The Client.

Friday, Feb. 1, 3 PM

Client: Hey Karen, I am in a crunch here, can you help me write a video script?
Me: Sure, when do you need it?
Client: We, uhh, need to meet Monday morning, uhh, I'll have all the info then.
Me: Okay, when on Monday morning?
Client: Uhh, I'll call you Monday morning and tell you when. Maybe Monday afternoon is better, will Monday afternoon work for you?
Me: Sure, call me Monday morning and we can nail down a time. This is a rush, right?
Client: Uhh, yeah it's a rush, gotta get it done, like yesterday.
Me: Okay, I'll be all geared up.

Monday 10:30 a.m.
I call him.

Me: Uhh, Steve?
Client: Yes?
Me: What time do you want to meet today?
Client: Uhh, oh yeah, well, this afternoon is good but, uhh, like tomorrow morning will be better.
Me: So you will have everything gathered up for me tomorrow morning?
Client: Oh yeah, yeah that'll be good.
Me: This is still a rush job, right?
Client: Oh, yeah.

Tuesday morning 10:30
I call him

Me: Hey Steve, are we ready to meet?
Client: Uhh, not yet, like, maybe this afternoon.
Me: Uhh okay, but I have to tell you, I have cleared the decks for this job and I have other things pending I absolutely have to get to later this week.
Client: Oh darn, you do?
Me: Well, yes, I pushed some things back because you mentioned this was a rush.
Client: Oh yeah, uhh it is a rush, all right.
Me: Why don't you just e-mail me what you have?
Client: Oh, can I do that?
Me: Uhh, yes.
Client: Okay, I will. I want to emphasize the "excellence theme."
Me: (rolling eyes) Sounds good. Will do.
Client: Oh, and if you can, put emphasis on the "excellence theme."
Me: Okay. Excellent. (rolling eyes)

Spontaneous Human Combustion

The Discovery Channel is showing a feature on humans who suddenly burst into flame and cremate themselves. They are just sitting there, and boom, they catch fire and are reduced to ashes in no time flat.
Swell. Now I am afraid I'll be sitting here one day and poof, all gone.
A 175-pound woman was reduced to a 10-pound pile of ashes in just moments.
What if she was sitting there, daycreaming about her new Canadian girlfriend and she got so hot she just broke into a blaze?
I better drink some ice water and start thinking about baseball scores.
And I am gonna send ice skater butt some macadamia nut cookies, potato chips and chocolate truffles.

Enron and the Crooks who ran it

Kenneth Lay, former chairman of Enron, "just said no" to a request that he answer questions before two Senate panels.
No? Is he kidding?
He needs to have a subpoena shoved up his ass.
Meanwhile, the Bush administration is treating Enron like a big concrete Monica Lewinsky.
"I didn't have political relations with that company, they only gave me $10,000."
Even Attorney General John Ashcroft can't go near this case- they lined his pockets, too.
This is emerging as another political scandal. Backroom deals, cash for silence, it's another Iran Contra.
Enron may have kissed and petted with a few Democrats, but the Republicans were full service whores to the Enron high rollers. And Dubya was their biggest bitch.

Superbowl Sunday

I opted out of the Superbowl party. I knew I'd talk a lot and get laryngitis and be vocally shot all week. Besides, I didn't want to make deviled eggs.
I still do not know what teams played or who won. That suits me fine.
Now I can legitimately claim I did not see even one minute of football this season. My record remains pristine.
It's Stock Show and Rodeo Week in San Antonio, so of course it's cold and drizzly outside.
I like the stock show portion of the event, but the rodeo itself seems a little barbaric. The stock show features on display giant cows with asses three feet wide that are amazing to see up close.
They also have baby pigs, ducks, chicks, lambs, goats and bunnies. That's the best part of the show, the babies. Hint: never try to pick up a baby pig, they have internal alarms.
The carnival midway used to feature freak shows when I was a kid.
They lined up several trailers, each containing some poor soul who made a living being gawked at.
Back then I saw the 900-pound man (he was drinking a Tab!) and Ronnie and Donnie the Siamese twins. They wore black horned rimmed glasses, red crewcuts, plaid Bermuda shorts and cowboy boots. Ronnie, or maybe it was Donnie, kept picking his nose. We made brief eye contact and I had to rush out of there, it was too much.
I don't think I could handle a freak show as an adult. I've gotten too Oprah for that kind of thing.

Why Is Mike Tyson Alive?

Superbowl Sunday, a celebration of male brutality, beer swilling and wife beating...
And speaking of wife beaters and horrid brutes, why is Mike Tyson still walking the Earth?
The man is so out of control, he can't even appear on a stage with his would-be opponent without trying to beat the crap out of him. Then he pelts the media with vulgarity for having the temerity to question his ongoing violent insanity.
He's a convicted rapist, an ear biter and a wife beater, yet because he can box he remains a free man.
I think it's that little girl lispy voice he has that causes him to be such a thug.
He has to compensate for sounding like a castrati by being such an animal.
I think he and O.J. Simpson belong in the same tiny cell, with no heat, no air conditioning and one baseball bat and a gram of methamphetamine.

How to Get Insomnia

Go to bed at a reasonable hour. Fall asleep.
As you sleep soundly, have your overgrown, oafish kitten jump on the bed and bite your toe.
Turn on lamp. Glare at kitten.
Fish for a magazine to read to put you back to sleep, find the Feb. issue of Vanity Fair.
Read about those bastards in the Middle East.
Get horrified. Look at clock. Notice it's too late to call Canada.
Get up. Log on.
Read delightfully romantic card from new girlfriend, who can type pretty well even when she's apparently toasted on Canadian beer.
Look at clock, notice it's REALLY too late to call now.
Do a meandering blog. Wonder if anyone's reading it, and wonder who they are and whether they think there is some psychopathlogy at work here.
Consider making toast and hot cocoa, and the calories and caffeine involved. Think better of the idea. Consider a cocktail, then remember the antibiotics and nix that idea, too. Rule out Coke, juice and green tea. Settle for some water.
Go back to bed. Toss and turn. Repeat as needed. Damn cat.

Saturday Morning

Ahhh, the chicken fried steak helped restore my vitality. I only ate half of it but it was very good, and the evening came with a sideshow.
Seems my pal Elaine has this mega crush on a woman she works with, Mary.
So Mary shows up and I proceed to watch this lesbian mating ritual from the comfort of my side of the booth.
Little puffs of estrogen were rising from our booth because those two were in such heavy estrus. They played footsies. They batted eyelashes. They teased each other.
I was about as significant to the conversation as a blow up doll someone puts in their passenger seat so they can use the freeway car pool lane.
Afterwards, Mary coyly opted to go home, so Elaine came over to my house.
She insisted on a play by play account of every nuance of the evening, so I indulged her, all the while eying the clock to see if I could still call Zed before it got too late. It got too late.
Still, it was fun to watch in 3D what I am experiencing in 2D.
Anticipation is a lovely thing.

Friday Night.

There comes a time in a sick girl's life when soup, hot tea and Nyquil just aren't cutting it anymore.
There comes a time when she must venture out and eat some meat.
Not just any meat, I need the Texas cure.
The TipTop Cafe, est. 1953, is the place for me tonight.
There, one of the twins (identical twin 70-year-old waitresses) will take my order.
Chicken Fried Steak, gravy on the side, fries or baked potato and a little salad with Ranch dressing. And some tiny yeast rolls with fake butter. And a little Coke in an 8 ounce bottle.
Yep. My system is sick of light, no-fat, sickie food. My system needs some beef and grease.
I need to bask in the glow of the TipTop's knotty pine paneling, with the mounted deer heads and giant bass and trout trophies on the walls.
I need to know there is life outside my Kleenex-strewn home.
I need to wear something plaid and flannel and jeans with a waist too big. I need to wear hiking boots. I need big, thick socks. I need to feel substantial.
Tonight, I am reclaiming my life. Tonight, I'll need a serrated knife to cut my food.
Tonight, I will be strong again.
I may even have pie.

Tetracycline, Superbowl and a Freezing Canuck

I finally bit the bullet and got some antibiotics for this lingering crud I have.
Last year when I had this it blew out my eardrum, so I figured I'd better get rid of it through modern chemistry rather than herb teas, catnaps and Nyquil.
I hate football. I don't even know who is playing in the Superbowl, but I got an invitation to a party and I may have to go.
The host is Richard, a jazz musician, and his fiancee is this sweet, gorgeous divorcee who is about 10 years his senior.
The party is at the house she got in the divorce, and I hear she did quite well for herself, so basically it's not a Superbowl Party, it's a Snooping Party.
I asked what I could bring and he said, "deviled eggs." Swell. I hate to schlep food in my car and he wants eggs.
What kind of straight guy wants deviled eggs for his Superbowl party? Deviled eggs are more for baby showers and girlish events.
Both he and his brother are kinda swishy for straight guys. They are in touch with their deviled egg sides.
Poor Zed is in two feet of snow right now, and she had to walk to work.
Her knees got wet trudging through it. That means some lucky bastards are getting to watch her walking around the office with ice skater butt and wet knees.
Oy, I have such a crush on her.

Oh No, Not Sting

What the hell's happened to Sting?
He used to be so cool when he started with The Police. Now he's on every ET and Hollywood Gossip show there is. He's mugging for the cameras at every awards ceremony, like a regular Tony Danza.
He's British. Where is the class?
He's going to be singing at the Superbowl, like he's Neal Diamond or John Cougar Mellenkamp. That's just wrong.
What's next, Laughlin, Nevada?
Why isn't he brooding in some ancient castle on the moors, writing weird songs and making people cry?
Why is he appearing on TV ads, high fiving it with Dionne Saunders?
When did he become such a dweeb/chucklehead?
We are spirit in a material world, my ass. Go back to England, Sting, you're embarrassing yourself.