The OscarzzzZZZ

Poor Chris Rock and Robin Williams did the best they could with their watered down remarks last night at the Academy Awards. Seems a shame this climate of censorship has dampened what such brilliant comedians are free to say.
They ought to host next year's Oscars on HBO or Showtime so it's not so sterilized.
I wonder how long it'll take before people get tired of this Bush-inspired Leave It To Beaver mentality we are forced to endure on network TV?
I attended a lesbian Oscar party last night, where I noticed ponchos seem to have come back into style. Like leather pants, they should be restricted to those who wear size 10 or less. Chances are, if your poncho could serve double duty as a slipcover for an overstuffed chair, it's too big to be wearing.
They had a betting pool last night, where for $5 you could buy a ballot and select who you thought would win each major category- winner take all.
My sister was running the pool, and for the 12th consecutive year, managed to win it all. I'll just file that under, "when will I ever learn."
Seemed to me, the Oscars were never more dull, but the party was fun.
I rushed home afterwards to watch The L Word, but I was so sapped from being around all those people, I hardly remember a thing about it. Fortunately, Showtime replays it just about all week long, so I may get another shot at it.
Among the guests last night was one lone straight man, who's married to my lover-in-law's law partner. He was adorable, making the best of things by continually grazing at the buffet and making kind comments about everything he was eating. I think he must have eaten 40 miniature cream puffs, because he took on kind of a walrus-meets-chipmunk look toward the end of the evening.
Another thing I noticed was a couple, newly together, who just didn't fit.
One is a slightly introverted, stringently recovering alcoholic control freak, and her new squeeze is a large, loud, poncho wearing, drunken control freak. The drunk was having only bottled water, but I noticed her enviously eyeing like a slavering hound those of us who were free to imbibe.
Watching a world class wino drinking H20 all evening was like watching Lance Armstrong in the stands at the Tour de France.
It's amazing how we women tend to try to reinvent ourselves to please others, not quite realizing that when we deny ourselves our natural inclinations, eventually everyone gets gypped.
In art, they call it "truth to materials," meaning you don't use rough, terra cotta clay to create delicate miniature cameos, or Crayolas to create a sofa sized canvas.
Why a recovering alkie would choose to date an active drunk is beyond my comprehension. And vice versa.
Oh well, better them than me. That's all I'm sayin.'

A Damp Sunday Afternoon

It's been raining on and off all weekend, and on days like this it's always nice to visit an art museum. Hey, I have an idea--let's all stay indoors and visit this one:
Museum of Bad Art

Eight Days To Go

Holy cow. My resurrected stage comedy act opens in eight days.
My list of things to do is daunting:
1. Lose 20 pounds
2. Get plastic surgery & liposuction
3. Get hair and make-up consultation
4. Buy new clothes and shoes
5. Write material
6. Find someone who has Valium
7. Have doctor plug-up sweat glands
8. Buy 3x5 cards (see #5)
9. Buy Rolaids
10. Call friends and beg for reassurance

This seemed like such a good idea, on paper at least.
Now I have that same feeling one gets when they've been in Mexico for three days and their stomach suddenly makes an unfamiliar, low gurgling sound.

What the hell was I thinking?!

Help me out here...

I am writing some Jeff Foxworthy-esque shtick that starts,
"You know you're a lesbian when..."

I have about four but I need more.
Best entry wins a prize.

If you feel creative, you can also do, "you know you're a gay guy when..."

Survivor Tonight!

All is well in my world again- my best friend Anna is back from Ethiopia and we'll be wolfing down whole wheat rotini marinara with shaved parmesan and fresh herbs while we watch this latest batch of clowns compete.
Last week, Wanda and Jonathan got the boot before anything even began.
Wanda was booted for the jackass showtunes and that Marty Feldman eye that looked off to one side, and Jonathan because he failed to bond with Coby, the snippy gay boy who trashed him to everyone else.
Then Jolanda got the boot because, like I said, she was too ballsy for her own damn good.
Now we have to look at the remaining 17 and pick the next loser.
Good thing Angie and Coby are on different teams because I think one of them is gonna get it.
Angie's sweet but she's too different from this crowd of cookie cutter Yuppie scum. Coby's already proven himself to be too conniving and untrustworthy to go much further.
Coby is no Colby, that's for damn sure.
Your picks?

Can You Imagine?

-What do you suppose the GOP would have done had they found a gay hooker working for a bogus news agency using an alias to obtain daily Secret Service passes to the White House for years on end?
-What do you suppose the GOP would have done had the Democrats selected a closeted gay man to run the DNC?
-What do you suppose the GOP would have done if tapes would have surfaced of Bill Clinton admitting he's used cocaine and marijuana, and how he planned to sidestep questions about it?
-What do you suppose would have happened if Clinton had a staff member who committed treason by outing a CIA agent, then refused to do anything to find the perpetrator?
-What do you suppose will happen when reporters are no longer given the legal right to keep sources confidential, and face jail time for honoring their ethical code to protect sources?
-What do you suppose will happen when government employees no longer feel safe in blowing the whistle on illegal, immoral or otherwise unsavory actions by their leaders?

If the mainstream media is so fucking liberal, why haven't they jumped all over these stories?

When the media loses its first amendment rights and protections, it's not a win for the GOP, it's a loss for the entire nation.
Unless I have contacted a Senator or member of Congress to complain and demand an investigation be launched into some or all of these serious problems, I am a part of the problem.
What about you?

NYPovich Blue

Has anyone ever discussed how, on NYPD Blue, a recovering drunk, bald, fat, pock-faced shmoe like Andy Sipowitz always manages to bag these gorgeous professional woman?
I mean, come on, the guy's not even slightly rich on the show. And he wears short sleeved shirts with a tie, for chrissakes. And he's hardly got a charming personality, so what gives?
In real life, his wife is just average looking.
Can someone please 'splain this to me?
While you're at it, please explain why you think anyone would be stupid enough to go on Maury Povitch's horrid freak show "to hear some surprising news."

Thoroughly Modern Zipdrive

I bought my first cell phone in August. Now six months, later I finally decided to learn how to stick phone numbers in the little phone memory book.
Unbelievable how much more fun it is to see who is calling by name.
I found out I can even customize the rings- one for people I love, one for people I like, one for people I am waiting to hear from and one warning me that I do not want to answer under any conditions.
My sister the bigshot lawyer has her phone sound like a squawking chicken when my Mom calls her. Naturally, one day she was in a very bigshot meeting with her bosses... :D
Today my best friend Anna sent me my very first text message. I couldn't figure out how to text answer her request to meet me at a certain restaurant for lunch, so I replied, "Mmm."
Close enough.

So, what tricks have you taught your cell phone?

The L Word

Last night, the second season of The L Word premiered and I happily watched an advance preview on a large screen with an auditorium full of lesbians at a local gay bar.
Sponsored by the Human Rights Campaign HRC and Showtime, they had tons of giveaway items to advance season two.
I came away with pockets full of L Word magnets, key chains, postcards and a poster, most of which I plan to use as chick bait.
The season two opener had some great and some stupid ass plot lines.

Great:
Alice and Dana heat up, while Dana's fiancee continues to grate on everyone's nerves.
Tina is treating Bette like shit for cheating on her. She deserves it.
Kit is being hotly pursued by drag king Ivan Aycock- that is until she barged in on Ivan preparing his/her toilette, eyeing his/her big, throbbing pink latex accessory on the counter top. Ivan got pissed and threw Kit out. Ruh ro.

So/So:
Shane can't risk loving again, so she gets to fuck one gorgeous woman after another without strings attached. Sorry, but I can't feel any sympathy for the lucky dog.

Stupid Ass and Bad:
Tina is pregnant and hiding it under trench coats. First, how'd that happen, and second, trench coats in LA? Please.
Jenny needs to get her shit together. And she needs to decide on a fucking hairstyle and stop wearing full eye make-up 24/7.

Going, going, gone:
-Tim is leaving to teach in Ohio. As he threw a good-bye fuck to Jenny, it lasted all of 30 seconds.
I couldn't tell if he (a) lost interest (b) came like a rabbit (c) changed his mind or (d) quit due to lubricational malfunctioning.
-Marina was spirited away to her contessa mother's villa in Spain, after a haphazard suicide attempt, which in typical lesbian fashion, was described as (a) slit wrists in a fancy hotel suite while wearing a fabulous Dolce & Gabbana suit, man tailored, of course (b) a pill overdose in the same suite (c) a failed attempt to hurl herself off the balcony of the same suite (d) running her car into a tree (e) running her car off the Pacific Coast Highway.

Incoming:
Helena, the daughter of wealthy art collector Peggy Peabody, an impossibly privileged and strong willed woman who has taken over the family foundation. Yoo hoo, Tina? Need a new baby daddy?
Carmen, the edgy Deejay, who made her bones by shtupping Shane, who was on hand to coif the The Real Arianna Huffington, who did a quick cameo appearance.

Great line of the show: "Dykes are the new chic--fags are out."
Creepy line of the show: "But she's 50!" -in reference to the reason for Arianna's definite unfuckability. Ageist bitches.

Did anyone else watch the premiere? What did you think?

White House Press Secretary Scott McClellan: Where the Boys Are?


Scott McClellan is the White House press secretary; having been promoted to replace Ari Fleischer as press secretary after he left the post on July 14, 2003. Previously he served as Deputy White House press secretary, Fleischer's assistant.

McClellan, 35, began working for President Bush, in 1999 as the deputy communications director, when Bush was the governor of Texas. He served as the traveling press secretary during the 2000 Presidential Campaign.

McClellan comes from a Texas political family. His mother, Carole Keeton Mc Clellan Rylander Strayhorn, is the Texas state comptroller and former mayor of Austin. McClellan is a three-time campaign manager for his mother.

His brother, Mark McClellan, the oldest of Scott's three brothers and now commissioner of the Food and Drug Administration and a former adviser to Bush.

His grandfather was the law school dean at the University of Texas

With that fine, conservative GOP pedigree, one has to wonder why he's alleged to have been spotted lately in a couple of Austin and San Antonio gay bars...

Maybe that's how gay escort and quasi-reporter "Jeff Gannon" came in the White House through the back door.
So to speak.

Gulp

My San Antonio debut as a standup comic has been pushed up to March 6.
I went out to a local coffee house last night to sit at the bar, observe the goings-on and write some material for the show.
Chris, an old friend, walked up so I paused to talk with him and his cute, female companion. I ended up doing about 10 minutes of pretty funny shtick, none of which I wrote down.
By then, the straight, black girlfriend I was meeting for coffee showed up, interested in having a deep, serious conversation about racism, relationships and spirituality.
After a glass of port, she shifted gears and went on to gleefully describe the merits of dating men with giant penises.
I got no material from that conversation, unless one considers the possibilities of commenting on every statement she made about the glory of big dicks with the word, "Eeuuwww."
I have 15 days to go.
Eeuuwww.

The Despicable GOP Faggots:
No Wonder They Say They Hate Queers

With the news about this phony reporter/gay hooker "Jim Gannon" infiltrating the White House Press Corps, I have to wonder where the public outrage is on this.
Bush, through his puppetmaster Karl Rove, so carefully crafted gay marriage as a hateful wedge issue, yet their entire administration seems to revolve around closeted gay men.
The head of the Republican National Committee is Ken Mehlman, who rivals exercise maven Richard Simmons in frequency for being outed.
Bush's hand-picked replacement as Texas Governor, Rick Perry, was said to be fucking our swishy male Secretary of State.
Now comes this creep Gannon, whose military-themed gay escort website(s) have been hastily removed. How'd he get press credentials, when New York Times columnist Maureen Dowd, who specifically covers the Bush administration, was denied them?
In an era of "national security," can anyone explain how a fake reporter, using an alias, was given daily access to the White House?
Where did this fraud obtain the secret government documents about the Valerie Plame CIA leak he used when he interviewed her husband, the former Ambassador to Niger?
I could write miles about this, but AMERICAblog has covered it in exquisite detail.
Be sure to check his Gannon links on the left side of the page. It's not often you get to see a White House Press member lying on his back nude with a full erection, advertising for horny, submissive gay johns to hire him.
Look, I don't care if a gay guy wants to be a prostitute- but when it comes to the GOP stacking Bush's rare press conferences with some faggot whore on the downlow who lobs Bush softball questions and wastes valuable time doing it, that's enough.
Where are the Christian fundamentalists on this? Where is the outrage?

Holy shit!

Survivor Palau: The Definitive Guide

Tonight marks the premiere of Survivor Palau, where 20 new castaways have been dumped on a deserted island with no help of any kind.
This premiere is said to be so intense, three castaways will go home before this night is over. Wimps.
The castaways are given almost no instructions, some get lost, and two don't even make it past the first challenge.
Based on photos and scanty biographical details, here's my early take on the castaways:

Angie, 24, bartender, New Orleans: I bet on her to be the resident nutjob. Her many tattoos and goofy crooked bangs say lunatic to me. Aries. Yep, a lunatic all right.
Ashlee, 22, student, South Carolina: another token thin/youngSouthernBelle. Zzzzz. A Mormon Taurus. Zzzz...can you say Neleh?
Bobby Jon, 27, waiter, Alabama: From the photo, he could be gay or someone from Dukes of Hazzard central casting. Hard to tell with those Southern boys. Another Taurus.
Caryn, 46, attorney, Ohio: Well, she spells her name wrong, so we know she seeks attention. She's a lawyer, so we know she can argue. She's from Ohio- the state that brings us Crazy Tracy and Mike Zellers- but also the state that brought us four more years of Dubya. Hard to tell about her this early in the game. She's a Leo.
Coby, 32, hairstylist, Athens, Texas: Gotta be gay! He's a Virgo, which makes him even more gay.
Gregg, 28, consultant, Chicago: Wow, he's a handsome one. But what does he mean by consultant? That sounds to me like a made-up job. What can someone consult on at that tender age, skateboarding? Hmmm. I smell a playa.
A Capricorn playa.
Ian, 23, dolphin trainer, Florida: Whoa, like, this dude looks totally awesome in a sunshiny kinda way, man. I hope nobody harshes his mellow, dude. Another Virgo, making him possibly gay.
Ibrehem, 23, waiter, Birmingham, Alabama: A sweet faced, bald, young black guy. With a name like that, I fear he'll be quoting a lot of the gospel during hard times. Let's pray he doesn't. But he's a Pisces, so he might also be gay, or at the very least, on the downlow.
James, 33, steelworker, Mobile, Alabama: Big dumb butch, anyone? Bet he's a big NASCAR fan. He's a Cancer, so we can expect him to be horny, moody and have foot issues.
Janu, 39, Vegas Showgirl: Gulp. To still be a showgirl at that age, she's either tough as nails or has bad, bad foot pain. Don't know her sign but she's Cuban and likes to drink. She has big hair, so she might also be insane.
Jeff, 21, personal trainer, Ventura CA: Do all white men who do personal training have to look like Oprah's PT? He's an Aquarius, so that tells us nothing.
Jennifer, 32, nanny, Encino, CA: She's pretty and has a decent education. She's gonna be one to watch, I think. She's a Pisces- either sweet like a goldfish or mean like a barracuda. Or both.
Jolanda, 39, lawyer, Houston: Uh oh. A black Texas lawyer lady. Ker-ack that whip! Even her eyebrows say "ballbuster." Scorpio. Better watch your nutsacs, boys.
Jonathan, 23, sales and marketing, Dallas: Young and pretty, probably sells shirts and slacks at Neiman's. Lightweight? Probably. Just got over testicular cancer, Ouch. Another Virgo... he may be gay.
Katie, 29, advertising, Merced, CA: Perky blonde. Says she's funny. We'll see about that. Gemini. Uh oh.
Kimberly, 25, grad student, Ohio: Watch this one, I have a hunch she's gonna be tougher than she looks. She's an Aries-those chicks are fearless.
Stephenie, 25, pharmaceutical sales, Philly: Yes, she spells her name that way. She's Italian, she's hot and she's connected. Look out for this Sagittarius, she eats little men for breakfast.
Tom, 41, Brooklyn firefighter: Another NY fireman? We'll see how tough that makes him. Capricorn.
Wanda, 55, English teacher, Ulysses, PA: The token old battle-ax. I imagine Lil, without the boy scout uniform. Virgo makes her a particularly fussy fussbudget.
Willard, 57, Lawyer, Bellevue, WA: Token old geezer. He won't last, at his age, Sagittarius men aren't so active anymore.


With all that information, you simply must join this season's Pulp Friction Survivor Review committee. Are you in? Talk to me!

The Bush Auction

I read in the NY Times that Caroline Kennedy recently authorized Sotheby's to auction off assorted Kennedy memorabilia and bric-a-brac, bringing in $1.7 million, or almost double what they expected to make.
I wonder if the Bush twins will one day auction off items from their parents estate?
I can only imagine what might be on the auction block...

• Dubya's Hooked on Fonix book, monogrammed with presidential seal
• Original copy, Dubya's DUI police report(s)
• Crack pipe, with assorted Bush DNA on mouthpiece
• Riding crop, used by Barbara Bush on Bush 41
• Original outhouse from the Crawford "Ranch"
• Dubya's cowboy boots-rarely used
• Dubya's Sperry Topsider yachting loafers, well worn
• 4,000 cases of empty Jim Beam bottles
• Dubya's roach clip, monogrammed with Texas map
• Various glass vials containing cocaine residue
• Dubya's complete personal library:
The Children's Illustrated Bible
Politix for Dummies
Grow Your Own Hydroponic Pot
Assorted Cliff's Notes
• Sammy Sosa's baseball bat, autographed with the inscription, "See ya around, dumb ass"
• Laura Bush cigarette case with Texas logo, pink patent leather, with partial pack of Newports inside
• Laura Bush Bic lighter, pink with Texas logo
• Assorted liquor flasks, including small ones belonging to the twins as children
• Various pill bottles, with Noelle Bush's name on the RX
• Neil Bush's savings and loan memorabilia, including matchbooks with, "get burnt, save with us" under the logo
• Various shot glasses, coasters, swizzle sticks and cocktail shakers, circa the twins' high school days
• Dubya's Master's thesis notes, written on cocktail napkins
• Dubya's National Guard uniforms, unused, still sealed in original plastic wrap

I love Howard Dean.
I'm glad he's the new DNC chair.
I am surprised the Repugnicans didn't sponsor a GOP candidate, then rig the race so he'd win, those fucking fuckers.
Talk amongst yourselves.

Happy Valentine's Day

Love is patient.
Love is kind.
It does not envy.
It does not boast.
It is not proud.
It is not rude.
It is not self-seeking.
It is not easily angered.
It keeps no record of wrongs.
Love always hopes.
Love never fails.

They should have let the Corinthians write the whole book.
Wishing love and happiness to all my readers today, in whatever form that takes.

Jeff Gannon: Bush's Fake Newsman

We probably all know by now about GOP plant Jeff Gannon posing as a journalist and being allowed to ask Bush softball questions, wasting valuable time at his rare White House press conferences.
I am so fucking sick of Bush and his chicken-shit, underhanded way of doing things, I don't have the stomach to write about this latest example of his reprehensible maneuvering.
John Aravosis over at America Blog has been covering the story beautifully.
Go read about it, it'll make your blood boil. The link's on the right.

You're Fired!

The new book 'Fire Your Boss'(Harper Collins 2004) offers the following checklist for spotting impending termination. Below that is my interpretation of the warning signs.

Theirs:
You are asked to compile a report on all your ongoing projects.
You are pushed hard to finish one or two specific projects.
You are encouraged not to do your usual long-term planning.
You're neither informed of nor invited to meetings.
You receive a critical review for the first time.
Your expense reports are questioned.
Your typical expenditures are criticized.
Your direct superior keeps his or her distance from you.
Conversation stops when you enter a room.
You have a vague sense of unease.

Mine:
Your office has become a storage room for mops, brooms and restroom supplies.
You're asked to write a help wanted ad for your job description.
You find your pen chained to the desk.
Your desk calendar is suddenly missing all the pages after February.
Your computer is replaced with a Smith Corona manual typewriter and a used bottle of WiteOut.
The Muzak in your office keeps playing an instrumental version of, "Hit the Road, Jack."
You send your boss a memo and it comes back stamped, "WHATEVER."
Your office chair is replaced with an upside down 5-gallon plastic pickle bucket.
Your boss chuckles when you talk about your summer vacation plans.
Your office enemy brings you warm breakfast tacos on a Thursday morning.

I think it should be illegal to use the word soupçon in the United States.

That Homophobic COW

Did anyone see Wife Swap last night?
There was a fundy Christian, Condi Rice wannabe GOP black woman married to a white dude who judged the lesbian family, called their lifestyle depraved and implied she thought her little zebra daughter was in danger of being molested by the dyke she swapped lives with.
Sistah girl must have forgotten that not so long ago, she and her husband would have been lynched for getting married.
She made the butch dyke cry, she was so harsh.
...And they wonder why Elvis used to shoot out television screens.

The Amazing Race

I don't watch the show but I will on March 1 when it starts a new season.
Why? Rob and Ambah will be competing.
So will two gay boyfriends.
'Nuff said.

Two Monumental Product Endorsements

Rush to your local supermarket and buy some Mr. Clean Magic Eraser Cleaning Pads.
They are simply the most amazing cleaning products in the history of mankind.
With a simple, light swish, they take off grease, crayons, soot, pen, pencil, soap scum, wall dinge, wax, scuffs, smudges, gunk, goo, glop, stove crud, sneaker soles, leather uppers, car interiors, ceramic and glass.
While you're at it, try some Trix Whole Grain cereal with 75% less sugar. The colors are great– they have added green, blue and purple to the old time red, orange and yellow. Sweetened with Splenda, they are pretending it's not a low calorie, diet food but it is.
Between Mr. Clean and that Silly Rabbit, I am newly fulfilled as a human being. My life has new meaning. I have reached Samadhi and higher levels of Nirvana.

"Thus the knowledge that is more secret than the secret has been explained to you by Me.
After fully reflecting on this, rush out and buy both products, then tell us what you think."
–Bhagavad Gita (18:63)

Hoof n' Mouth Day

This morning I have an appointment with my adorable foot doctor, who checks my feet about four times a year to make sure I don't have any diabetes damage.
Because she is so cute, going to see her is like cleaning the house before the maid comes.
I make sure my feet are smooth, the cuticles on my toenails are nicely pushed back and the nails are neatly trimmed. Yep, all the things she's supposed to do are done in advance because I am such a whore for praise.
The only thing I don't do is remove the callouses. For that she uses a Dremel tool with a sandpaper disc attachment, which I find quite ingenious. She warned me not to use my own Dremel tool- one false move and they'd be calling me Gimpy.
Later this month I have to see my regular care doctor for a biannual physical.
That means I have to have blood drawn today, so he can see how my glucose and cholesterol levels are doing.
That means I have to fast this morning until the blood gets drawn.
That means breakfast afterwards at the hospital cafeteria, which for me is one of life's true bargains. Eggs, bacon and toast runs about $1.25, and coffee jacks it up to $1.75.
It's no wonder half the hospital staff are the size of pygmy hippos. They apparently can't resist a bargain, either.
On Thursday I have an ophthalmology appointment, to see if my retinas have been blown by diabetes. I think they are fine, but it's jarring to think this damn disease might one day blind me.
Stem cell research could find a cure for diabetes and put an end to all this nerve-wracking preventive rigmarole.
Too bad the dry drunk imbecile at the helm in Washington, DC thinks that's about killing babies.
Someone ought to take a Dremel tool to that jackass.

The Surreal Life

I went to a Superbowl party last night that, mercifully, was not centered on the football game. In fact we saw the half-time snoozer with Paul McCartney, otherwise didn't watch the game at all.
What we watched instead was MTV's 'The Surreal Life, which needs a word stronger than surreal to fully describe it.
What the show does is gather up a half dozen entertainment industry has-beens and wannabes and move them into the former Mulholland Drive mansion of Glen Campbell. The house is decorated in 1970s psychedelia style, which in itself is ghastly enough to catch one's attention.
The six people in the house were Adrianne Curry (winner of the first America's Next Top Model competition), Christopher Knight (of the Brady Bunch), Go-Go's guitarist Jane Wiedlin, rap artist Da Brat, supermodel Marcus Schenkenberg, wrestling star Chyna Doll and Verne Troyer, aka "Mini-Me" from the Austin Powers movie.
Suffice it to say, pro wrestler Chyna Doll is a totally freakish drunk, and MiniMe also has some maxi alcohol abuse problems.
Chyna- who has to have more testosterone than estrogen in her body, holed up in a bedroom designed for the 2'8" little man. When she refused to give it up, the dwarf got pissed and they fought. Finally, everyone helped her move her wardrobe and her stash of several cases of hard liquor to another room.
MiniMe got drunk and naked, rode his Rascal into a hall corner and peed against the wall. In another scene he was so drunk, he was pawing at Christopher Knight like a baby looking for his mother's breast. It went way beyond creepy.
They served sushi off the naked body of Adrianne Curry. A leering, slobbering MiniMe kept tweaking her nipple, barely hidden under a sushi leaf. The model was beautiful, but who wants to eat raw fish off any woman's naked body? Bacteria much?
As a testament to the caliber of houseguests, Christopher Knight, the now grown-up Brady Bunch kid, had his shit together better than any of the others. Plus, he ended up dating the model after the show wrapped, so there was that to consider.
All in all, The Surreal Life is an intellectual tour de force and an asset to America's quest for excellence in television broadcasting.
I am so proud that satellite TV broadcasts shows like this to other countries so we have more to boast about than just George W. Bush.

The Haircut From the Golden Shears of God

Michele, my haircutter, is all about precision.
My hair is all about being very thick but also very fine, which means it globs up in clumps and does whatever it wants when I get a precision cut.
Today I got the jump on her.
We were at her house where I was doing some design work for her.
Afterwards, I somehow cajoled her into giving me a haircut right then and there, with household scissors, under a bathtowel, on a chair in her dining room.
I asked for an animal cut- which is basically all different lengths, with spikes if I use the right products.
I told her to go as fast as she could and to cut hunks out of it if she wanted. I just wanted her to go crazy like never before. I even drew a strand of hair and erased gouges in it so she'd know how deep I wanted her to cut in the angles.

I now have the perfect haircut.
For nearly 20 years I have asked for this cut but she always had to be soooo precise.
Ha. Even she was amazed by the sheer fabulousness of it.

The end of even the briefest sordid affair should be commemorated with a great haircut.
It just screams, "I look a lot better now, without you in my life."
Yes, as a matter of fact, I am going out tonight.
No, I do not have a date, I have a wingman. A straight chick wingman to be precise, one who just got a new boyfriend, which removes all competition.
And tomorrow night, more of the same but with a different wingman.
They say the best way to get over a bad lover is to get under a new one.
Though I find that advice rather superficial, from a strictly scientific perspective there is something to be said for removing the last vestiges of someone's bad DNA with someone nice's good, new DNA.
And if you knew me, you'd know– I am all about the science.
:D

Here's An Idea We All Can Love

NBC, Donald Trump and Mark Burnett, the masterminds behind NBC's "The Apprentice," announced Wednesday that Martha Stewart will host "The Apprentice: Martha Stewart," a new version of the business-themed reality show.
You gotta love how Martha Stewart is strictly forbidden to discuss business of any kind while she's behind bars, yet somehow a major network television show centered on her has sprung forth, as if by magic.
When I first started watching "The Apprentice," I thought Donald Trump was a big enough prick to pull it off, but I always wondered what the show would be like if Martha Stewart was at the helm.
Can you imagine what the challenges will be like? Oh, I am all atwitter with the possibilities.
Chain saw ice sculpture?
Papel picado, using toenail scissors and burlap?
Carving butter pats into family crests?
Piano building?
Grafting violets with peonies?
And what will she say to candidates who don't measure up? She can't say, "you're fired," that's Trump's line.
Here are some possibilities:
"You failed, abysmally."
"As if."
"You are not worthy."
"Guards, remove this person at once!"

Oh, I can't wait. We may have to start a pool.

Live and Learn

I used to think having a sordid little affair sounded kind of fun.
I liked their clandestine nature, the excitement and the thought of being in public with the person without anyone knowing what was going on behind closed doors.
I may have outgrown that phase.
I just finished having a sordid little affair and it left me feeling vaguely skanky.
She was cute, in an aging rocker sort of Melissa Etheridge way, but I wish we would have just stayed friends.
The drama surrounding the sordid little affair ended up wrecking everything–our friendship is in tatters and probably cannot be mended. Plus I'd hired her to produce my show, and no way will that happen now.
Sex without love is a freight train to Hell.
I've jumped off the train, but my emotions feel like my body would have felt had it been a real train.
Otherwise, all in sunny in my life.
Well, not exactly.
The weather has been cold and wet. The turn signal light on my car popped out and it's been too wet and cold to find new screws, hunker down and fix it.
The wind knocked my little loblolly pine tree right out of its planter and it's been too sloppy outside to fix it.
They say bad luck comes in threes.
So I plan to count the sordid affair, the turn signal light and the poor little pine tree as my three.

There. I feel better already.

Million Dollar Baby

After all the hubbub, I was expecting something along the lines of 'The Green Mile' or 'Rocky' in terms of memorability.
Hillary Swank can act, for sure.
Otherwise, what was all the buzz about?

I Got Nothin'

I am supposed to be a bubbling fountain of wit right now, writing sensational comedy material.
So far, I have written this one thing about a local lawyer who calls himself "the tough, smart lawyer" in countless commercials scattered all over cable TV.
Other than that, all I can think of is how crazy some lesbians can be, how bad TV is and what lazy, fat bastards my cats are in cold weather.
I was at a party last night and this gay guy told a group of his pals how funny I was. They leaned forward, hoping to get a glimpse of that for themselves. I mumbled something decidedly unfunny, then ducked away as soon as I could.
Shit. Maybe I need a gimmick.
But right now, I got nuthin'.