disguised as a dog as part of a surrealist film being made in the street. Later on, in 1935, Hundemaler's opinion of "Thalo Blue" as "the most important color ever, even more important then yellow," would be validated when he introduced it to the artist Bob Ross who would incorporate it into his work and make it a household word.

By 1944 at the age of 59 Hundemaler was starting to slow down, due to an extremely severe and chronic condition of gout. He never cared to marry, but had admitted to friends that "it would be nice to have someone to wash my underwear." Since no woman would have him he married his cat Katze in a civil ceremony on November 1st, 1944. But the joyous union was only to last two days.

Hundemaler was killed on November 3rd, 1944 after being run over by a Nazi tank. He had bathed in a large vat of "Yellow Ochre" that morning and laid down in the middle of Kurfurstendamm Boulevard as part of a new project. The tank's driver mistook him for a double yellow line and was later executed by Hitler, not for running over Hundemaler but for trying to cross it. A small bit of justice for a man who was perhaps the greatest painter to ever lay brush to canvas. Or pipe to cat for that matter.

FAMOUS PAINTINGS BY SCHLECHTER HUNDEMALER

"Two Annoying Kids At The Mall"

Gauche Oil On Tempura Canvas, 1923

If there were two things that annoyed Schlechter Hundemaler to no end it had to be kids and malls. He was often quoted as saying "Ich würde eher im heißen Teer als gehe zum Mall mit einigen Zicklein gekochtes lebendiges sein," which basically means "I would sooner be boiled alive in hot tar than go to the mall with some kids."

Hundemaler was often known to paint things he disliked intensely to expunge the thought of them from his memory, which is why he created this painting. This features his classic usage of lines, curves and vague abstraction. One can almost smell the cinnamon coated pretzel from "Pretzel Hut" that the boy on the bike is eating as his brother reads the latest "Harry Potter" book, both shrieking delightedly in the "Barnes And Noble" with their parents nowhere in site.

"Self Portrait"
Celery Juice On Plywood With Ketchup, 1925

This is Hundemaler's most valuable painting, and was recently sold by a Dealer in Manhattan to a Motel 6 in Oklahoma for their lobby. The transaction was completed on Ebay and although the specifics are not known, one source close to the dealer said it was in the "tens of dollars and that was without the shipping."

Notice how the green of the celery juice combines with the brown of the plywood to create a dim, almost yellow green color, while the ketchup combines with both to create a startlingly bright flesh tone. By combining all these colors with a little chocolate syrup, the tone of the hair is achieved.

Hundemaler's head seems almost disenfranchised from his body, probably his reference to the fact that the German government almost had him guillotined after the tomato incident with Erzürnter Büffel.

Irv Skrank And The Cucamonga Wildcats

Irv Skrank, the legendary Cucamonga Wildcats' first baseman who played for one week in 1962, died today at the age of 85.

He was born Irving Aloysius Skrank on November 25, 1921 in Oskaloosa, Iowa. As a child he was given the nickname "Little Dinky" since he often played in sandlot games without pants. When he entered the majors his teammates christened him "Little Joe," supposedly because he shared his birthday with the legendary Joe DiMaggio. One former teammate, however, claims that wasn't really the reason.

"He had this fascination with that guy Michael Landon from the show Bonanza, which was very popular at that time.", said the teammate who declined to be named. "There were posters all over his locker, newspaper clippings; it was really strange. So we started calling him 'Little Joe.' We just lied and told him it was because of DiMaggio's birthday to avoid hurting his feelings. Believe me, there is no way anyone would ever mistake this guy for DiMaggio. He was absolutely terrible."

The Cucamonga Wildcats were a little known and hardly remembered Major League Baseball team who played in the American League for one week in June of 1962, right around the time of Skrank's 41st birthday. The team played at the "Herman J. Punkus Knights Of Columbus Civic Stadium" in Cucamonga, California which is now known as Rancho Cucamonga and is home to the minor league Rancho Cucamonga Quakes.

The Wildcats' manager at the time was Ollie Conklin, who is now 110 years old and living in the back of an abandoned SUV.

Ollie recalls: "The Washington Senators had moved to Minnesota in 1961, where they became the Twins. At exactly the same time another Washington Senators franchise was started. They were unhappy that less people showed up for games than did for the first Senators team, so they moved to Cucamonga and became the Wildcats in June of 1962. Punkus Stadium was really crappy, however, and I mean that literally. The plumbing didn't work and there was sewage all over the place, in fact, a geyser erupted under the pitcher's mound during a game against the New York Yankees. So, after one week, the team moved back to Washington, D.C. Irv Skrank was actually the plumber for the stadium. He had no great baseball ability but had played as a kid and I figured I could use him at first base since Dale Long was on the disabled list. Hell, we had to keep this jerk away from the plumbing! He couldn't be any worse as a first baseman than he was as a plumber!"

Skrank's week long statistics were an .035 batting average with -5 RBIs and 750 errors. After his illustrious career he retired and opened a hot dog stand, leaving both the plumbing and baseball worlds behind.

He is survived by his pet guppy, Samuel. No services are planned.

An Interview With Fred Schwenklemeier

It was our recent pleasure here at GEOMOP to interview Fred Schwenklemeier, the creator of "Everyone In The World Has Talent Including Dead People," a brand new talent/reality contest on the FOX network.

GEOMOP: Fred, tell us a little bit about the show.

FRED: Well, it operates on the premise that we all have unique talents that we can share with millions of strangers who normally wouldn't ask us the time of day if passing us on the street.

GEOMOP: Interesting. How do the dead play into this equation?

FRED: You'd be surprised at how much talent the deceased have. We're actually thinking of having Charlie Parker come on the show. As we speak the clearances are being signed and we had a production assistant go out and purchase a shovel.

GEOMOP: Yes, but Charlie Parker was famous. Isn't this a show for unknown talents?

FRED: That's true. But Mr. Parker has been dead since 1955 and we figure he's an unknown talent to most of today's brain dead society. So, he ought to give us a great start. Kind of help us to bolster some of the other acts.

GEOMOP: Who are some of the other acts?

FRED: Well, in the first show we have a gentleman who plays kazoo while riding a unicycle and singing "Come To Me My Melancholy Baby."

GEOMOP: How does he pull that off? I mean you have to play the kazoo with your mouth and sing with your mouth.

FRED: That's where the "Everyone In The World Has Talent" part of the title comes in. He's wearing nothing but a thong and he plays the kazoo with his ASS.

GEOMOP: Wow. So he sings with his mouth?

FRED: No. He drinks water with his mouth while singing through his nose. And he rides the unicycle with his hands while juggling bowling balls with his feet. Five at once actually. This guy is quite talented.

GEOMOP: You ought to take that shovel you bought and dig up Ed Sullivan to host the program.

FRED: We thought of that but he's under contract to another new show, "The Most Talented Sheep In America."

GEOMOP: So who is the host?

FRED: That's the beauty part. The host is somebody we chose out of a group of random citizens with no prior television experience. So, it fits right in with the whole premise of the show. And since they are non-union, we only have to give them transportation money and some cheap deli as payment!

GEOMOP: Can you give us an inkling as to who the host will be?

FRED: Well, I'm really not at liberty to give that information away before the first show airs. I can tell you this though. She's extremely flatulent. Or he. I'm not really sure. And he/she used to work on an oil rig as a barnacle scraper. Lots of charisma, let me tell you.

GEOMOP: Now I know you have lots of prior television production experience so I wanted to ask you...

FRED: Oh, I have no prior television production experience.

GEOMOP: Excuse me?

FRED: Its like I said. I have no prior television production experience.

GEOMOP: What is your job experience then?

FRED: I was a bus boy at The Chart House. They won't allow me to say which location, so please don't ask.

GEOMOP: I can only imagine what must have happened.

FRED: There's no need to imagine. I can tell you what happened, I just can't tell you the location. Suffice to say a FOX executive came in who took a fancy to me. He liked my courteous "service" shall we say. Some Lobster Newburgh, a couple of drinks after work, and I got this gig. And do you know what's really ironic? The guy who was the washroom attendant at the restaurant for like TWENTY YEARS, he had a degree in drama from Yale and some sort of Masters in Broadcast Production and Programming from Harvard.

GEOMOP: (I PULL OUT MY .38 AND PUT A BULLET IN HIS HEAD. THE INTERVIEW ENDS) Ought to be a great show. Thanks for taking the time to speak with me.

Ask Uncle Cooclah No. 3

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

I am quite upset about this whole Rosie O'Donnell vs. Donald Trump thing. It makes me so upset as a matter of fact that thinking of it causes me to hyperventilate. My constant nervousness and tendency to have panic attacks over this situation is causing my job stocking toothbrushes at Wal-Mart to suffer. I may lose the job because of my inability to focus. The salary is so great (especially for down here in Tennessee) that the thought of losing this wonderful career makes me panic even more and I must add that they may even be giving us benefits soon with a very generous ninety-percent deductible!

I've always looked up to Rosie and "The Donald" as two of the world's major thinkers, providing society with their valuable insights on topics important to us all. Not since the likes of Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley during their days at the Algonquin Round Table have there been two people with such intellectual capacity and wit! Their brilliant repartee with each other is amazing, even when they're fighting!

Why can't they just get along, Uncle Cooclah? Whatever can we do?

As I sit here in my lavish home at the "Adlai Stevenson Memorial Trailer Park" I realize that I want the children of today to get to know the same Rosie and Donald who I grew up with, the wonderful folks who helped to form the man I am today!

I must leave now to go hunt some possum for dinner so just sign me,
Suffering From Deer Ticks And Nervous Ticks In Tennessee

Dear Tick Boy,

As a former president once said "I feel your pain" (I believe this was said after a blow job he received).

I too am upset over this situation. You liken Rosie and "The Donald" to Dorothy Parker and Robert Benchley. For me, Rosie fills the void left when the late great Jack Paar died, and The Donald has all the wit and entertainment value of another fine raconteur and funny man, Steve Allen.

Recently an unknown quatrain of Nostradamus was uncovered which I believe will shed some light on this debacle. This is officially known as "Quatrain 525, Subsection A, Ancillary Section 575 of the Newly Mandated Penal (Non-Penile) Quatrain Faciliatation Code, State of New York."

Here it is in the original French:

Le gryphon laid avec le gros derrière
Se lèvera criant à un cercle de quatre
Tandis que le dragon avec les mèches folles étranges
Les tire de son front et crie des mots sans signification au ciel

Now we take it and translate it into English:

The ugly gryphon with the fat backside
Shall rise screaming at a circle of four
While the dragon with the strange wisps of hair
Pulls them from his forehead and shouts meaningless words unto the sky

Obviously we can interpret this revealing quatrain as the prediction of Nostradamus that Rosie would rise to prominence on "The View" and the "The Donald," his bad rug wavering in the breeze, would try to knock her off the vaunted post. Or is it vice-versa? Perhaps it is Rosie as the powerful Gryphon, half-lion, half-eagle, who wishes to chew the toupee from the Dragon's might brow.

Alas my friend, we may never know. And your old friend Uncle Cooclah, as resourceful and intelligent as I might be, cannot in the end bring these mighty Titans of Intellect to a mutual respect and truce.

So for now, you and your pals in the trailer park shall have to content yourselves by hunting possum and watching reruns of Jerry Springer.

Fran Cooclahlee (affectionately known as "Uncle Cooclah") is a well known syndicated advice columnist, 21st century Dental Hygenist, Licensed Massage Therapist and author of the best selling book "501 Fantastic Recipes Using Turkey Wings and Capers." Please feel free to post your questions to him here. While he can't get to everyone, he's damn sure that he'll try if he's not too drunk to do so.

Ask Uncle Cooclah No. 2

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

The Golden Globe Awards are tonight and I have a very important question.

Is Adrian Monk, the lead character from the television show "Monk" any relation to the late Thelonious Monk the famous jazz pianist?

Adrian Monk is one of my heroes and since he has been nominated for "Best Performance by an Actor In A Television Series - Musical Or Comedy" I feel I must know the answer.

The suspense is KILLING me. Any response is most appreciated, even one that is misinformed or perhaps even wrong.

Sign Me,
Monk Man In Manhattan

Dear Monk Man,

I understand your concern over this most important matter of trivia, so do not despair for your good old Uncle Cooclah has the answer you so desperately seek.

Adrian Monk is not related to Thelonious Monk but rather to Felonious Monk, the famous 19th century train robber. Thelonious Monk was related to Capuchin Monk, the inventor of Cappuccino.

I hope this helps and enhances your enjoyment of this most important awards ceremony. If by chance I have helped you win a bet, please send me my cut care of this blog.

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

I know you are well acquainted with all things, especially those of a legal nature so it is with this in mind that I humbly beg your opinion.

Which of the following famous trials do you think was the most important as far as American History is concerned:

1. The Scopes Monkey Trial

2. Episode 591 of "Judge Judy" in which a man sued his next door neighbor when the neighbor's pet chicken jumped through the man's window and peed all over his recently acquired equivalency diploma, thereby destroying it. I think a couch was damaged as well.

I am a law student at "Bayonne Community College" and need to write a paper on this.

As you are so knowledgeable, your help is welcomed.

Legally Yours,
Future Lawyer Lonnie From Lodi

Dear F.L.L.F.L. (hey, add some vowels to that and you get a Falafel!),

You seem obtuse yet at the same time a kiss-ass, so you ought to make a great lawyer. I compliment you on your choice of career.

I have a great respect for Judge Judith Scheindlin and the parade of intellectuals who traipse through her courtroom. Normally I will ALWAYS say her case is the most important because she is so fair and impartial. Also, I don't want her to find out I didn't agree with a ruling for she may hunt me down and eat me.

That being said, the Scopes Monkey Trial is the most historically important. Monkey's have bad breath, especially in zoos, and their chronic halitosis has been known to injure innocent civilians. Passing a legal mandate to force them to take Scope was a major coup for the justice system, especially after the "Orangutan Listerine Trail" resulted in an outcome of no primate having to take that particular brand.

I remember the "Judge Judy" episode to which you refer (in fact, if I'm not mistaken its Episode 592) and I know the good Judge ruled against the man when it was proven by a surprise witness that he was incontinent and actually peed his own couch.

While it is important to the American Justice System to try and pass a law to prevent chickens from urinating on furniture, it is much more important to clear up the bad breath of primates.

Good luck in your law studies, you hideous charlatan.

Fran Cooclahlee (affectionately known as "Uncle Cooclah") is a well known syndicated advice columnist, 21st century Chiropractor, Licensed Boat Pilot and author of the best selling book "501 Fantastic Recipes Using Chocolate Pudding and Basil." Please feel free to post your questions to him here. While he can't get to everyone, he's damn sure that he'll try if he's not too drunk to do so.

Ask Uncle Cooclah

Dear Uncle Cooclah,

I'm text messaging you from my Blackberry and hope you get this immediately, as I need an answer post haste.

I'm throwing an expensive dinner party tonight for fifty people and as I write this am standing in COSTCO purchasing the food. I only have ten dollars cash on me and I left my credit cards at home.

Should I buy the 2 pound package of "Uncle Hyman's Beef Jerky" to serve as the main course or the 20 pack of peppermint "Chiclets" to give to my guests as after dinner mints?

I can't buy both with the money I have.

Sincerely,
Jerky In Georgia

P.S.- If you can make it, I'd love for you to attend.

Dear Jerky,

That is quite a problem my friend. But don't despair, there's always an answer to a gripping quandary such as this.

First off, let me compliment you on your sophistication and elan. This sounds like it shall be quite a party, and if I could get to Georgia in time one that I should certainly like to attend. Unfortunately I am speaking at a Shriner's convention in Yuma this evening, and won't be able to make it. My loss.

Using some software that I pirated, I was able to trace where you are text messaging me from and put in a quick call to the manager of the COSTCO where you are located. I told him what aisle you are in and he said that if you look in back of the 2 pound bags of "Uncle Hyman's Beef Jerky" you will find one pound bags of "Aunt Bertilda's Turkey Jerky" for half the price. I assure you that its just as good and its healthier!

Guess what? With the money you've saved you will be able to buy the "Chiclets" and still get change!

Unfortunately, they saw you fondling yourself on the security camera and have called the authorities. Hopefully you will be able to be bailed out in time to still throw your party.

Sincerely,
Uncle Cooclah

Fran Cooclahlee (affectionately known as "Uncle Cooclah") is a well known syndicated advice columnist, 21st century Shaman, Licensed Helicopter Pilot and author of the best selling book "501 Fantastic Recipes Using Lyme Jello and Oregano." Please feel free to post your questions to him here. While he can't get to everyone, he's damn sure that he'll try if he's not too drunk to do so.

Reality Bytes

If there’s one word that aptly describes reality television, it would have to be "compelling." No, wait. That’s not the word. Let me try again. If there’s one word that aptly describes reality television, it would have to be "horseshit." YES! THAT’S THE WORD! OK. I’m glad we’ve gotten that out of the way.

As a comedy writer/performer/assistance-check-receiver, I used to disdain the reality genre. I’d walk around town in a depressed and drunken stupor, chin dragging in the gutter, muttering trite phrases to myself such as "reality-shmality," "Survivor-shmiver," "fuck Paris Hilton," "I’d like to fuck Paris Hilton" and "I’d like to stay at the Paris Hilton."

Like most writers I too am a shameless money-grubbing whore driven by greed and avarice. That, combined with the fact that CBS refuses to buy my spec script for "Two And A Half Men," has made me decide it is time to jump on the reality show bandwagon. Now I too can make a living by producing hours of programming populated by people of limited talent while at the same time taking work away from real performers affaliated with unions who you actually have to pay.

The crowd who reads this magazine is quite diverse. It includes but is not limited to bums, drunks, disenfranchised NYU film students, the Amish (we’ll get to them later) and TV executives. So what better place to publish my wonderfully scintillating ideas for new reality shows than here? Let’s have a look, shall we?

WAKE UP LANCASTER

I told you we’d get to the Amish a bit later. Well, this is later.

This is one of those cute "set-up" ideas like "John Q. Public," or whatever that show was where they duped some poor schmuck into thinking he was on an ACTUAL reality program.

I plan to pitch this to NBC as a quick replacement for "The Apprentice LA," which is sure to tank. A bunch of actors will be hired to portray Amish people, who will then approach FOX executives with an idea for an Amish morning show called "Wake Up Lancaster."

Since FOX executives love Amish people and farm animals, they will of course bite and invest millions. Once the pilot is produced, however, it will be revealed that the show cannot be aired since the Amish don’t have televisions or electricity for that matter.

On the season finale, the despondent FOX executives will be trampled to death by rabid cows, which will be ridden by the NBC executives.

AMERICAN SPRITLE

There is a live action version of the cartoon Speed Racer," which was a 1960's poorly dubbed Japenese anime cartoon aboout a race car driver who gets involved in international intrigue, coming out in 2008. Although no one has been announced to play Speed, it is rumored that Vince Vaughn will play his older brother, the mysterious "Racer X." Should be a tour de force.

Speed also had an annoying younger brother named Spritle (SPRY-TELL) who walked around with a chimpanzee named "Chim-Chim." "Chim-Chim" had a degree in auto mechanics and would work on the powerful "Mach 5," which was Speed's race car. Both "Chim-Chim" and Spritle would constantly hide in the trunks of cars, thereby causing mishchief and relieving the incredible tension of the plot by adding the element of "schticklach (Yiddish- 'small bit of comedy')."

In my reality show, we would have contestants and their pet primates take apart and reassamble a NASCAR engine on the air while singing a pop tune. The winner and his pet get to play Spritle and "Chim-Chim" in the movie.

SUV SUPER-SWAPPERS

There seems to be a penchant in reality tv for swapping wives, mistresses, dogs, etc. In this program, I have two suburban families swapping SUV’s for a week. For added fun, I’ll have the crew cut the brake cables on each vehicle before production starts.

LIPOSUCTION DRIVE-THRU

This reality gem would follow the daily activities of Horace and Melvin Schpraeker, who own the fast food emporium "Burgers, Shakes ‘n Lipo" in the small town of Fistulaville, Kansas. "Hoary" and "Mel," as they’re known to the townsfolk, invented a machine that makes milkshakes and also has an attachment for sucking the fat out of your ass and thighs after you’ve drunk them. The first episode features a group Liposuction with the men and women of the local "Knights of Columbus."

HANNITY AND HOLMES

Conservative talk show host Sean Hannity teams up with former world heavy weight champion Larry Holmes, who is dressed up as the famous fictional detective Sherlock Holmes. The two of them and their pet bloodhound "Rumsfeld" drive around Iraq in a restored 1957 Chevy looking for weapons of mass destruction, while trying to live harmoniously together in a pup tent at the end of each day. The audience gets to vote via phone or the interent as to who is the most intelligent: Hannity, Holmes, Rumsfeld, the Chevy or the tent.

CITIZEN KANERS

I decided that I needed a more high-brow concept to foist on PBS, Bravo or perhaps the National Geographic channels.

A coterie of twelve pseudo-intellectual film buffs are forced to spend the summer together in an old mansion in Amagansett, where they will discuss, ad nauseum, that venerated Orson Welles’ classic, "Citizen Kane." During the day we see them working as a team, performing such grueling tasks as pruning their tomato plants, driving to CVS for suntan lotion and re-lining the hot tub.

At night, however, the action takes a vicious turn. The entire group is festooned with nipple rings and each is tied to twelve large flogging poles located in the mansion’s study. A midget named "Xanadu, " dressed as "Kane, age eight," will proceed to ask them questions about the film. Topics will range from the deep (i.e., "What was the allegorical meaning of ‘Rosebud’?") to the trivial (i.e., "What color shirt is Joseph Cotton’s character wearing in the toga scene?") to the racy (i.e., "Was Agnes Moorehead actually a dyke?")

Each contestant will attempt to answer and discuss these questions while at the same time damning and disputing the opinions of the others. "Xanadu," acting as moderator and at his own discretion, will use a long piece of bamboo thatch to flog the daylights out of anyone he thinks is wrong or out of line. What’s makes this so riveting is that he’s never actually seen the film.

The winner will be the contestant who at the end of eight weeks has the least number of welts and overall blood loss. This person will be awarded the DVD "Citizen Kane (Two-Disc Special Edition)," interviewed by Regis Philbin and beaten with a long piece of bamboo thatch by Kelly Ripa, and will get a cameo as the wacky next door neighbor on the new Fox comedy classic, "The War At Home." Provided the winner can still actually walk.

MY NEIGHBOR THE MAJOR LEAGUE MANAGER

Sports reality shows are always a hoot.

My ninety year old incontinent neighbor Sidney Hondlemeier sits out in front of our building discussing the managerial skills that HE would bring to major league baseball. Well, I think he ought to be given the chance to put his money where his mouth is, since he knows nothing.

We’d follow Sidney around as he attempts revitalize some really crappy, small market team like Pittsburgh or Kansas City, where everything is already a mess and no one will notice the difference. We’ll get to hear him utter some of his most sparkling bon mots and witticisms, such as when he refers to Japanese players Hideki Matsui of the Yankees and former Met Kaz Matsui collectively as "That Chinese guy who plays for New York," or when he refers to every other player in the league, even the Caucasian ones, as "That fuckin’ Spanish kid who made all the errors last year for Seattle."

Highlights could include:

1. Sidney discussing his theory that "Joe DiMaggio’s pants were what made him successful."

2. Sidney’s dissertation on his famous statement "The Brooklyn Dodgers would still be in Brooklyn had they not moved to Los Angeles."

3. Sidney giving "crew-cuts" and "swift kicks in the rear end," to all of these "overpaid spoiled players we got around today."

4. If the show is sold to FOX, their "close-up field cam" could be used to film Sidney’s clogged coronary artery during his next bypass operation, which could be performed by the Mayo Clinic while Sidney lays on a cot put on the pitcher’s mound at Yankee Stadium, during a game against the Boston Red Sox.

Sidney would also be released on the press and media for more fun and mayhem, as he’s indicated to me that he’s always wanted to refer to George Steinbrenner as a "crack smoking ass-tramp," on national television.

That’s all my feeble pea-sized brain can come up with for now. Contact me care of this blog if you’d like to invest.

Arbor Day Party

There are some people who will throw a party for anything, including their child's first bowel movement. They will have the bowel movement bronzed and serve a chocolate ice cream cake shaped like a large turd. From the bronzed bowel movement they will have a mold cast and give you little clay bowel movements to take home with you as a souvenir of your fun time at "Johnny's First BM Party."

The people that constantly throw these parties contact you in one of two ways:

1. They call you at ridiculous hours like 8am on their way to work (which is generally when my Mom has called in the past to announce some relatives death) so that if you are someone who doesn't work normal hours you bolt out of bed in a panic only to be greeted with "Hey, can you come to my Arbor Day party next weekend?"

2. They send you a free "EVite" from evite.com, which is a service that allows people who don't like to write or buy postage the opportunity to send a mass amount of invitations for free with "reminders" that come on the average of once every millisecond.

Let's get a few things straight people. Firstly, I'm a jazz musician. That means I'm good at remembering stupid shit, like directions to obscure gigs for the celebration of meaningless, stupid events. Which means that you don't have to tell me FOUR MILLION TIMES IN ONE WEEK when your fucking "Saint Stanislaus Day" party is.

Today is January 5th 2006. Let's say that I get the following phone call today from a guy booking a job:

"Hey, man, I have a gig for you on the 18th of August, 2009, under a gazebo in the back of a Howard Johnson's Motor Lodge in East Stroudsberg, Pennsylvania, it pays $250 and is for the wedding of two gay Peruvian Midgets (please do not make direct eye contact with them and refer to them as little people). You have to wear a purple tuxedo and learn the words to "All The Things You Are" by Jerome Kern, in Spanish. Don't bring your guitar; they want you to play the lute. Oh yes, it must be a Peruvian lute and all the strings have to be tuned to the same pitch, which is an odd Indian tuning between A and A flat. The gig goes from 9pm-1am with two 20 minute breaks at 10:32pm and 12:11am. Please learn "Paradise By The Dashboard Light" in the key of E because the groom's second cousin twice removed's surrogate grandmother wants to sing it and can only sing in that key (although
upon hearing the demo she sent it seems more like E flat to me); even though your lute needs to be tuned to the odd, previously indicated quaver I know you will find a workaround. By the way you need to memorize all this shit as I have no email or a pen and paper for that matter and this tape will self destruct in five seconds....KABOOM!!!

Yes, you guessed it. I would memorize that whole thing without ever having to look at it again or write it down.

Secondly, its not necessary to celebrate everything. It just isn't. Life is basically a drag and constant partying just helps to stave off the depression and death that life ultimately brings. And it costs money to bring beer, gifts and all that other stuff (for the first BM party I had to bring a piece of toilet paper with my "Wish For Johnny's Future" written on it. These were placed in a ceremonial potty, to be sealed and presented to Johnny to read when he is old enough to be completely humiliated by it. I wrote "I hope you never have to watch the video.")

Even Christmas and New Year's are a pain in the ass to organize things for, let alone the following holidays which I found on http://www.wikipedia.org/ which I'm sure I will be receiving "evites" to over the next year:

IMBOLC

Imbolc is one of the four principal festivals of the Irish calendar, celebrated either at the beginning of February or at the first local signs of Spring. Originally dedicated to the goddess Brighid, in the Christian period it was adopted as St Brigid's Day. In Scotland the festival is also known as Latha Fhèill Brìghde, in Ireland as Lá Fhéile Bríde, and in Wales as Gwyl Ffraed.

Yeah right. I'll be there half drunk and with my Shillelagh strapped to my ass. Which is what I think the guy was who wrote the description. What the hell do those words mean?

BELTANE

Beltane or Bealtaine is an ancient Gaelic holiday celebrated around May 1. This festival was celebrated in Ireland, Scotland and the Isle of Man. There were similar festivals held at the same time in the other Celtic countries of Wales, Brittany and Cornwall. The festival marked the beginning of the pastoral summer season when the herds of livestock were driven out to the summer pastures and mountain grazing lands.

Sounds almost as exciting as Imbolc. The Irish will celebrate anything.

ST. STEPHEN'S DAY

St Stephen's Day, or the Feast of St Stephen, is a Christian saint's day celebrated on 26 December in the Western Church and 27 December in the Eastern Church. Churches that adhere to the Julian calendar mark St Stephen's Day in January, although from their perspective they are celebrating it in December. It commemorates St Stephen, the first Christian martyr or protomartyr.

Hey great! Two more days to have to buy presents for! Who the fuck is St. Stephen? Was he Jesus' cousin? Was he jealous because he didn't get to have a cool birthday that the whole world celebrates even if they're not Catholic? And, he gets a choice of two days?

ATTN: DEFINITELY DO NOT EVITE ME TO A PARTY FOR THIS GUY.

THE EAST LODI NEW JERSEY GOAT FESTIVAL

This is celebrated on the first Sunday in June. Its an exciting festival celebrating the goat and the many goat farmers in East Lodi. Goats are roasted on spits, and the governor rides a ceremonial goat in the famous "East Lodi Goat Race." The goats that aren't eaten or shorn are taken to Monmouth Park or The Meadowlands to race against horses.

At least its keeping in the livestock theme of Beltane. And, goats are always fun.

One thing I will say for evites are that I get to see who's coming to the party and who isn't because it features an online RSVP feature. This way if anybody annoying who I dislike will be there, I can stay home and do something to enhance my life such as watch a Gunsmoke marathon on TV Land or play Windows Solitaire.

OK, enough partying for today. By the way, Joe, I will be at your "Just Got A New Transmission For My Chevy" party next Saturday night.

Scoopy Dude

Last night I was in the local supermarket buying my dinner, which consisted of a discounted California Club Sandwich, a 5.5 ounce bag of Wise Sour Cream and Cheddar Potato Chips and a 25.4 ounce Australian Foster's Bitter, which I like because its 1.4 ounces larger than a large Budweiser. Its also about 100 ounces tastier and more potent.

A "discounted sandwich" is one which the deli department made a couple of days earlier, listed at $3.99, and which nobody bought. The day before the state mandated "throw out date," the store cuts the price to two dollars so that a destitute fuck such as myself will hobble in drooling ravenously to purchase it.

The California Club Sandwich is excellent. The one I buy is actually a tortilla wrap, which is a nice touch. There are different variations of the sandwich but the classic one always contains turkey and bacon. There's mayo too, along with Swiss Cheese. Then there are lettuce and tomato in case your a Vegetarian and actually give a shit. Sometimes they swap out the mayo for ranch dressing which in my opinion tastes even better. Combine all this with the wonderful taste of salty chips with fake cheese powder and strong Australian beer, and you have a meal fit for a king.

There is a problem with the "discounted sandwich," however. While you go to pick it up at the deli counter, and the person who runs the deli counter has put a sticker over the old price stating the new "$2" price, it still requires a "final approval" at the "courtesy counter." As near as I can figure there are two possible reasons for this:

1. The sticker they put over the old price is not printed out by a computer, but instead is just a standard sticker from an office supply store slapped hastily over the original computer sticker and with "$2" written on it in magic marker. Since the checker can't scan the thing some upper management guy has to give approval to the courtesy counter person to put another sticker on it saying its OK to sell it for two bucks. Why the deli guy can't just print out a new computer sticker is beyond my comprehension. Perhaps its because he's too busy making new sandwiches to sell at the $3.99 rate.

2. They want to have something for the courtesy counter person to do so they can justify not firing him. Normally what he does is look at you as if you're from Saturn and repeats continuously "The Lotto machine ain't workin'," in a perturbed tone of voice as if you'd just asked him to swallow arsenic.

But alas, you have no choice. If you want to buy the sandwich, you have to get the approval. So off to the courtesy desk I went.

When I enter the supermarket at night to make my dinner purchase I'm often quite tired and more than a little hungry, as its generally about 9pm. On this particular night I see something I dread. A woman who looks old enough to have written the Book Of Genesis is standing at the courtesy counter engaging with the courtesy counter guy in what would be referred to by members of the McLaughlin Group as a "spirited debate." Since I'm not a member of the McLaughlin Group I will refer to it as a "monumental time wasting pain in my ass." They are arguing over the price of what appears to be a toy. Upon closer inspection I see that its something called "The Scooby-Doo Plug 'n Play Game." (For those of you who don't know who Scooby-Doo is, or if you need a refresher, here is a definition from Wikipedia. )

This is a variation on those cheap $19 or $20 video games which have appeared in department stores over the last several years. These games are in the form of a joystick, generally shaped like a joystick from the original game they represent or some corny animated character. Attached to the side of the joystick are audio and video plugs. You put in four AA batteries, plug the thing into the audio and video inputs on your TV and when you turn it on you get a choice of usually five or six different video games to play.

Now why would anyone want one of these pieces of crap when you could get a cool new PlayStation or X-Box?

Well, if you're like me its because you're cheap as a three dollar bill. The other reason is because these condensed versions of old video games started out as a nostalgia thing. The first one I ever remember seeing was shaped like a joystick from the old Atari and it contained every single game from the tank battle cartridge that was included with the Atari when it came out in the late 70's. Of course, the technology we have today allows a game that thirty years ago was the size of ENIAC to be condensed into something the size of one of the controllers.

Upon first sight of this new product the discerning consumer probably said to themselves "Boy, was my Dad a schmuck to buy me an Atari for $300 back in 1978 when he could have just waited until 2005 and bought me this for $20!" On the package for the "Pac-Man" game, however, I noticed something that I found really irritating and that would definitely turn me off as a buyer.

Now its bad enough that when I saw this game on the shelf containing "Pac-Man," "Dig-Dug," "Centipede," and I believe "Frogger" that I immediately felt guilty for all the quarters my Dad gave me to waste at the bowling alley. But that guilt was quickly erased when I saw the following quotation printed on the outside of the package, in bright yellow capital letters; "JUST LIKE MUM AND DAD USED TO PLAY."

The first thing that pissed me off was the use of the word "Mum" becuase this meant that the package was probably designed in England by some cheeky Brit who wanted to stick it up the ass of the middle aged American consumer by pointing out "Hey you old fuck, buy this thing and relive your youth, you middle-aged pot bellied loser!" The second thing that pissed me off was that I realized that I'm the "Mum and Dad" to whom they were reffering. Just what I needed, a $20 video game to remind me that youth is quickly ebbing away and my life is careening into oblivion.

Now that we've ascertained that I hate these games, back to the "Scooby Doo" version that the old biblical woman and the courtesy counter guy were arguing over. As I'm sure you're aware the fact that I think these games suck means that having them affect my life in anyway is bound to make me surly.

The debate stemmed over the sale price of said item, which this woman apparently wanted to purchase for her grandson. It had originally been listed at $16.99, but since the supermarket was having an "after XMAS blow-out" it was cut almost in half to $8.99. There's nothing like a grandma who's so cheap that she waits until four days after Christmas to buy her grandson a cheap video console in a supermarket. Sounds like something I might do, actually.

When the old biblical woman got to the cash register the video game scanned at the full price. She paused for a moment before starting one of those old people speeches where they talk really slowly and specifically to the checker whilst 400 people wait on line in back of them. The checker scanned the woman's store card, which should have caused the discount to take place, but to no avail. She then informed the woman that it would be necessary to visit the courtesy counter, which she had to explain for about the length of time it would take one of the 400 in line to read "War And Peace" aloud and for the other 399 to write a doctoral thesis on Russian Literature after hearing it. When it finally sunk in, Grandma Moses shuffled off to the courtesy counter.

Mr. Courtesy Counter guy, as usual, did not seem in the mood. First of all, he thought it was a pencil sharpner. Then, he kept saying to her "We don't sell pencil sharpner's here, which is why it ain't on sale (I don't know what the hell he meant either).

I also think that he wasn't hip to Scooby Culture. The joystick for this particular game was shaped like the "Mystery Machine," which is the idiotic hippie looking van that the kids drive around in while solving supernatual mysteries with their huge, slobbering, Pavolvian Great Dane, Scooby-Doo. The old biblical woman kept insisting that it wasn't a "pencil sharpner" but rather a "computer game for the television." The courtesy counter guy, exhibiting not even an ounce of "courtesy" simply replied, "I ain't never seen no bus shaped computers in this store. Didja find it near the broccoli?"

"No," the old biblical woman replied,"I keep telling you, this is a 'Scoopy-Dude' game for my grandson. Your circular says its on sale."

"Scoopy-Dude game?," asked the courtesy counter guy, "what do you do with it?"

"You put it on the TV and play it.", the old biblical woman responded.

"Show me where you see it in the circular.", the courtesy counter guy said.

Although I pretended to not be paying attention I looked over the old biblical woman's shoulder. She pointed to a bag of dog food that had on its outside package a photo of a hound resembling Scooby. The dog food was $5.99. Exclaiming "Oh, that looks like it!," the courtesy counter guy proceeded to mark down the video game to $5.99. The old biblical woman paid the $5.99 and left. I moved up to the courtesy counter, food in hand.

"Hey man," I said, "I have here a Scrappy-Doo club sandwich, a bag of Shaggy Chips and a Velma Lager. I think they're all on sale but the register is ringing them up at full price."

I pointed to a picture in the store circular of "The Scooby-Doo Plug 'n Play Game."

I got my dinner that night for fifty cents.

Five Essential Techniques For Landing That Elusive Temp Job

With all the layoffs and firings in today’s sagging economy, temporary employment is becoming even more popular. And with this popularity comes more competition for temporary jobs.

What can you do as a temporary employment seeker to put yourself ahead of the curve?

We writers are always having to seek temporary employment, due to the dearth of any real paying opportunities. Because of this I’ve become an expert on how to seek out and land temp jobs.

I could write a book filled with techniques for landing a temp gig, but no one intelligent would buy it. So, I’m posting FIVE ESSENTIAL TECHNIQUES FOR LANDING THAT ELUSIVE TEMP JOB here on this blog so you can read it in a coffee/bagel shop, which is where you’ll be right before your scheduled temp interview.

Here they are:

1. ALWAYS ARRIVE AT YOUR INTERVIEW WEARING A TWEED SPORT COAT AND A MONOCLE

This rule goes for women as well as men. If you’d like, you can also sport a beret and carry a polo mallet into the office, provided they don’t have some sort of impossible security check in the lobby.

At this point you are probably asking "Why a Tweed Sport coat, Monocle, and perhaps beret and polo mallet?"

The answer is quite simple. Temp agency recruiters are generally these happy, chirpy, positive types who could convince Steven Hawking that he ought to take a job for nine dollars an hour stuffing envelopes at Bear Stearns with his mouth.

This being said, you must intimidate them a bit. Show an air of superiority. The clothes will do this for you. You also may wish to announce yourself at the reception desk by placing haughty, obnoxious titles in front of your name, such as "La Grande Monsieur, John Smith, Honorary Earl of Berkenshire," or "His Honorable Excellence John Smith, Plenipotentiary Ambassador From The People’s Republic of Ghana."

2. TAKE THE TEMP TESTS STANDING ON YOUR HEAD

Most temp agencies give you this computerized set of tests called "Kwiz," featuring as its logo this really annoying "Merlin The Wizard" type character who looks vaguely like Albus Dumbledore from the Harry Potter films. It allows them to assess your knowledge of various office software packages and to see how fast you can type.

"Kwiz" never seems to function properly. Its constantly freezing or telling you that your answers are wrong, even when they’re not. This is so that the happy, positive, chirpy temp recruiter can tell you in a happy, positive, chirpy way that you suck at computers and typing, and thereby offer you an hourly wage that wouldn’t support a Tibetan Sherpa.

Standing on your head while taking the "Kwiz" does two things for you:

A. It makes you appear angry, because all the blood rushes to your head. This makes the happy, positive, chirpy temp guy/gal less likely to offer you low lucre.

B. They’ll be so impressed that you can type and do word processing standing on your head, that it won’t matter how badly you do on the tests.

REMEMBER THIS: A score of 25% standing on your head is like a score of 90% sitting in a chair like a normal person.

3. LEARN HOW TO ANSWER THE "DINNER" QUESTION

The "Dinner" question is something new that I’ve encountered recently on job interviews, at auditions, sitting on focus groups and in a variety of other situations. Even my therapist has asked me the "Dinner" question.

Its an imponderable. Its one of life’s greatest mysteries. If the TRUE answer could actually be ascertained, all of the world’s problems would be solved.

The "Dinner" question makes me very nervous and the anticipation that its going to be asked causes me to twitch uncontrollably.

I always stash a mini-cassette recorder in my tweed sport coat pocket so I can tape my interviews. Here’s a transcript from a recent interview. This will explain the "Dinner" question, and how it comes up. The "Chirpy Temp Agency Person" will be referred to henceforth as the "C-TAP:"

C-TAP: So, I see here on your resume that you have experience using PowerPoint. Was that in a financial institution?

ME (tapping fingers nervously on the desk): Um… actually it was in a dry cleaners.

C-TAP: They use PowerPoint in a dry cleaners?

ME (shaking foot nervously under the desk): OH, PowerPoint. I thought you said PowerPress. PowerPoint was when I worked at a Laundromat.

C-TAP: Oh. Well, do you have any communicable diseases that other non-insured temps might catch?

ME (twitching violently): Not that I know of.

C-TAP: How about Parkinson’s?

ME (bouncing up and down on the chair): No, but I’m a bit hard of hearing.

C-TAP: Any gymnastics experience?

ME: No.

C-TAP: How fast can you type?

ME (eyes rolling back into forehead): About 75 words per minute.

C-TAP: I have a question for you that may seem strange and I really want you to think about it for a moment…

ME (low guttural moans and undulations): OK…

C-TAP: IF YOU COULD HAVE DINNER WITH ANY ONE FAMOUS PERSON OR CELEBRITY, WHO WOULD YOU HAVE DINNER WITH?

ME (almost falling off chair while grabbing throat): Um… Uhhh… Urgggg… Urp… FRED ZIFFEL!

C-TAP: Who?

ME (back to normal and calm): Fred Ziffel. The curmudgeonly old farmer played by Hank Patterson on the show "Green Acres."

C-TAP: Why him?

ME: Because his pig Arnold can play Chess. He’d probably bring Arnold along and I could play Chess against him.

C-TAP (sincerely interested and analytical): Why is this important to you, playing Chess with a television pig?

ME: I’ve beaten a lot of people at chess, but never a pig. Least of all a celebrity pig.

C-TAP: Can you work the reception desk tomorrow at IBM on 54th and Lex? It pays $15 an hour.

ME (phony chirpy and excited attitude): Certainly!

As you can see, this is an important and necessary question for a receptionist’s position, or any temp position for that matter. It makes interviewees nervous, but the nervousness fades once you answer it, as we have seen.

You might wonder exactly what the fuck this question means, and what exactly the CTAP is driving at. Is it something useless like "Introduction To Algebra," which was foisted on you in tenth grade? I think not.

The C-TAP is trying to determine my level of intelligence and my commitment and dedication to completing a task, traits which you must have for low-level reception desk work. Chess is a game that requires these traits, which impresses the C-TAP. Playing chess against famous barnyard TV animals requires them two-fold. So, the C-TAP is sold on me as a potential temp employee, and offers me work right away.

Think about your answer to the "Dinner" question carefully. Believe me, if I had answered "Rush Limbaugh," the C-TAP would only have offered me $10 an hour.

4. BE PERSISTENT ABOUT THE JOB YOU ACTUALLY WANT

Every temp job seeker has seen this ad, or a reasonable facsimile, in a paper like "The New York Times:"

"Temp to hire working alongside a glamorous, well-known television producer, to be his ‘right hand Guy/Gal Friday’ while meeting famous celebrities and attending gala events in the back of huge Jacuzzi-laden limos. No skills necessary, only a great personality wanted! Chance to eventually become President of a MAJOR NETWORK!
CALL DUPLICITOUS TEMPS, (212) 555-5555.

You get orgasmically excited when you read this and call them up only to be told "Sorry, but that position has been filled." You’re then offered a job loading plus-size zippers into large boxes at some cockroach infested sweat shop in the Garment District.

I SAY "NO MORE!!" If you’re willing to try, you can get that high level temp agency glamour job!

Its not that the job isn’t really available, or phony. Its just that you didn’t show nearly enough enthusiasm when you called. After all, its not enough to sing songs, scream and gush into the phone that way.

Instead, go to down to the agency and offer to blow everybody in the place. Works every time.

5. FINALLY, CALL THE EMPLOYER DIRECTLY

This is the final, and most useful technique.

When a C-TAP offers you a job, you’ll get a contact person to report to and be told the rate of pay. Let’s say its $14 an hour. Add 200% to this, and you will have the amount the temp agency gets, which is $42 an hour.

After leaving the agency, take out your cell phone and call the contact person’s phone number. Say the following: "Hi, so and so. I’m your new temp. If you want, I’ll take $30 an hour and we can cut out the middle man."

The contact person will immediately phone the CTAP who, admiring your moxie, will raise your pay rate to $15 an hour.

Follow these five rules and the excitement of temping can be yours.

The Vagina Cell Phone Monologues

Sometimes I go to a local Barnes & Noble bookstore. There are four large armchairs in the front of the store in which customers prop themselves and read books which they have no intention of ever buying. I'm one of those customers.

The armchairs are hard to get, as they are almost always occupied. The experience can be compared to trying to get box seats for game seven of the World Series five minutes before the first pitch, or, attempting to walk off the street and buy tickets to the Super Bowl during the first quarter. Its also one of the only Barnes & Nobles I've ever been in that has armchairs. The others I've visited seem to have a hard window bench in the front of the store, which has about the same comfort level as a galley bench in an old pirate movie where people are chained to the hull and are forced to row by a huge bald man brandishing a whip. The philosophy on the part of management must be, "Hey, if we can give a customer ass warts and hemorrhoids, they will want to get the hell off the bench and buy the book."

Once you are firmly and comfortably ensconced in one of the armchairs, you want to keep it for as long as you can and at least appear intellectual. This is so you can hit on girls if you're a guy, or vice-versa if you're a girl, or, hit on whomever you wish. Since the armchairs are located near the "Art" section, its not too difficult to appear smart. What I generally do is pick up a book about Van Gogh and hold it up high, thereby covering my face but making sure the cover is visible. This way the woman won't be scared off since upon first viewing all she's seeing is a picture of "Sunflowers." Then, I make sounds like "Hummphhh..." and keep saying things like "Very interesting," or "quite Impressionistic yet at the same time Expressionistic." I've even added a move where I get out of the chair, holding the book in back of me so that all can see it (but turning quickly so no one sees my face) and whilst placing it back on the shelf with one hand, I grab a book about Frank Lloyd Wright. Hoisting this tome to the same position as the book on Van Gogh, I wheel around and casually walk back to my armchair muttering things such as "Ahhh, quite linear," or "Great use of line and environmental structure." I then sit back down and continue my pretend reading until someone attractive comes along and bites (I must admit this rarely happens. Actually, it never happens). Let me also add for those who wish to try this that you should place a whoopee cushion on the chair before you get up (prepare this at home since blowing up a whoopee cushion in the store will kill the impression of intellectual prowess which you're trying to present). The reason is that in the ten seconds or so that it takes you to get the other book, there is a very strong chance that someone may try to steal your chair. If you make everyone think that this person has gas, they will leave in a big hurry.

I do this at least three times a week, and most of the time I enjoy myself. But I had an experience the other day that put me off so much that I may never again go to my favorite store and try to pick up girls while sitting in a comfy armchair.

I was reading a book called "Hitler's Approach To Watercolors" when a young woman working in the store came over to the "Art Section," apparently to try and make the shelves neater (it appears as if the only creatures who ever peruse Art books are rhinoceroses). She looked to be around 20 and had the look of an extremely disenfranchised homeless person living on a park bench, even though you knew to look at her that she probably never suffered a day in her young life and was being forced to work by her rich parents in order to build "moral character." You could just tell that if she had a choice between rearranging the shelves or having her impacted wisdom teeth extracted without benefit of Novocaine, that she would gladly choose the latter.

Now I'm the first person to admit that as a youth, I was probably the WORST employee ever, especially when working in a retail situation. I remember that once when working as a stock boy in a dress store, I put on a size 20 housecoat and pulled the collar up over my head so it couldn't be seen. Then I put a hangar in it and once I was sure that no one was looking I waddled over to the coat rack and placing my feet on the ground (they couldn't be seen amongst the other coats) I put the hangar over the rack. Now, disguised as a size 20 housecoat I spent the rest of the day listening to cassettes of the Beatles on my Walkman (hey, remember Walkmans?). Then about five minutes before it was time to punch out, I simply slunk out from under the coat, pretended I was working for several minutes, and left. I was such a slacker and so nondescript as a teen that I was able to carry on with this for several weeks without anyone noticing. I was finally fired when I called out sick one day to attend a Kinks concert at Madison Square Garden only to see my boss at the same concert two rows in front of me. Ahhh, youth.

As bad of an employee as I may have been, however, I was never rude. Not to customers and not to my boss. I didn't address my boss by his first name, nor did I ever yell at him. If a customer asked me a question I at least tried to help find an answer. I dressed in decent looking apparel, not clothing which would make it appear as if I'd just spent six months cleaning the barnacles off an oil rig. And there was one thing I never did. I DIDN'T SPEAK ON THE PHONE WHILE WORKING. Granted, there were no cell phones. But if I needed to make an emergency call I asked to use the office, not the phone in the middle of the sales floor where everyone could hear me. When I did make the occasional phone call it would always be at a low volume, not at the amplified pitch with which people speak on cell phones today so that everyone can hear them and it appears with all the gyrations as if they are performing a Shakespearean monologue at a renaissance festival.

So back to the young stock/salesgirl. The process of rearranging the bookshelf for her was to pick up one book at a time, by the spine and as if the book was made of Uranium 234, and to basically just take it and toss it to another section of the shelf not giving a damn where it landed or in what position (perhaps Barnes & Noble wishes their employees to arrange books in the Art section in an abstract Picasso style fashion). She did this for exactly one and a half books. I say one and a half because during the rearrangement of the second book, her cell phone rang and she dropped the book on the floor where it hit a young tot on the foot. The child began shrieking and the stock/salesgirl when confronted by the child's mother looked at her askance and muttered "Oh yeah, sorry." For whatever reason, the mother didn't go to management, but rather beat a hasty retreat to the door, tot in tow, pledging her allegiance to Borders as she exited the building.

The phone had quite the interesting ring tone. I believe it was that old country chestnut "Turkey In The Straw" but with a rap beat. There was a voice on it which was uttering something along the lines of "hoo-hah-biatch" over and over again. I couldn't help but think that were I drunk, I'd be able to imagine it were a Cole Porter tune so that it wouldn't annoy me. The stock/salesgirl answered the phone and in an extraordinarily loud voice started talking, the store sound system playing John Coltrane's "Naima," one of my favorite tunes all the time being overridden by the strident pitch of this young girl's voice.

This is what the conversation sounded like, but be aware that I glazed over from boredom and irritation so I'm paraphrasing. Actually it was more of a monologue, as all I ever heard was her talking since she never once paused for air or to let the person on the other end get a word in:

"Blah, blah, hooooo, Vagina, Hairy Vagina, My Vagina, Veggy, Veggy, Vagina, my boyfriend, asshole, Vagina, Vagina. This place sucks, can't wait to be out of here, asshole customers, Vagina, Vagina, my kingdom for a Vagina. Clean my Vagina, wax my Vagina, she's such a whore and has a dirty Vagina. Vagina, Vagina, Johnny was looking at my Vagina, my boss is looking, perhaps at my Vagina. I have to go now, Vagina, as I don't wish to get fired on account of my Vagina, over and out."

I pretended not to notice and continued pretend reading my latest art book, "The Oil Techniques Of Tony Bennett." You see, my entire goal in life is to ignore the cell phone using youth of America in the hopes that they'll disappear and to avoid giving them any of more of the attention they so desperately crave (this article not withstanding). There was, however, a woman sitting next to me in the armchair who felt she had to say something. She was a blue hair, around 70 years old, with one of those voices ravaged by years of smoking Virginia Slims at the beach club. The type of woman who will corner people at a block party so that she can talk endlessly about her Grandson's recent Bahmitzvah, along with a PowerPoint demonstration and accompanying photos. When I saw her approach the young stock/salesgirl I thought to myself, "Great, now she's really gonna get it! And, I don't have to get involved! All the better!".

"Young woman, might I have a word with you?," said the Blue Hair in a voice for all to hear.

"Huh?," responded the stock/salesgirl.

"Great," I thought, "here it comes!"

"You know, you really ought not to use...", the Blue Hair began.

"Yes," I thought, "Yes! Tell her she ought not to discuss her vagina in a public place for all to hear, as if she were talking to her mother about picking up some milk on the way home from work. Tell her, tell her, oh knowledgeable cigarette ravaged older woman! Tell her! Strike a defensive blow for folks everywhere who are annoyed by rude cell phone usage! Explain how the retail work place is nowhere to discuss your coital problems. No one's impressed! No one cares!Tell her, oh divine elderly matron!"

"You know," the Blue Hair continued, "you really ought not to use that vaginal cream I heard you talking about. I know of a much safer, cheaper brand that only uses organic ingredients."

I didn't hear the rest. I was in a state of shock. Once I sufficiently recovered I decided to get another book to pretend to read. It was one about Picasso. I plopped down and opened to the middle of the book. There in front of me was a painting of a woman's vagina playing the guitar. Next to this was a cello being played by a pair of testicles. It was a quartet but it appeared as if the rest of the musicians had been intentionally obscured by the artist. The Blue Hair sat next to me and looked over.

"You know," she said, "you shouldn't hold the book at that angle. A child walking by might see that filth."

Realtors Are Magical

For about a year, I worked in a real estate office. It was there that I discovered that Realtors possess magical powers. That's right, get a real estate license and you to shall be able to do the following:

1. Leave milk and dairy products out of the refrigerator without fear of having them spoil (Realtors do this constantly).

2. Compare yourself to people who have won Nobel prizes and actually have it sound credible to those listening.

3. Have promotional products featuring your face and current listings appear everywhere, in such locations as the back of grocery carts and local bus stop shelters.

Yes, Realtors are magical. But why, I wondered? After all, there are so many of them, like cancer cells. They can't all be so gifted. Yet they are. And when you think of the fact that it only costs about $500 to become a realtor, you may wish to try it so that you too can exercise the occult like powers which they posses.

To find out more about this phenomenon I decided to interview Reeve Koss, a Realtor in the office I worked in. Reeve knows everything and is quite magical. There is not one thing Reeve can't do. Here is an example of a typical conversation with Reeve:

REEVE'S SECRETARY: I saw a very interesting documentary about Mount Everest last night.

REEVE KOSS: I once climbed Mount Everest. Have those promotional refrigerator magnets I'm sending to the homeowners on Main arrived yet?

Besides being able to do everything, Reeve is also quite intelligent, placing him ahead of even the most magical of Realtors. He graduated from the prestigious "New York School Of Math." Math skills are of course quite important to Realtors and having them only helps to enhance Reeves magical abilities. Here is an example of his mathematical prowess:

REEVE'S SECRETARY: Is the listing on Elm Street $799,000 or $899,000? I need to know for the newspaper ad.

REEVE KOSS: The Pythagorean theorem states that In any right triangle, the area of the square whose side is the hypotenuse (the side of a right triangle opposite the right angle) is equal to the sum of areas of the squares whose sides are the two legs (i.e. the two sides other than the hypotenuse). Therefore the house is actually worth $792,156.50.

Reeve was gracious enough to take time out of his busy schedule of going to appointments and self-aggrandizement to deign to talk with me. As mentioned I worked in the office with him for about a year (I was an admin), but had to leave because an office with many Realtors tends to be oxygen deficient and I have a breathing disorder. As usual, Reeve was charming, charismatic and above all, magical.

REEVE KOSS: How long will this take? I have an appointment at 3pm for a new listing and still need to eat.

ME: I'll try to make it as quick as possible. I'm sorry to bother you, its just that I really feel my readers can benefit from your breadth of knowledge. I really appreciate this.

REEVE KOSS: Yes, yes, very well then. It's already 2:30pm. I suppose I shall have to eat now.

(HE WAVES HIS HAND AND THERE IS A PUFF OF SMOKE. A PLATE OF PASTRAMI SANDWICHES APPEARS ON THE DESK.)

ME: Wow! That was amazing! May I have one?

(I START TO REACH FOR A SANDWICH. THERE IS A LOUD CLAP OF THUNDER AND ALL OF A SUDDEN THERE ARE TWO STUMPS WHERE MY HANDS ONCE WERE.)

REEVE KOSS: Leave those alone! I need them for an open house this afternoon!

ME: My hands, my hands!

REEVE KOSS: Do you promise not to touch those sandwiches?

ME: Yes, yes!

(REEVE WAVES HIS HAND AND THERE IS ANOTHER CLAP OF THUNDER. MY HANDS ARE BACK.)

ME: Thank you oh most gracious and munificent master of time, space and dimension!

REEVE KOSS: Hummphh...

(JUST LIKE A DRAGON, A HUGE BLAST OF FIRE SHOOTS OUT OF REEVE'S NOSE. HE INHALES A SANDWICH. HE THEN WAVES HIS HAND AND THE ENTIRE PLATE DISAPPEARS.)

ME: Moving right along. You are certainly one of the most special and magical of Realtors in the industry today. What makes you so much better than other Realtors, better than most of humanity even?

REEVE KOSS: I've always been wonderful. Ever since I was a child growing up in the Bronx as a matter of fact. My parents always said to me and to anyone who was within earshot "Reeve, you are so wonderful, do that little tap dance you do, wait, Mommy will get the ukulele for you." It was quite amazing to be in my presence. I've always been great, so for me its not just a realty thing. I always knew I'd have to be a Realtor because its the only truly great profession, but its very important for your readers to realize that I would have been stupendous no matter what I chose to do.

ME: But you do think all Realtors are great?

REEVE KOSS: Certainly, just not as great as me.

(A MAN HAS ENTERED THE OFFICE. HE APPROACHES THE DESK.)

MAN: Are you the great and magical Reeve Koss?

REEVE KOSS: Do you really have to ask?

MAN: I meant no offense. My name is Smith. I've heard so much about you that I've decided to list with you. I've brought a photo of my home for you to take a look at.

REEVE KOSS: There is no need for that.

(REEVE SAYS A MAGICAL INCANTATION. ALL OF A SUDDEN THE THREE OF US ARE STANDING IN FRONT OF THE MAN'S HOUSE. REEVE LOOKS AT THE HOUSE PENSIVELY.)

REEVE KOSS: This house is worth $545,000. Get rid of the pink flamingos on the front lawn and we can list it for $600,000.

MAN: To be honest, I was thinking more around $700,000.

REEVE KOSS: As you wish.

(REEVE WAVES HIS HAND AND TURNS THE MAN INTO A GOAT. ALL OF A SUDDEN WE ARE BACK IN THE OFFICE.)

ME: Do you often turn prospective clients into farm animals?

REEVE KOSS: If they disagree with my valuation of their homes, absolutely. Everyone thinks they're a Realtor these days.

ME: To be honest almost everyone is a Realtor these days. The kid who bags my groceries at the A & P just got a realty license.

REEVE KOSS: Well, this has been moderately amusing for me and I'm sure a life changing experience for you, but I must get to my next appointment. I'll tell you what. Since you've not annoyed me too much, I'm going to give you a very powerful amulet to take with you. It will protect you from harm.

ME: Cool!

(REEVE REACHES INTO HIS POCKET AND PULLS OUT A HAMMER WITH A GOLD HEAD ON IT. ON ONE SIDE OF THE HANDLE IT SAYS "CALL REEVE KOSS FOR ALL YOUR REALTY NEEDS." ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE HANDLE IS A PICTURE OF REEVE ON A THRONE. TWO WOMEN IN HULA SKIRTS STAND ON EITHER SIDE OF THE THRONE AND ARE FANNING HIM. ONE HAS A CARTOON BUBBLE COMING OUT OF HER MOUTH WITH THE WORDS "REEVE ROCKS.")

ME: How come you pulled that out of your pocket instead of having it appear magically?

REEVE KOSS: For some reason a Realtor's magic doesn't work for hammers.

ME: Its very classy.

REEVE KOSS: Yes. That's 100% faux-gold plate. I've been giving them to clients so that the ones who sell their homes can use them to take pictures down and the ones buying homes can use them to put pictures up.

ME: How is this going to protect me?

REEVE KOSS: Well, if an intruder breaks into your home, you can use it to kill the guy. I'm off!

(HE WAVES HIS HAND AND ALL OF A SUDDEN I FIND MYSELF BACK IN MY APARTMENT.)

On the counter there is quart of milk which I mistakenly left out of the refrigerator over night. I smell it. It has turned.

God, how I wish I was a realtor.