One Man Asylum

Open Letter To Self

2009-06-01T21:52:00.000-07:00

Mike -

One of your favorite jokes in the world is What is meaner than a Pit Bull with Aids? The guy that gave it Aids of course. You may not transmit disease but you have definitely screwed the pooch.

On the first day I met her I said the most asinine thing that a man could say. Guess it was a precursor of things to come. I'm always saying the wrong thing. That's the worst part of being without a filter. It just comes out. You know how many times I have tried to stiffle it? Countless. But it's still there, causing me sorrow the likes of which I have not felt before. A woman loved me. A good woman, a smart, beautiful woman. A flawed woman. No woman is perfect, no relationship impervious. But she loved me. And I showed her nothing but distrust, blind ignorance, sorrow and eventually heartbreak. I showed her these things not because I wanted to, but because I was learning.

I never had anyone to show me, to mold me, into what a man is supposed to be. My father was a wretched soul and taught me nothing that I needed in the last two weeks. I never learned that with love came support, understanding, an open mind. With a relationship a man needs to be an ear to listen and a voice of empathy. No one taught me. I learned from my mistakes, the mistakes that ended up costing me the love of a good woman, a strong woman, a caring woman.

You learned the err of your ways too late sir. She is not interested in being with you anymore, it's too hard on her. And really, can you blame her? You didn't waver in your objection, but when you didn't get your way, you didn't bend either. You simply broke like a boy. You are alone now. Sure there are friends about, but in the sense that the person you bared your heart to, the person that you were open with, the person that you loved, you're alone. So don't forget what you have learned sir.

I know that your intentions were not malicious. I'm sure she does too, but you were a wet blanket on hot day. Instead of stopping to smell the roses you rushed for things to be labeled and easy. It's not easy being in love. It's impossible to be in love with you. So wallow while you will. Hide and remain out of sight. Her life will continue without you in it and she is probably better off for it. But...

The man that she first met you are no longer. The man that you wish to be still lies in front of you. Be better. Be caring. Be empathetic. Be supportive and loving without being forceful and brutish. Be a man. A self taught good man, with a good heart, and a wise head.

If you can achieve that, then this heartbreak that you feel now will return rewards to you.

Lesson learned.
Mike

Two Holes and A Whole Too

2008-09-08T20:39:00.000-07:00

My life has been taken over by bloodsuckers. I'm not speaking of the figurative leech, like relatives staying passed their welcome or Republicans. I mean actual fanged teethed, Transylvanian bred Nosferatu. Vampires. How did this happen to me? My P's where being minded, my Q's not in the least bit in disarray. Yet my world has lately been overrun by the undead and I'm at a lose for how it came to be.

First there is this project that Atomic and I are working on writing. I say working on because this epic masterpiece has so many layers to it that I'm still a bit confused if we are actually going to pull it off. And I say masterpiece because it certainly will be just that. I don't want to get too into explaining it for several reasons, mostly because I don't know that I could do it justice. But I will go out on the proverbial limb, cause I'll be damned if my big ass is gonna climb a real tree, and say that once "87" is ready you are all in for a treat of colossal magnitude. It's a 7.3 on the Richter scale. It may not knock down any buildings, but it's gonna shake the shit out of you.

Then, like a silent fart in an elevator I got caught by surprise by HBO. I don't know why I was shocked, they have great shows, we must all agree with that. And Alan Ball is the creator of Six Feet Under and writer of American Beauty is at it again. Wasn't planning on watching, but it has Anna Paquin, how could I resist True Blood. More God damned Vampires. Like I said, taking over my life. Loved the first episode. Thought it was fantastic. Can't wait for more. Maybe HBO is back on track and ready to retake Sunday night. Showtime is still kicking their ass with Weeds and the upcoming premiere of season two of Californication, which if you haven't checked out, you must. But HBO is making a run, let's see if Alan Ball can deliver on True Blood like he did with Six Feet Under.

On a non-bloodsucker note, I watched the first episode of the FX series "Sons of Anarchy". Biker drama. Ron Pearlman alone makes it worth a gander, but I'm not totally sold. The lead character is already on my nerve and that's a bad thing. Katie Segal, better known as Peg Bundy, is playing way too over the top with the tough mom thing. If they can reel it in, it's got some good elements, just not sure if it's gonna be my thing.

Otherwise, the vampires have me by the throat and I'm dealing with them as best I can. More "87" news will be available soon. As well as something else that I have kindling. I'm not sure what it is yet, it's an idea without form, a thought without structure, a wave that isn't quite ready to break. I might even debut some of it here in the Asylum, fiction. That would be a first.
Anyway, really just wanted to check in and say howdy. My coffin is waiting and the sun will be up soon, so I must away, but fear not, I shall return when the moon rests high in the sky and the star spangled blanket covers my world. Until I must feed.

Stay True.

Big Mike

Dixie Cup of Love: Keifer, greatest movie Vampire ever.

2008-08-18T21:09:00.000-07:00

"I met a man. He was a good man, sailing and shoring, dancing the beta can-can, making me foreign. Oh yeah. I want to live in Los Angeles. Not the one in Los Angeles, no not the one in South California, they got one in South Patagonia." Frank Black from "Los Angeles"

The nurse got me out of the Asylum for a while and packed by hulking frame on to a plane that was only slightly larger than the aircraft that took Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper from the world. Size mattering, I still question how a large hunk of metal stays in the air, especially with me on the port side, but it did, and after a mad dash through the Houston airport, something that you will come to find I am slightly proficient at, I landed in the state of my birth on a euphoria inducing summer evening.

My bestest compadre, the Atomic one, picked me up from the airport like Hoak driving Mrs. Daisy, except he didn't wear the hat and I had to carry my own luggage. Come to think of it, he isn't even black, he's not like Hoak at all. He's more like Han Solo. Yeah. So, me being Chewbacca like in size, I sidekicked it into the passengers seat and we made off to Pink's. For those of you not in the know. Pink's is to hot dogs what Heaven is to Christians. It's the ultimate destination. Mark Adams joined us to wait in line, yeah, you gotta wait in line for about an hour at Pink's, but it is so worth it. Whilst waiting, not to let time go by without results, we put in a call to Graham to inform him that the secret to Mark's "I Have a Secret" Party was that I was in attendance. He was less than thrilled, and I think a bit jealous that he wasn't there for the festivities. He was surely missed, but there will be other gatherings, one's in his honor, I'm sure. After waking Graham up, we got our chow. Double Pastrami Burrito Dog. That's 2 Hot Dogs, Pastrami, and chili all wrapped in a tortilla. FANTASTIC. Only three veins remain unclogged.

Thursday found me going to see my brother, driving around town, giving Colleen a photo tour of the Southland. She got pictures of my elementary school, high school, my first home, Hollywood Blvd, Sunset Blvd, Rodeo Drive, and general photos of traffic and what not. After that splendid day, Atomic Steve and I joined his parents at Lowry's for prime rib. I took on their largest cut, the Beef Bowl. 2 inches thick, wide as a plate. It was a friggin roast people. Two veins remain unclogged. We went back to Steve's and wagered on gymnastics, winning me a free lunch on Saturday, thank you Nastia, thank you.

Friday was partytime. I was secluded in Mark's room for the duration of a Fight Club viewing. First rule of Surprise Party's is you don't talk about... nevermind. Anyway, finally I made my entrance and the crowd was grateful that Mark wasn't coming out of the closet. Though Lindsey and Carissa were not in attendance, it was still an amazing party. I owe Mark a huge one for all the shit he took.

Saturday was chill. We went and peeped the Dark Knight on IMAX with Adam, Val and Amanda, after we stopped at the Hat for Pastrami and Chili and Wet Fries. Heart Attack Imminent. The movie rocked like a Scorpions concert in Berlin with Hasslehoff opening. After being blown away by Heath Ledger, still not believing it's the same dude from 10 Things I Hate About You, we ponied back to Atomic's for spa night. With a small crowd of friendlies we sat in the spa until our hands and feet resembled that of Jessica Tandy. I was surprised by a visit from Lindsey, yet another cherry on the sundae that was my weekend.

Sunday I my plane out of LAX was late. When I arrived in Houston I had 14 minutes to make my connection. It was mad. Regardless, I got home. Seeing my friends reminded me that I miss them, but it also made me realize that I am now a visitor in their world. I love them all, can't wait to see them again, but am glad that I am home. While there I came to grips with the Asylum, had a lot of my confidence restored, and found a smile that had been alluding me. Turns out I left it on Hollywood Blvd. Go figure.

Dixie Cup of Love: All the Cherries that made the weekend fabulous.

Liberal Crybabyism

2008-08-10T08:54:00.000-07:00

"Johnny's in the basement, Mixing up the medicine. I'm on the pavement thinking about the government. The man in the trench coat, badge out, laid off. Says he's got a bad cough. Wants to get it paid off" Bob Dylan from "Subterranean Homesick Blues"

The fever of the rings is upon the nurse as was apparent by her never ending viewing of the games from China. She is apologizing in advance as the next 16 days may feature more than a few blogs about the Olympic games. You know how crazy women are about their sports. But not all of these blogs will be directed at, but inspired by the festival. For instance, today's weirdo topic has nothing to with May and Treanor, Natalie Coughlin, or the Volleyball coach that had his father-in-law murdered. Though I must explain where the idea comes from and that does lead directly to Michael Phelps.

After the medal ceremony Phelps tossed his roses into the stands to a "fan" that threw him an article of clothing back. It did appear to have printing on it and I thought for a moment that he was about to don a protest tog. He didn't. But I started thinking about where I would choose to launch a protest for my most heartfelt belief, the freedom of speech.

So, for the fantasy propaganda moment I have to assume that I would be in any of the situations noted here, and presumably I won.

Fantasy #1: The Academy Awards. Upon winning the little bald bastard I saunter to the podium, stopping to shake hands with Jack Nicholson and getting a quick kiss on the cheek from Diablo Cody. This would seem like the perfect place to voice my concerns about what the Patriot Act means to my freedom of speech, but those type of shenanigans are for the likes of Susan Surandon and Tim Robbins. I'd save it for the press room and let the writers go wild. It could be legendary if done correctly. But I do have some sanctity for the Oscars so maybe this isn't my ideal place for civil disobedience.

Fantasy #2: Being the MVP of the Super Bowl is an awesome feeling, plus I get a really sweet ride. Perhaps now is the time to remove my pads to reveal a T-shirt reading "Get You Damned Microphone Out Of My Freedom Of Speech." The media would go ape-shit. You can almost hear Bill O'Reilly calling it liberal crybabyism. But would the majority of the knucklehead jocks watching understand or would they think it was a joke to the reporters? Not the place for political protest me thinks.

Fantasy #3: Medal platform, Gold Medal for Hot Dog Eating, of course the most watched event of the Olympiad, I stand stone faced staring at the flag and sing a new set of lyrics to the National Anthem. To make a statement about free speech while not making a sound would indeed speak pretty loudly. To make it more intriguing I would post the lyrics on a website, music by Francis Scott Key, lyrics by Eddie Vedder. A new song for a new revolution. I'm gonna go with this one, though I would do any or all of the three if it meant keeping my freedom of speech intact.

Where would you protest? What would your cause be? Who is your favorite Cosby? It's a joke, get it?

Dixie Cup of Love: Michael Phelps.

Opening Night

2008-08-09T05:19:00.000-07:00

"A plain with no herd. Not even a bird. When one side is hot, the other side of the moon is not. It's just like a ride, maybe some time they'll make it a ride..." The Pixies from "All Over the World"

The nurse and I hunkered down last night with a big bowl of popcorn, two Dixie Cups of color enhancers, and watched the opening ceremonies to the Olympics. We found the show, at least the first part, extraordinary. And it got us talking about some of the weirdness.

Saudia Arabias team is made up entirely of men, women are not allowed to drive and must obtain permission of a male guardian to work or travel. Meanwhile the United Arab Emirates had women on the team for the first time, though they were the daughters of the countries prime minister. What a world, huh?

The entire population of the country of Andorra would fit inside the beautiful stadium the ceremonies were held in, named the Birds Nest. With the entire Andorran population seated, there would still be 18,000 empty seats. Rhode Island would beat the crap out of them in Risk.

The team from Jordan had more women then men, 4-3. And the girls were really hot. I guess they are in the bikini competition, wait, what do you mean it's called Women's Beach Volleyball, I just want to watch them tan. Damn it. Stupid competition rules.

Guam had the largest competitor at 6'0", 399. One of the largest Olympians to compete ever, and the dude does Judo. I gotta see that.

If the teams from Oman and Aruba fought it would be a tag team event. 2 athletes each. Let's get that tag team match underway.

The Jamaican team should not be tested for weed as pot is not a performance enhancing drug, that is unless Hot Dog eating is now an Olympic event, in which case, I have been training for years, watch out London 2012.

The Latverians were not lead in by Dr. Doom as was expected, what, oh Latvia, never mind.

Great Britain brought a delegation of 324 athletes and not a straight tooth amongst the group.

How many Polish athletes does it take to carry a flag? You write the punchline.

The Puerto Ricans showed up in one car. It broke down twice.

The United States had more athletes competing than some island nations had citizens. If we could just export some of our less attractive athletes to those sunny climate zones, they would fair far better in the games, and we would be rid of the WNBA, but on second thought, no, let's just kick some ass.

Honduras has 7 and a half million people and has never won an Olympic medal. Don't they got one guy that can throw a discuss? Or a pole vaulter? If I was ruler of Honduras I would start a national Archery program until that 0 became a 1.

After the Americans entered W. looked like a bored kid wondering where the ice cream sandwich vendor was.

The Irish showed up drunk off their asses, go figure.

Swaziland is known as the Switzerland of Africa, who would have figured that out?

It was hard for the Mongolian team to get together since they are mostly a nomadic people, but damn is their barbecue tasty.

The Italians showed up, being that it is a large public event, any number of vendettas were taken care of back in the homeland during the parade. They too had some scorching hot women, go figure.

The Mexico delegation was 85 strong dispelling the myth that anyone that could run, jump, or swim was already in California.

Really, I'm almost done.

The Germans showed up. And have switched to an Eastern German approach too, ow, Jenny Finch is so hot, I'm sorry where was I, the Germans, yeah, the medal count has been slipping since the wall came down so it's back to the Gulag for the participants.

Speaking of hot women, hello Australia. Even Kevin Rudd, the PM of Australia couldn't help but get a boner.

The last team in, China. I know I have said it before, Asian girls are hot, we all know this, but seriously, how scary is it to watch Yao Ming carry the flag. The dude is a giant.

Anyway, 17 days of games and no Wheel of Fortune. I love the Olympics, it's weird for me. Anyway, thanks for letting me take you on this silly odyssey.

Dixie Cup of Love: The Participants.

How I Roll

2008-08-08T06:43:00.000-07:00

"If you believe in me. like I believe in you. You wouldn't be tellin' me things that weren't exactly true. Now everythin' changes ain't nothin' the same, I'm gettin' the strangest feelin' baby I can't remember my name" Aerosmith from "Round and Round"

For a moment when the nurse brought me my dose of Quicker Picker Uppers I thought that I had stumbled into a P.T. Anderson movie. No she didn't drink my milkshake, for that I'd have shaken the Skittles out of her, as I don't hit women. No, frogs did not start falling from the sky, that, I was told, was just a hallucination. But she was on skates. Was my Rollergirl fantasy about to come true? Of course not, couldn't be that lucky, but her skates did get me thinking.

Back in the day, which according to Dane Cook was a Wednesday, back before there was Reagonomics, when there was a huge wall that divided Germany between east and west, back when people like John Denver and Dan Fogelberg could be rock stars I spend many a day just cruising around in an oval. No, I wasn't a NASCAR driver, though I'm sure to the observer it was just as exciting and mind numbing. Millions of people may watch the Daytona 500, but the fifty or so people that populated Skateland on any given day were far more judgemental. Their eyes always seemed to be following my graceful hulking mass, waiting for the right moment, when I would fall, and the pointing and laughter would begin. And of course, it would happen.

The thing about it was that the constant disco audio assault on my rock-n-roll lobes threw my balance off. It's true. When the music in your head is "The Ocean" by Led Zeppelin and the disc jockey is spinning "Disco Inferno" by the Tramps the war that will break out in ones head is enough to cause even the primo ballerina to suffer through a dizzy tizzy. So there I was, wobbly in the knees, pre-pubescent but certainly aware that those bumps under her, and by her I am speaking of the generic she, peasant blouse were something that I definitely wanted to get my hands on. Skating skills would have certainly helped, but alas I am left handed and therefore unable to skate backwards, or so I have been told. No skills, thus no girls would ask me to skate during "Ladies Choice". Those spats of rejection at Skateland haunted my self esteem for years to come.

Now, during "All Skate" or "Reverse" I was Jimmie Walker dyn-0-mite. As long as I was facing forward and tuning out the so called music, I was a gladiator on eight plastic wheels. Once I got my momentum going there was no stopping me, like the Juggernaut. I would, however, take the occasional break to fee the furnace at the snack bar. Two slices of pepperoni and a soda for one dollar twenty five cents. Those other three quarters were a pivotal part of any session at the rink, for the arcade was chock full of pinball machines, a lifelong vice.

I suppose the other thing I remember about skating round the hardwood would be the fashion show that was on display each and every day. At Skateland clothes made the man and the ladies dressed to impress. Countless hours must have been spent working that Farrah hair to look just right. The jeans were tight, the legs flared, the accessories of the sea shell variety, at least they were in California. For us boys it was Ocean Pacific or Lightning Bolt, no other brand would do. The colors were like a rainbow, the collars wide enough to land a small aircraft on, and our hair was just as Leif Garrett feathered as the girls. It was a great time to be a skater, even one that still, to this day, can't skate backwards.

Got skating stories? Where were you spending time in your youth?

Dixie Cup of Love: Sam Andeasdale, proprietor, Skateland, circa 1977.

Paying For Pixels

2008-08-07T06:03:00.000-07:00

"I can't distil you from my blood, you're a hungry germ inside of me, you're my lover, you're my heroine, my conscience and my voice, and I know that I have learned to let you in I will lever have to be alone" Bad Religion from "Television"

The nurse and I were having a discussion about our favorite television programs, and the rise and fall of networks over time, it seemed like a topic more suited for my Geek Squad friends than the nurse, but I humored her as she brought up lame show after horrible show. She has taste, it's just all in her mouth. But the thing is the nurse just isn't a thinker when it come to the boob tube, she wants escape, not a cranial workout. That's where we differ, well, there and the fact that I don't have huge sacks of silicone stuffed in my tits. But the conversation got me thinking.

Remember when HBO original programming was a powerhouse and Showtime was like it's retarded cousin? It wasn't that long ago, certainly no more than 10 years, but a lot has changed in a decade. Showtime has stepped it up with a few of the bravest shows on television, while HBO is on the brink of losing all it's respectability. From once a juggernaut of a channel that one must have, to an "I only keep it for the boxing" stance that I have now. Can HBO rebound? Let's look at the past, and the present.

For it's part, HBO brought us a few amazing shows. The Sopranos, Rome, Deadwood, Carnivale, Six Feet Under, Oz, The Wire, Mr. Show with Bob and David, and a few more. My favorite being the Sopranos, even though the ending of the series has left a permanent black spot on my heart, I still love the show, miss the characters coming into my living room each Sunday, and I still want to hang at the Bada Bing. Deadwood was an achievement that I thought saw it's end far too soon. Amazing characters set in a muddy, broken down camp of a town. There was nothing in the world better than a Sopranos-Deadwood double bill.

Now, Showtime, well, the shows are now starting to garner my interest. Weeds is simply the greatest half hour of the week for me. I love me my Nancy Botwin. If you haven't peeked at this show about a single mom trying desperately to support her family you really should. Then there is Dexter. What a brilliant idea for a serial killer. I'm just now getting into it and it's fantastic.

Coming soon are two premieres, one on each channel that I am looking forward to. First, Entourage will be returning to HBO and that's a very good thing as I have enjoyed that show from the very beginning. And Showtime is gonna pony up Californication season 2, which, if you haven't seen season 1, is one of the most well written shows on the tube.

So, I ask you, has HBO lost it's hold on pay-per-view TV? What shows, network or otherwise, would you actually pay to see week in and week out?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hank Moody.

CSI: Rock Hill

2008-08-05T06:24:00.000-07:00

"You tried to tell me it’s his fault because he’s down, And letting loose this Homicide all over the town. I’ll take your number I’ll write it down. What’s your address I’ll write it down. I’ll be in touch so don’t leave town in a big black car" 999 from "Homicide"

Do to the true nature of the this tale the nurse will be back tomorrow.

Yet another day at HellJob yesterday that had me face to face with the grim reality that the world we live in is full of low life scum. As the day started out my partner in crime and I headed out to deliver a TV, then repossess a couch, never a fun thing to do, but if people would pay their bills we wouldn't have to do it. Anyway, the TV delivery goes off without a hitch, day starting out smooth. When we arrive at the couch, the customer who we will call "Penny Lane" wasn't home. However there was a car with the radio still playing parked in her driveway. Odd, but who are we to investigate? We went back to the truck and called her. She said she would be there in a few minutes.

When Penny arrived, she a rotund white woman, had a black fellow we will call "JoJo" in the car with her. As she got out she started talking about how her house had been broken into the night before, and that neighbor is saying that some guy just walked away from their trailer looking suspicious. We didn't care. We just wanted to get the couch so that we could get on with our day. JoJo opened the door and we retrieved our parcel and left. Simple.

About two hours later our boss calls and tells us that the Sheriff's department called and wants to talk to us. Apparently, shortly, and we mean very shortly, after we left Penny Lane's someone got shot. Holy Conspiracy Theory, Batman. As we waited to hear from the cops our minds raced with what might have gone down. If the gunman was in a closet he could have burst out and clipped Kyle and I. And I'm not prepared to get shot over a couch.

So, around 4pm a detective calls and asks us to come back to the scene of the crime. We head over there directly to find the whole place taped off with yellow crime scene tape. The detective walks us over to a shady spot, one where we could get a glimpse of the corpse sitting on the back patio, and we told him exactly what happened. He took the information down and thanked us. As we headed back to the truck Penny Lane comes over and asks what we told the cop. Not that it was any of her business, but the truth as we saw it. Then she asked if we mentioned that JoJo was in the car with her when they arrived. We nodded and she said good. Weird, right?

On the way back to the store Kyle and I got more concerned that we might have left out a key bit of information. Earlier that morning Penny Lane called the store asking when we where going to get to her house. When given a three hour window, and asked if she was going to be home, she stammered and said, she guessed she would. But she wasn't. And why the question about JoJo. Then it dawned on us that the detective said that the guy was probably dead when we got there, which led us to believe she was trying to use us as her alibi.

My neighbor across the street is a sheriff so when I got home I went and talked to him. Within minutes I was on the line with the detective and he agreed that it was kind of fishy.

Don't know what's gonna happen from here, but I'm sure of one thing. I need a new job.

Dixie Cup of Love: My neighbor.

Mecca of Mega

2008-08-04T04:28:00.000-07:00

"Hey don't you wanna run and call her name. If I buy her candy, will she know who I am? She's famous. She's the best. cannot lay my heart to rest." Sleater-Kinney from "Buy Her Candy"

As the nurse came in with today's Dixie Cup of utter happiness I caught a whiff of something foreign under her normal blanket of Channel No. 5, which happens to be my favorite scent. What my nostrils detected was a fragrance that tickled my palette. It had high notes of worldly spice, perhaps jalapeno. Yes, I was sure upon further sniffing that what she smelled of was indeed microwave burrito, bulk microwave burrito to be precise. And that got me thinking.

Yesterday SuperMom, my sister, and I made one of the great consumer pilgrimages of our time. We took two chairs out of the back of the Tahoe and headed up highway 77 towards Pineville, North Carolina, home of the nearest Sam's Club. A fine place to shop if one has self control and a plan. Otherwise, it's mayhem.

There is something about a huge warehouse filled with row and row of overly processed foods that will do nothing but increase ones risk of heart disease and poverty, that makes my heart go pitter patter. It may be the cholesterol choking my arteries to the size of Nicole Richie's waist, but I prefer to think it's the adventure causing my cardiac arrest. What strange food like product will I spy in a vat large enough for one of those two headed embryos that adorn the walls of Science classrooms nationwide? What will it be? Onions in sauce? No clue as to what that sauce might actually be. Vienna sausage by the pallet? Who needs that many pickled sausages? The imagination boggles at the mere thought of what is waiting down each aisle.

If the wonder of discovery doesn't do it for you then I know you're there for the free samples. Each weekend an army of hair net clad geriatrics are posted like cholesterol causing Sentries, lobbing deep fried pizza roll bombs at you as if it were the Tet offensive. One will be doling out the appetizers, another a freezer burned fruit substance, one aisle over you can feast on the remains of a convenience dinner, and then you wrap it all off in the bakery section for cookies or cake. It's a four course meal. Go hungry, leave happy. And perhaps you have never tasted an Aussie Pie in your life, after being assaulted by the sample gals sales pitch you are now the proud owner of two boxes of freezer stuffing goodness.

Shelf after shelf of canned this and bottled that, surrounding what can only be described as a fashion center worthy of yard sale greatness. These togs shouldn't be worn by anyone, not the humblest fruit picker. There is far better clothing available at the nearest thrift store. With this fashion disaster is a promenade of "How To" books with enough titles to fill, well, a warehouse. You can learn everything from Butchery to Douchebaggery from these tombs, all for 45% off retail pricing. And isn't knowledge power. The best book I saw there was one on the mortal sins, and that made me laugh. Here is a store that prey's on our gluttony, feeds into our lust, and shatters a few of those coveting sins as well, and they sell a book that tells you how bad you are for making that place your temple. Because it is a religion all to itself, with exclusive members only access. It must be a religion, how else do you explain the never ending lines at the check out counter every Sunday?

For my part, I stuck to my plan of stocking the freezer with steroid and hormone injected meats and poultry. My only splurge item, a huge can of chili to help feed my Jones for chili fries. Hey, you gotta sin a little.

Do you do the warehouse experience? What's the strangest item you've ever bought? Or the greatest splurge purchase?

Dixie Cup of Love: Sam.

2008-08-02T04:32:00.001-07:00

"My hair is a fright. I'm hairy high and low. Don't ask me why coz he don't know. It's not for lack of bread like the Grateful Dead darling" The Dickies from "Hair"

Now, I would be remiss if I didn't notice that when the nurse came in to give me my morning meds her hair was drastically different than it was yesterday. Her standard mop of dirty blond bed head was restyled in a Betty Page bob, with streaks of shocking pink. A gargantuan change to say the least. As a rule, since I do tend to notice the drastic, I would compliment her on the switch, but being that it is the nurse, I thought it best to hold my tongue. Not that I didn't think she deserved a compliment, she looked like a pin-up girl, devastatingly sexy, but I didn't think I should be the one to tell her so. I'll leave that to her victim.

People tend to think that because I have Marilyn Monroe tattooed on my arm that I am a gentlemen that prefers blonds. First of all, gentleman? Sometimes, but other times, if properly motivated I can be down right porcine. As for the blond, look, I'll admit that when it comes to fantasy girls like Pam Anderson, Jenny McCarthy, The Girls Next Door, or Scarlett Johannson blond rocks. But when I think of settling down I think of dark, long hair. It's this continuous mind tug of war between whorish fantasy and matronly conservation that has always pushed and pulled me between sanity and unbalance.

Red head. Guy, I know that we are generally the silent minority here in the Asylum, but can I get a big "Hell Yeah" for the fire maned? If there is one weakness that we men all share, aside from a kick to the canoles, it's redheads. Don't think that I'm talking about freckle faced, pig tailed, Pippy Longstockings here, no I mean voluptuous, shimmering, Laura Prepon, Donna from "That 70's Show" hotness. We all secretly and not so secretly wish that she was the girl next door that wanted nothing more than to play spin the bottle with us in our basements. It's a rarity thing. Hot blonds are about as rare as Chinese people, smoldering brunettes are as common as unfriendly Wal-Mart employees, but the crimson hottie is as elusive as the sexually active Trekkie.

Then there are the Ravens. Mostly these are exotic beauties that have straight hair framing their unfamiliar features. They intrigue the mind and ignite the loins. No, not Lions, setting them on fire is probably illegal, well if it isn't it should be, I mean, seriously, lighting the King of the Jungle aflame, bad idea. Sorry, lost my mind there for a second, where was I, oh yeah, raven. The black haired beauty is the most prolific in the world. Asians, African Americans, Hispanics, most are known for their dark locks and I can't help but love them all.

Lastly I want to spend some time today talking about the alternative. Some gals out there have taken it to task to test the boundaries of what society deems normal. They go for blue, green, purple, pink, fire engine red, and any other color in the Crayola box. Burnt Sienna aside, most of these colors are worn to shock or display ones sense of individuality. I'm not a prude, I say go for it. Go polka dot if you feel the need, doesn't matter to me. It's all good. Just don't tease it up too high and we'll be fine.

Men, it's hair, chances are you're gonna lose it anyway.

What's your feeling about facial hair? Gray, distinguished or should I "Just for Men"? What about you? How many colors have you tried? Any styles you regret?

Dixie Cup of Love: The cutter who thought I would rock with a mullet.

The Next Banned Substance

2008-08-01T05:31:00.000-07:00

"I'm sure you'll understand my point of view. We know each other mentally. You gotta know that you're bringin' out the animal in me. Let's get physical, physical. I wanna get physical" Olivia Newton-John from "Physical"

The nurse is as California as a girl can get without being a Mexican. She's tanned by fake sunlight in a state that has a know propensity for naturally sunny days. Her breasts have been enhanced to mimic the size of perfectly ripe cantaloupes with the exact same hardness upon feeling them. The blonde in her hair is as real as, well, her boobs. Without her Californication, a fantastic program that has it's second season debut of Showtime September 7th, the nurse would be just another flat chested brunette in Iowa. But now she's so California that she uses pills to exercise. What's next?

Ronald Evans and his colleagues at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies, SIBS for short, have developed a pill that mimics the effect of exercise. Glory hallelujah, thank Jeebus, my prayers have been answered. This is the greatest news since Bill Clinton was reelected. And it's about it. For years those of us who are motivationally challenged, lazy is such an ugly word, have longed for a way to maintain health while essentially doing nothing. All you suckers that have been living, day and night, at the gym are soon going to learn what we couch champions have figured out years ago. Effort means nothing. Soon I'm going to be able to sidle up to the pharmacy and get me a bottle of Pilate's. Ronald Evans birthday will one day be a holiday for this.

Now there may be some side effect to these pills, think that's gonna scare me? Not one bit. If I have to endure impotence and male pattern baldness to get a six pack of David Beckham abs while watching LOST, bring on the Viagra and Rogaine. If the label on the bottle said that one possible side effect was monkeys flying out of my ass, I'd stock up on monkey chow and Wet Wipes.

This is one of those things, like TMZ celebrities and drive through wedding chapels, that make America great. Evans and his team spent years in college, more doing research, all in an effort to make fat people healthier. And don't think I'm being completely tongue in cheek about this. We need to be a healthier nation. It would help cut health care costs, it would stimulate the economy because those of us who find our reflections to be the greatest form of birth control might actually start leaving the house.

This pill has thus far only been tested on mice, but it showed amazing results. Mice that took the master regulator of a gene called PPAR-delta, whatever the hell that means, ran twice as far as mice that didn't take it, without any training. Outstanding news. My life would be so much easier if I didn't have to spend all that time thinking about going to the gum. II would use that time to work on my plan for global domination, wait, did I say global domination, I meant peace, world peace.

How lazy, oops, motivationally challenged have be become? Is this more awesome than Hasslehoff?

Dixie Cup of Love: Ronal Evans.

Speaking To Silent Bob

2008-07-31T05:39:00.000-07:00

"Fame, makes a man take things over. Fame, lets him loose, hard to swallow. Fame, puts you there where things are hollow. Fame" David Bowie from "Fame"

The nurse was late getting me that dose which I loves the most. I hollered for her to stop whatever she was doing and get my Dixie cup to me, but all my screaming fell of the deaf ears of the steroid bloated orderlies and the empty walls of the Asylum. The nurse wasn't in the building. This fueled my anger as I don't think it's too much to ask that ones imaginary nurse stay within the confines of ones imagination. Why should I ever have to look for her? She should always be at my beck and call. Then, just as I was about to blow one of my Spacely Sprockets she was standing in the doorway with a Dixie Cup so full, she had to place a saucer under it to catch spillage. I asked, nay, demanded to know where she had been. As she strolled over to me, a smile came to her face. She had been standing in line to meet David Hasselhoff. Well, that was just, really, David Hasselhoff? I loved Knight Rider. My anger quelled, I mean, how often to you get to meet a celebrity hero? Hasselhoff or whomever it is.

I never really thought of myself as the star struck type. Working at the National I met so many sports stars that I think I got over it, if it ever existed. Sure there were a few that tripped my tongue. The time I met Kirby Puckett, or the first time I met Rod Carew. Those guys were heroes of mine, and legendary players for the Minnesota Twins, how could I not show them the proper respect. They were the only two sports stars that I ever met that I called "Mister". Not Gretzky, not Bonds, not Griffey Jr., not even Deacon Jones. But this isn't a sports blog, ladies, don't freak out, I know how much most of you detest those. I mention the ball players so that you can gauge that I really don't have too many star crushes.

As you all know by now, if I was to ever meet Leonardo DiCaprio, well, I'd stalk. That's all I'm saying. I don't want to be threatening, but Leo, yeah, I would probably stalk him a little bit. So what. The only other "star" that got me speechless, I stood in line to meet. And that's where this tale is headed. To the line.

For a celebrity signing of any kind, there is a line protocol. First of all, those in the front of the line are obviously the biggest fans of whoever it is that they have come to see, and therefore, from their position in the front of the line, can make fun of the rest of the line dwellers for being less fanatical. It's strange, but true. If you are in one of these lines the only subject of discussion must be the person you are there to see, their movies, their music, whatever it is they do, and why they are so much better than anyone else doing it. You are not there to show up in a costume from the film, but an interesting reference isn't a bad thing. To this particular line which I speak my two roommates and I all wore hockey jerseys. So, who was it, not to that part of the story yet.

We arrived to find the line about two hundred people deep and growing, but out status of fandom was not to be determined by our line position, because we bought a tasty bribe to get us to closer to the front of the line, Krispy Kreme Donuts. We actually had some friends that had been there a while, but the donuts seemed to soothe the anger of those around them as more of us piled in. And there we stood on Ventura Blvd with a throng of others eager with anticipation for the arrival of Kevin Smith. It was the morning that Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back was released on DVD and Kevin was signing at Dave's Video. And we were about 10th in line. Geek level - 9.5

So as the moment of my idols arrival neared, I will admit that I started getting giddy. This is the guy that I model my writing style after, so of course, I was all a twitter. We all were. The windows of the shop were being watched by all of those near the front of the line, vultures circling in the sky waiting for the last breath of life to escape our prey. Then the moment arrived. As I waited with the patience of a five year old in line to get into Disneyland, I thought about what I would say to him. Before I knew it, there I was, standing two feet from the man who penned Chasing Amy, Dogma, and of course, Mallrats. With my DVD in hand I walked as calmly as I could muster to the long table at which he was seated. I handed him my grip of items I wanted signed, my DVD of Jay and Bob which on it he wrote "Mike, you were the bomb in Phantoms", my copy of Daredevil number 1 on which he wrote "I posed for this" and a Jay and Bob poster that my roommates and I would frame and hang, which he inscribed "To the boys, from the Woman, Kevin Smith." So, here was my chance to say something to him. And what came out of my mouth, seemed to stagger him. I said "I've got about a million things that I would like to say to you, but at the moment all I can think of is thank you." He was taken aback by the comment in a good way, then looked up and said, "No, thank you." Then we posed for a picture and I walked to the back of the store for a cigarette.

It was done. I had met my idol. I had shaken his hand. Taken a photo. And I knew that memory would be with me for the rest of my life. And it will have to do until I get a chance to talk to him as a fellow film writer.

Which idol of yours would you like to meet and what would you say?

Dixie Cup of Love: Lisa, Punk Ass, Captain Jen and all the people we met in the Dave's Video line.

Lordesses of the Rings

2008-07-30T05:48:00.000-07:00

"Try to be best‘ Cause you’re only a man and a man’s gotta learn to take it. Try to believe though the going gets rough that you gotta hang tough to make it" Joe Esposito from "You're The Best"

You can call the nurse a lot of things. Promiscuous, sure. Brazen hussy, without question. Harbinger of mood altering capsules, everyday. Professional, never. She's never taken a dime for the services she renders, not eve a paycheck from the Asylum. Did you honestly think there was money in the budget for paying her? Hardly. However, the good news is that if there is ever an Olympic even for imaginary drug peddlers, she still has amateur status.

In 9 days the Olympic games will commence in China, and though I abhor their human rights violations and environmental rape, I am still looking forward to the games. I'm a whore for the them. Wasn't always the case, it started way back in the day with a girl named Mary Lou.

It was 1984. I was a freshman and the Olympics were in my home town. The Russians, a usual powerhouse, were paying us back for the 1980 Boycott and America proved that in the absence of another super power we will run rough shot over the competition. butt he winning wasn't everything. It's was the spectacle, the pageantry, the unity, it's all amazing to me. SuperMom was so adamant about dragging us out to see the torch as it relayed through our area, of course being teenagers we scoffed at the notion, but to this day I am glad that she made me do it.

My favorite moments of the summer Olympiad have not always featured cut little gymnast, one featured a pair of bikini clad, but the first two memories were definitely from the gymnastics competition. First was "The Vault". Mary Lou Retton nailed not one, but two perfect vaults to win the all around. And in the process took a piece of my heart with her forever. She was my first athlete crush.

The second moment was Skrug with "The Vault ver. 2.0" On a bad wheel that squeaky voiced little vixen pulled off one of the gutsiest moments in all sports, not just the Olympics. I will forever remember the sight of coach Bela Karoli carrying the damaged nymph to the podium for her medal.

However, purely as a man, the greatest gold medal moment is the celebration between Misty May and Kerri Walsh after winning the Women's Beach Volleyball gold. It's the stuff of Penthouse Forum letters. Two barely clothed women with dark tans, dripping in sweat, rolling around on top of each other in the sand. Slapping one another on the ass. Taking a moment to share a romantic tongue kiss while their eager hands explored each others bodies. Okay, so that last bit didn't really happen, but a boy can dream can't he?

What's your favorite Olympic Moment?

Dixie Cup of Love: Hello, Mary Lou, Goodbye Heart.

13 Feet of Glory

2008-07-29T05:48:00.000-07:00

"Say goodbye, my one true lover. And we'll steal a lover's song. How it breaks my heart to leave you, now the carnival has gone." Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds from "The Carnival is Over"

The only thing more intriguing than whats on the nurses mind on any given day is how the carnival lifestyle still manages to attract employees. I understand the allure of the Tilt-a-whirl, the pull of the cotton candy machine, the sheer pleasure of the Fun house, but like all great thing too much of it would spoil it. The truly awesome part of being a carny would be the chance to master the powerful aphrodisiac that is midway games. Given a doctorate in skeeball, even the nurse would not be able to resist my magnetism.

What is it about winning you girls a stuffed animal at a carnival or a pizza parlour that gets you going faster than Josh Holloway shirtless on a rainy episode of LOST? Is it the prowess that is on display by the gathering of the tickets? Is it the knowledge that man has bested machine in a splendidly John Henry vs. the drill kind of a moment? Or it it the trinket procured with said tickets? Is that manufactured in Korea stuffed unicorn with a shock of purple rayon hair the ultimate symbol of undying devotion?

I do realize that some of you ladies out there are immune to the mysteries of skeeball. For you, I am truly saddened. Maybe no one ever racked up the big score in your honor, if not I will offer a trip to Chuck E Cheese, just so you know the feeling. Maybe you feel too adult to enjoy the frivolity that comes with a midway bender in which a man will spend four to one hundred times as much money trying to win a trinket as the bauble is actually worth. But the midway is no place for reason. It a Guatemalan Insanity pepper of a good time if you just let your hair down and remember what it was like to be the girl walking around with the huge stuffed bear, being envied by the rest, making men impotent in your wake, there is power in that fluff and asbestos filled mammal. So, we will throw darts at balloons, shoot an uncountable number of nearly impossible to make baskets, we will try to get a ping pong ball to land in a gold fish bowl causing unknown damage to the ichthyolite inside, and we will most certainly swing a huge mallet over head with great gusto in order to ring a bell all in hopes that our display of manly might will grant us a chance to ring your bell when the lights of the Merry-Go-Round go dim.

We, men, do all this in order to coerce you dames into sexing us up, but the carny folk are masters of these games, are they secretly cornering the market on the play-for-play issue? I kind of doubt it. I am basing my skepticism on the general state of carny dentistry and hygiene. If they could just manage to clean up their image these purveyors of passing fancy could be the Don Juans of the new millennium. Nah, that's about as likely as gas dipping back below the two dollar mark, or a Republican with a heart.

Maybe as part of "Act Like A Kid Week" we should all take in a carnival or maybe a trip to Dave and Busters, at least there we can get liquored up and win each other some unvaluable prizes. The true point would be an experiment, of course, I'd like to know how the skeeball effect you. Is it the sound of the ball rolling towards the ramp? The anticipation of the ball finding the big money? Is it the knowledge that he is doing it all to impress you? Could there possibly be a more powerful aphrodisiac than skeeball?

Are you turned on by carnival trinkets? Have you any special ones you treasure? When was the last time you were at a carnival?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Food on a Stick Vendor.

The Fish In His Bowl

2008-07-28T04:56:00.000-07:00

"Always in a hurry, I never stop to worry, Don't you see the time flashin' by. Honey, got no money, I'm all sixes and sevens and nines. Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider, You can be my partner in crime." The Rolling Stones from "Tumbling Dice"

The nurse is due for a vacation, which means I have to listen to her hem and haw over a destination for weeks. I run down the list in my mind before I ask her where she is going. But to my utter bewilderment she informed me that the choice was made. She was heading off to Bugsy's oasis in the desert. The nurse in Las Vegas. Perfect fit. Like a sock in a shoe. Blinking lights, fast flowing booze, and morals looser than a down town slot machine make for absolute nirvana in Nevada. Hearing that she was going to Sin City got me thinking of my own adventures in the Jewel of the Mojave.

The best statement I ever heard in regards to myself and my relationship with Las Vegas came from my brother whilst we were there to attend our sisters nuptials. He said, as he looked disappointingly across the room at SuperMom staggering towards us with a foot long margarita in one hand and a champagne flute in the other, he said "Las Vegas changes everyones personalities except yours. Most people come here and for them it's wild abandon, but you're like a fish that's been put back in your bowl." I don't know if he meant that my normalcy is wild abandon, or that I'm just so in tune with the glitz and gleam of the town that I get it on a different level. Either way, I loved the fish in the bowl thing.

Unlike some I never went to Las Vegas as a child. It wasn't proper in my family, at that time, to take children to a place called Sin City. I had to wait until I was 21. Then circumstances being what they were I didn't get a chance to go for a while. Then it finally happened. I rounded that little hill on Interstate 15 and got my first glimpse of the city that would become an escape for me. I had no idea at the time how many stories I would tell that started with "This one time in Vegas". It was better than band camp, cause here the cocktail waitresses (as sure a weakness to me as Kryptonite is to Superman) they weren't upset if you ogle them, I'm sure it bothers them, but it's Vegas Baby. There is no last call for alcohol, you want to drink until the sun comes up, fine with them, just make sure you do some gambling while you're at it. And then there's comps. Those things are like crack. Get one, and soon you'll be jonesing for more.

One of my favorite tales from Lost Wages is that of my sisters wedding. See, there is a stigma attached to the Vegas wedding. Like it doesn't really count, it's a lark. But when it's planned out, well it can be delightfully tacky. My sister got married in the courtyard of the Bellagio in front of the water show. She was set to arrive via limousine, so my brother and I were waiting there for her arrival, the arrival of her guests, and sadly, the arrival of my sperm donor who I had not seen in nearly 15 years. It was a streak that I was none to happy to see coming to an end, but all good things must end. To soften the blow, my dear brother, bought us a round of cocktails, a martini for him, beer and a shot of Bushmills for me. Price tag $33. It took all those involved a little longer to arrive than expected so I went in and secured round 2. As we stood in front of the monstrosity of glitz checking out the bevy of ladies in "little black dresses" (yet another weakness) the sperm donor arrived. I didn't even recognize him and my brother had to point him out. He looked old, much older than I would have thought, it saddened me to think of what his lonely life must be like, but he earned it. In an effort to soothe the bitter feelings, the old man went in with my brother to procure round 3. Adding his own cocktail to the mix was certain to put the tap near 50 bucks, and that kind of made me smile. He was buying the booze that I was drinking in order to deal with his arrival.

The wedding went off fine. No problems, no bitter words, I avoided anything but the smallest of talk. Then as we headed back to my brothers suite, cause that's how he rolls, the sperm donor said he would join the reception after going back to check on wife number 6, who was ill and didn't join in for the ceremony. He never showed. Nothing but class.

Even that little torturous moment can't stop me from remembering Vegas as a great place. There are stories, many stories, and I might get to telling a few more, but as the ad says "What happens here, stays here." So, some stories are only for those that were present.

Ever been to Sin City? Got any stories to share? Favorite spots?

Dixie Cup of Love: My brother for getting round 1.

Whistling Dixie

2008-07-27T06:12:00.000-07:00

"Southern man better keep your head. Don't forget what your good book said. Southern change gonna come at last. Now your crosses are burning fast. Southern man" Neil Young from "Southern Man"

The nurse was in a twist as she came in with my Dixie Cup of depression solvers. Apparently some of the other inmates in the Asylum have complained that using "Dixie" cups for medication is a racist act, in that "Dixie" somehow advocates being a close minded, bible thumping, neanderthal with the common sense of a bar fly. This is just not true of the South. Dixie is a sense of pride amongst some, a heritage, a lifestyle, and to others an excuse to act like Republicans with a hard on. I told the nurse not to worry about it, that the subject would drift away as soon as Miley Cyrus started taking risque photos again, but it got me thinking.

Two articles in this mornings Herald, the local bird cage liner that these folks call a newspaper, got me kind a irked as I pounded my coffee, chain smoked some Marlboro Lights, and tried to think of something to follow yesterdays, "too dangerous to mention" blog. Then it hit me in the face like a Sturgeon being tossed at one of those outdoor fish markets. The big story on the front page was an article about the Confederate flag and how people feel that it is being flown on the grounds of the state house.

First of all, I'm not from around here, this isn't my heritage. My lineage is strictly California beach culture, I will rant and rave about sewage run off into Huntington Beach, but flags? Never paid that much attention to them. That was until I got here, and I wasn't seeing the same banners as I was in California. The Palmetto state has a navy flag with a palmetto tree and a crescent moon. It's bland, two color, but not at all intrusive. Seeing the "stars and bars" flying around my small town, I was aghast at first. Surely a symbol such as this should make people uneasy. And it does, apparently.

The NAACP has called for a African American boycott of South Carolina. Interesting that they would ask a state that is 30% black to boycott itself. With the power they wield they have managed to assure that no NCAA sporting championships can take place here, and are now trying to convince film makers not to shoot in South Carolina. All over a flag. I get it. If there was a swastika flying over the state house I would be livid too. But the locals, the Southern Men, The Sons of the Confederacy, see it as a symbol of pride and how their kin died in the "Act of Northern Aggression", yeah, some call the Civil war that. It's insanity. Surely not everyone in this state is a close minded bigot, right?

Well....

In the Viewpoint section of the fish wrap there was an editorial by the now retired former editor of the Herald. That means that at some point this guy, Terry Plumb, was in charge of the content of the paper. His editorial was entitled "S.C. beach, no not gay". Plumb, who you can send your disdain filled emails to at terry.plumb@gmail.com, sided with Gov. Mark Sanford in agreeing that South Carolina should not pay for advertising in the London Underground proclaiming S.C. to be a great vacation destination for gays. Here's the first quote that got me:
"I understand why leaders in Atlanta, Las Vegas, and New Orleans, which participated in the same campaign, might not have a problem with the message, but the notion of a gay-friendly South Carolina boggles the mind." Well, I thought as I continued reading, maybe this well educated type person might be taking a jab at the locals. Then this: "Sanford probably angered many constituents when he said South Carolina welcomes gay and lesbians to spend some of their estimated $40 billion in travel dollars here but that he was against using state money to target specific groups. What he should have said is that South Carolina won't pay for false advertising - that not only doesn't the Palmetto State have "gay beaches" but that our citizenry also doesn't like gays" Are you fucking ridding me? I had to read it twice, then once more out loud to make sure I wasn't fooling myself. But the hate mongering didn't stop there, folks.

The next paragraph he mockingly joked that the next tourism campaign should be geared towards Middle Easterners for our "burka friendly beaches". And then the capper. This is the quote that sealed the deal for today's blog.

"To be fair, South Carolina isn't obsessed with gays: we simply don't like people who aren't from around here or don't act or sound like us. In addition to not liking gays, we despise Hispanics, distrust Jews, and aren't too fond of Catholics."

This is where I live. This is my new home. If these statements would have come out in the LA Times, imagine the uproar. But here, it goes somehow unnoticed. Part of me hates my new home state.

What think you of this ignorance?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Gays and Lesbians of the World, you're welcome at my house anytime.

Freaks vs. Geeks

2008-07-26T04:47:00.000-07:00

"Hello, leaders of Scientology. We are Anonymous. Over the years, we have been watching you. Your campaigns of misinformation, your suppression of dissent, your litigious nature: all these things have caught our eye. With the leakage of your latest propaganda video into mainstream circulation, the extent of your malign influence over those who have come to trust you as leaders has been made clear to us. anonymous has therefore decided that your organization should be destroyed. We are anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us." A Message to Scientology January 21, 2008.

And thus war was declared.

Usually I would steer clear of a religion blog, but folks, if you haven't heard this story, open your ears and listen to the tales, as I have heard it so far. I come to this sordid opus of hatred and deviance courtesy of two sources. First, my old roommate, a card carrying Atheist, informed me of this months ago, but I was blind to the relevance, certainly to the magnitude. Second, Maxim magazine, which I hope will not mind that I have used their intriguing title. What this is about is a cult and a group of people that have come together without ever knowing each other.

According to the Maxim article, Anonymous was started on a website message board. It was in regards to a video of Tom Cruise ranting and raving like a mad man about the virtues of his so-called religion, some would call it a cult, though some would call Judism a cult. Since I adore Judi I can't see why she shouldn't have a cult, but that's a different blog. In this video, which was taken off of You Tube by the litigation team of the Scientologists, Cruise, a vocal spokesman, made statements like this: "Being a Scientologist, when you drive past an accident, it's not like anyone else. As you drive past, you know you have to do something about it because you know you're the only one that can really help." Yeah, not those police or paramedics. They don't know shit. Please, someone get me an overpaid actor. But the little thespian didn't stop there. No, he added: "We are the authorities on the mind... We are the way to happiness." Um, these people are the authorities of the mind? The folks that don't believe in doctors or therapy or pills. No pills! For the love of Jeebus, they must be stopped. Who, who will stop this hideously ignorant mob from taking over the world.

The Cyber junkies.

On 4chan.org the keyboard clickers went crazy. These people have actually done some good work in identifying pedophiles in chat rooms or when they en mass attacked the website of a white supremacist leader. That's all well intended group mentality, the problem is that the mob has no Capo di tutti Capi, no boss of bosses, no leadership. That has in turn had them bomb MySpace with gay porn spam and call in real bomb threats to the Super Bowl. That's not so good. And the Scientologists now have a leg to stand on by calling them "terrorists". It started out with a web site attack, flooding the Scientology website with phantom users and slowing it to a crawl. Black faxes, solid black sheets of paper, were faxed in large numbers to Scientology fax machines, draining them of ink. Pizzas were send by the hundreds. Pranks mostly, certainly nothing worthy of mention in the "legitimate" news.

On March 15th over 600 protesters donning black suits and Guy Fawkes, V for Vendetta style masks closed in on the Celebrity Center in Los Angeles. They held signs that read "Tax The Cult" and "Honk if you think Scientology is a Cult". Peaceful, though a gun was allegedly sighted in the hands of a Scientologist who when asked why he would brandish a gun at a peaceful demonstration, said, "I'm not here for a peaceful protest, friend". Tensions were sky rocketing. And it's not over yet, not by a long shot. Anonymous is gearing up for more demonstrations in it's bid to destroy the Scientologists. More to come...

But I have this to say. Scientology, whether I believe it to be complete crap or not, is a religion protected by the Constitution of the United States of America. We all have the right to choose which God we worship, be is Jesus, God, Allah, Ganesha, Xenu or Jeebus. The last group that got any press for trying to destroy another religion were the Nazis. I can make that comparison, because whether Scientology is a cult or not, it's labeled a religion, if people are so desperate for answers that they believe the nonsense on which Scientology was predicated, then so be it. It's their right to be suckered in. And as much as I would exhaust every breath in my lungs to call them sheep headed for the slaughter, I respect their right to be slaughtered. Anonymous doesn't. Anonymous is cowardly. Anonymous has no agenda except to destroy a group of people with different ideals. That is a hate organization.

Thoughts? Comments?

Dixie Cup of Love: Hard to think about love when dealing with this, so I give it to The Human Race.

I am Jack's Broken Dream

2008-07-25T05:36:00.000-07:00

"When I grow up to be a man, will I dig the same things that turn me on as a kid? Will I look back and say that I wish I hadn't done what I did? Will I joke around and still dig those sounds." The Beach Boys from "When I Grow Up"

The nurse and I were having a pow wow about her job after I gulped down the gel caps of jolliness that colored the inside of my Dixie cup like Rainbow Brite went bulimic in it. I asked the dealer of my dreams if it had been her life long goal to be a nurse at an imaginary mental institution. Of course she has hoped to be something else, but sometimes life takes an unexpected turn. She had aspired to be a Senegalese sous chef, but apparently there isn't a big job market for the preparation of cuisine from Senegal. Had I always dreamt of being an under inspired unpaid blogger, she asked. Touche, harlot.

Growing up I never wanted to be a fireman, a cop, a doctor, or a lawyer much to the chagrin of SuperMom. I'm sure she would have preferred that I had chosen a career that would have offered a little stability and income, but she is quite proud of what I have accomplished as a writer. But even that wasn't what I though life would have in store for me. See I wanted to be like Spielberg, no not Jewish, I wanted to be a director. I thought that winning the Oscar in any other category was somehow a lesser award. But when you find your talent, you go where it takes you. I would be thrilled beyond the worlds knowledge to get the bald man statue for writing, but that wasn't what I wanted as a kid.

My sister was once asked what she wanted to be when she grew up and she didn't hesitate before saying cocktail waitress. That's setting the bar to a nice attainable level, don't you think. I'm mean if you're gonna dream, make it as banal as possible. Thing is, her dream was realized, mine, not so much. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe.

I've always been a dreamer, and I'm not the only one. My brother once told me that though I was poor and he was handsome and well to do with the cash flow, that he envied the fact that for what it was worth I have chased my dream. Not always the case. I will say that for the last 6 years I have really made an effort to go after it with some gusto. This year I have taken bigger steps than I have ever taken before, and next year I will go even further. The hardest part about being a writer is finding someone to read your work, I've found that here. The next step is finding someone that can open a door to the career side of it. I will, I have drive and determination, and you have no idea how great it will feel to quit HellJob.

Today's question comes in a few parts. What did you want to be when you grew up? Are you still in pursuit of that dream? Where did it derail? What's your new dream?

Dixie Cup of Love: Christine Basch, guidance counselor who told me that writing was a stupid career choice.

The Heckler

2008-07-24T06:15:00.000-07:00

"Does it hurt? Oh, it really doesn't matter, Does it burn? Oh, I don't feel a thing. Does it sting? Oh, yeah, it really doesn't matter. Does it hurt?, Oh, I don't give a damn. When I find myself falling and I hit the bottom, It only makes me laugh" Oingo Boingo from "It Only Makes Me Laugh"

I started to wonder today as the nurse came in my room looking like Russell Crowe in a bad mood if there was any joy left in her pathetic, imaginary life. Were there moments of hysterical laughter when she lets her guard down completely and just rolls on the floor (for those of you who don't understand those words it means ROFLMAO, basically, damned Internet)? Who makes the nurse pee her pants a little? And thinking of that, well, it disgusted me a bit, then I started thinking about the people that make me laugh.

There is one job that I know, aside from employee of HellJob, that I would never like to attempt, that is Stand-up Comedian. I like to think that in written form I'm a hoot, but standing in front of a room full of strangers and deciding that they are all gonna laugh, that's tough. But when someone does it well it can be a splendid sight to behold. For me, there's a few people that I can watch stand with the microphone in hand and just cackle.

Eddie Izzard. Not in everyone's taste I understand. But those that value a sense of intelligence and wit love the transvestite. I will admit that I was leery to check his show out at first. After all, what's funny about a man prancing around in woman's clothing? It was a mistake on my part to judge the product by the box it came in. My old roommate Aaron tried with the temerity of an ant moving a rubber tree plant to get me to watch it, then one day, while stoned, I caved in and am forever glad that I did. The man is just brilliant. If you haven't seen Dressed to Kill and Glorious, Netflix them now. Do not delay, you probably won't be disappointed.

Dave Chappelle. Such an influence on me was the special "Killing Them Softly" that I named one of the main characters in my first play "Chip". Some find him to be too anti-white male but get over it, as long as there are different races it will be part of stand-up. The Chappelle Show on Comedy Central did some of the funniest stuff I had ever seen on TV and it was a shame that he freaked out over getting paid and being pressured. Hopefully we have not seen the last of him. For that would be a huge loss.

I have been watching Last Comic Standing this season, as I was a huge fan of Josh Blue, and I have to say that the way they are treating women on this show is an outrage. Esther Ku was funny, I don't care how annoying her laugh was, her stand up was top notch, and she was gone in the first elimination. Eliza is an assassin. Two times she has been on the showdown, two times she has sent the other comics packing. She's funny, guys, get over it. Women are just as funny as we are, and they have boobies. I only add the boobies thing because I'm a fan and a pig. If you haven't figured that out by now you shouldn't be reading the Asylum.

Which comedians make you laugh? Who do you not like at all?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Funny Chicks.

Going Hot

2008-07-23T05:21:00.001-07:00

"You either love or you despise. There's just no time for compromise. The days have gotta move real fast. We know that nothing's gonna last" The Stranglers from "Burning Up Time"

The nurse came in to administer my lithium luggage with a copy of one of my favorite magazines under her arm. A rag that has been around since the 60's and covers everything from music, movies, to politics and corruption. And every now and again it puts out a "Hot List". Seeing the magazine pressed between her bicep and implant got me to thinking that it's time I got some insight on you.

Sorry about this one, but it should be fun. I have had a busy couple of days at HellJob and it has left me in a mental state akin to a trash bag full of Jell-o. So, today, I'm asking for you to help. I want to know what you think is "Hot", what for you, at this very moment, is making you feel good, making you lustful, making you angry. I present the "Asylum's One and Only, Hot List"

Hot Starlet: Maggie Gylennhaal.

Hot Band: The Kills

Hot Director: Adam McKay

Hot Team: Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly

Hot Car: Ferrari California

Hot Movie: TheDark Knight

Hot Hero: Kristen Bell

Hot Food: Kickin Pig Bar-be-cue

Hot Religion: Anonymous

Hot Model: Marissa Miller

Hot Sports Star: Natalie Coughlin

Hot Buzz: State of Play

Hot Daddies Girl: tie Brooke Hogan and Miley Cyrus

Hot Online Dating Bio: 38, SWM, blogger with good vocab and strong opinions about music, seeks large breasted woman with brains.

Hot Gadget: MacBook Air

Hot Mama: Angelina Jolie

Hot City: Las Vegas

Hot Arm Candy: Reformed porn stars

Hot Dead Guy: Heath Ledger

Hot Live Guy: Seth Rogen

All right, that's kind of all I have time for, so, I want to hear your Hot List. Run down the same categories, skip the ones you don't want to answer because they make your brain hurt or what not. Just remember, there are no wrong answers and I will be judging you. Hee Hee.

Dixie Cup of Love: Jann Wenner

Days of Day-Glo Revistied

2008-07-22T06:06:00.000-07:00

"From what I've been and what I've seen, From top to bottom, I am obscene. It stands in my place, It spits in my face. It's shame, shame! It's shame!" Rollins Band from "Shame"

When the nurse came in to give me my pharmaceutical cocktail for the morning I couldn't help but notice that she was sporting a New Kids On The Block push up bra under her uniform. Though the site of her silicone laden chest cannons bravely trying to escape the confines of the garment was eye attracting and appealing, it was said delicate that had me questioning her very sanity. Perhaps it was time I strapped the nurse to a gurney and tortured her as she has me for all these long months. Her rock-n-roll persona was straining for credibility when compared to her choice of boy band lingerie. But seeing the shocking display of fan adoration got me thinking.

While out shopping for the necessities of life in the Slow, bug spray, ultra powerful antiperspirant, and alcohol, I spied SuperMom thumbing through a magazine whose sole purpose seemed to be to dupe addle minded, love lorn teenage girl out of their usually undeserved allowance. No it wasn't O Magazine, the O standing for Oppressor, it was some silly glossy dedicated to boy band of the minute, The Jonas Brothers. The newest is Disney's continuing juggernaut on the good and wholesome market, after all their last big star is starting to turn the way of her Mouseketeer predecessor. Miley is the new Britney. Only a mater of time before some over tattooed angst ridden pseudo pop punk knucklehead lands a sperm to her billion dollar eggs. With that inevitability looming on the horizon the Mouse needs a new way to bilk millions from the coffers of the masses. Enter Jonas-mania.

No, SuperMom is not a fan of the Jonii, but my ultra spoiled niece is in the grips of mad infatuation. The fandom that comes with being a pre-teen in the Disney Age. Matter of fact if her mother would have put all the monies she has spend on Disney related garbage during my nieces 12 years and invested it in a savings account, I'm pretty sure my niece could attend Harvard, all four years. And now SuperNana, as she would be called by my niece, is adding to the dollar total. I understand that part of childhood, even the teen years, is to attach yourself to a band of questionable credibility. We all have a shirt hanging in our proverbial closets that makes us, as adults, wonder what we were thinking.

For all my rock pedigree there are skeletons that I am only showing the light of day so that you, my dear readers and fans, may have a laugh at me while shamefully realizing that you have just as many bone daddies in your own arsenal. Sure, I had the "Frankie Says Relax" T-shirt. I'm actually not too ashamed of that one. But for a girl named Tammy Francis I became a neon wearing Wham! fan. Yeah, okay, enough with the laughter. She was short and super hot, and there was nothing I wouldn't do to play with her boobies, including selling out my own musical taste. Amazing how I let the objects of my hearts affections effect my own tastes. Even now if I was in pursuit of a wily female that liked a musical genre that normally I would abhor, I would find something redeeming in it. I am no shepherd in this regard, just a mere sheep.

Some of these emotional interludes have actually left me with great tunes that I may not have listened to without said strumpets influence. My undying love for Dayna brought me the joy of the Old 97's, Cari is so closely tied with my love of the Gear Daddies that it's impossible to separate the two, Annie is linked to the soundtrack from "Grease" like a liner not, and without Judi there would be no Jenny Lewis in my life, no Rilo Kiley in my itunes. Not all the bands have been winners, mind you. With Michelle it was, sadly, Bryan Adams. Not good at all really, but still meaningful. I guess I just wish some, not all (Australians are exempt due to swinging great taste and living on the bottom of the world), but some of the women that I adore had better taste in music.

What skeletons are you hiding in your CD collection?

Dixie Cup of Love: Tammy Francis.

Dreaming

2008-07-21T04:01:00.000-07:00

"Have you seen my garden? It is most peculiar. Have you seen my garden? Nothing there that grows looks anything at all like plants. I hear their voices. Let's take the whole day off" Oingo Boingo from "Whole Day Off"

It started out like any other day, or so I thought. I was, as per the norm in this psychedelic fun house, shackled to my bed awaiting the arrival of my antiseptically scrubbed Florence Nightingale from the depths of Hades. My body quivered in negative withdrawal from my daily Dixie cup of addiction fixers, but they didn't arrive. What the hell was going on? The damned nurse called in sick leaving me unmedicated and longing for the affections of my state appointed care taker. A dreadful feeling came over me. What if something serious happened, what if she was never to come back, what would become of me? Then I heard the steroid swollen orderly say that the nurse was out on some rich guys yacht for the day. What a bitch.

The general plan of how to spend a sick day was once laid out to near perfection in a little romp of a film called "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". It was a film that set the bar for how to play ditch at a level too astronomical for the average hooky player to achieve. I mean, seriously, how often do you just happen on a midweek parade? And on the same day as a big league matinee no less. No, that day isn't near perfect, I mean Scarlett Johannson is near perfect, that day is absolute, Stairway to Heaven, perfection.

As for my day of leisure it would begin, if we are talking a perfect day, by me waking up next to a very horny woman with perhaps an accent and an oral fixation. We would wake after an excellent night s sleep to make love as we called in to our jobs and finagled the day off. After bringing each other to the zenith of ecstasy we would adjourn the bedroom for the patio to enjoy coffee and cigarettes while I finished the New York Times crossword puzzle.

I would then leave my strumpet for a spell, hopping on the Harley and bombing down Pacific Coast Highway towards Long Beach where I would pick up comics from Atomic. Of course it would be the day that the new Garth Ennis trade comes out. We would chat comics and movies while watching a Hawaiian Tropics Bikini Contest from his balcony. Inevitably the contest would be short a couple of judges, they would spy us on the balcony, and of course we would help them out. Atomic would end up scoring a sun soaked model and I would hop on the bike and head for Pasadena.

On the way I would get a call from a literary agent telling me that my latest script was just bought for a seven figure payday. Sick day no longer, I would be quitting my job tomorrow. But, on to the City of Roses, where I would spend an hour or two hanging out with the Weezer Kid doing what we do best. We'd listen to the the Red Album as we enjoyed some of natures finest greenery.

I would grab lunch at "The Hat", for pastrami and chili fries, before heading off to see the new Scarlett Johannson/Jessica Biel lesbian love story action flick. With red vines in hand I would enjoy. The sun would be glowing amber in the late afternoon sky as I leave the theater sure that the film will win a bevy of Academy Awards.

The woman with the accent meets me for a romantic dinner of prime rib, baked potato, and Heineken before driving us back to her place where we pick up where we left off before coffee. I would fall into a deep sleep, waking to the day that I quit HellJob.

What your dream day off?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Woman with the Accent.

Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy

2008-07-20T05:56:00.000-07:00

"Say the word and you'll be free, say the word and be like me, say the word I'm thinking of, have you heard the word is love? It's so fine, It's sunshine, It's the word, love." The Beatles from "The Word"

In a strange twist of conformity, the nurse burst into my room with the manic cackle of a hyena with an Angel Dust habit. Twirling like a dervish, shiny colorful pills splaying around the room in a rainbow of hallucinogenic medication. Just as she was surely about to slit my throat with the heel of one of her razor sharp stilettos, one of the steroid downing orderlies tackled her with the exuberance of a juiced up linebacker. That mad man with the grape nuts sized sack saved my bacon. As I thanked him, he informed me that it was no problem, he was warned that earlier in the day the nurse had gotten into the medication prior to her shift after listening to The Beatles "Rubber Soul" for an entire week. Hearing that got me to thinking.

This week the wisdom and power of the Beatles has hit me on a few different fronts. First, while SuperMom humored me by sitting through another viewing of "Across The Universe" we got to chat-chitting about how I have to, sometimes, introduce her to songs from her own generation. It doesn't bother her, because she was basically as square as June Cleaver growing up. She graduated in 1966, prime time to be a peace loving, pot smoking, dancing to the music, hippy, but alas it was not meant to be. She wasn't down with the counter culture, not a motivator, innovator, aviator or eating taters. She was all about West Coast surf music, which is a huge influence on me, but that's for another blog. During this Beatles flavored conversation she informed me that "Hey Jude" was her favorite tune from the Fab Four. A later song? I was floored. I figured, if any song, it would be a Meet The Beatles era tune like "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" or "Love Me Do." Never would I have guessed that she would be a fan of a song with the complexities of "Hey Jude".

Those that know me well can tell you that my favorite Beatles symphony is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", but the reason may elude even the Atomic One. I was thinking about this earlier this week. When I was a wee Cub Scout of a lad I had a friend named Eric Wood. His pop was our scout master, yes I was a Cub Scout so what, and also his dad was the local fire chief. It was at the Wood house that I first remember hearing the Beatles and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" was the song. Now whenever I hear it, I am instantly transported Jason Statham style, back tot he simple carefree times of my adolescents.

As I have gotten older my appreciation for the wisdom of the Beatles lyrics has become a major influence on me as a writer. Not only do I quote them at random, but there are certain lines that seem to speak directly to me. "If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true, and help me understand". I get that on a very non-trusting, I have no clue about women level that has plagued me my entire life. "And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world on your shoulders". Sometimes I feel that I am Charles Atlas and the globe is resting in my not so gym chiseled arms. Though I tend to roll with the flow on most things, I sometimes need to remind myself that I am not everything to everyone. And this last one is just now starting to hit me like a baseball bat to the kidneys. "All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends and I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life, I've loved them all." I miss my California friends deeply, I miss those familiar places, and I have often fell for the right girl at the wrong time, but my love for them was never in doubt. It was true, pure, and painful. Even the ones that blew it off as a simple crush or something else entirely.

The best thing about a song, especially a great song, is that the lyrics and melody combine to illicit different emotions from each and every one of us. The Beatles have an entire catalog of tunes that will makes us laugh, cry, think, love, and want to die. That's the magic of those four lads from Liverpool.

Songs by them that affect you and why?

Dixie Cup of Love: Them All.

Shopping At Leftorium

2008-07-19T05:33:00.000-07:00

"Now, there's a certain thing, that I learned from my friend, Mouse. A fella who always blushes and that is that ev'ryone must always flush out his house. If he don't expect to be goin' 'round housing flushes. Open the door, Homer." Bob Dylan from "Open the Door, Homer"

When the nurse came in with my morning melancholy makers she was looking a little jaundiced, yellow to be more precise. It wasn't a good color on her. she wore her tight white uniform nicely, bursting out of it in all the appropriate areas, and I'd seen her looking her devilish best after a long day in the sun, burned red as an apple,. But this new color, this discoloration caused by God know what, vitamin deficiency, bad Ted Turner style colorization, or a bad tanning session, it didn't matter, but it looked bad. Yellow, after all, is not the new black.

For the better part of 19 years a family of yellow people have come into our living rooms, never showing the slightest signs of ageing. Kids who have just graduated high school have never known a world without them. They have introduced words into our lexicon, have shaped the way we view nuclear energy, and gave us enough jabs at organized religion that a book was written on their religious philosophies. They are the Simpsons.

It's hard to imagine the world without Homer and Bart. Sure Marge, Lisa, and Maggie mean something to us as well, but it's the males of Springfield that we idolize like rock stars. In the beginning the show focused on Bart. His trails and tribulations with Principal Skinner, Mrs Krabappel, and Krusty the Clown sucked us into the eye of the hurricane. Once we were hooked, fish caught in the net, they turned our attention to Homer. We started hanging out with Barney, Moe, Lenny and Carl. we got to know about Wayland Smithers alternative lifestyle and that more rock bands play Springfield than Cleveland.

My favorite episode of the Simpsons is the one in which Bart becomes a daredevil and announces for the town to hear that is going to jump Springfield Gorge on his skateboard. There's a line from Ott, who as the only adult present thinks that he should say something. His word of advice: "Coooool". But in the end it is Homer who nearly pulls off the impossible. The reason it reigns supreme for me is simple. Truck-a-Saurus.

There are over 300, closing in on 400 episodes to choose from and for some it will be a nearly impossible task to choose a favorite,. Be it a Sideshow Bob episode, Or Bleeding Gums Murphy, or Pattie and Selma, Apu, Dr. Marvin Monroe, Reverend Lovejoy, or everyones favorite neighbor, Ned Flanders the choice is tough. So hard that some won't even attempt to name one, but no matter what, I doubt any of us could imagine a world without what my nephew calls "The Yellow People".

What's your favorite episode? Or Character?

Dixie Cup of Love: Tracey Ullman

Two Isn't Always Better Than One

2008-07-18T05:53:00.000-07:00

"So much for a movie ending romance, Revise and rewrite. I'm uninspired, the script is tired, The cast is looking at me with murderous minds." Math and Physics Club from "Movie Ending Romance"

Debating in the Asylum is a lot like talking to yourself. Sure you can make some stunningly astute observations, but no one is even pretending to listen. Such was the case last night as the nurse and I got into a heated argument about sequels. Her contention was that no sequel has ever surpassed the oringinal in entertainment value. Though for the most point I agree with the little tramp, there are a few spectacular exceptions to the rule.

In general I will admit that when I see a number two or the word "again" after a movie title my first reaction is disgust. Sitting through "Big Momma's House" once was brutal, even with Paul Giamatti trying his darnedest to save it. The thought of subjecting my precious buttocks to another hour and half of Martin Lawrence in a fat suit and dress would border on sado-masochism. As much as I love hammering my own ego into dust, that's the most self induced punishment that i will tolerate.

However there are those sqeuels that match, if not exceed, their primordial ancestors. Officially, if this is what you rank things by, the Godfather Part 2 has been the only sequel to win the Oscar for Best Picture, though Return of the King is, I guess, a sequel of sorts. The reason I discount Return of the King on a sequel level is that it's the end of the trilogy, and the Oscar may have been awarded for the entire effort, not the singular film. It was the end of the Lord of the Rings story, where as The Godfather Part 2 was an excellent companion to the first. Equal in quality of story, originality in story telling, casting and tone. The third Godfather film, though somehow nominated for the most prized of awards, is a huge blunder and stain on the Godfather name. It turned Michael into a pussy, crying in the kitchen for his trecherous dead brother. Then, as if that wasn't enough, the horrible nepotistic casting of Sophia Coppola as Mary, well, it was the cement shoes that sunk the flick like a mob snitch in the Hudson.

When it comes to being better, the only one I can think of at the moment is X-Men II. Better characters, tighter story, more action, far superior to the O.G. Then X-Men III, you lose the director, you lose the cohesive vision. Bryan Singer should have left Superman for Tim Burton and Kevin Smith to fight over,. X-Men franchise killer, Brett Ratner. Some will say Spiderman II and I will have a hard time disagreeing, in the first one it was a huge mistake to hide Willem DaFoe behind an immovable mask, what a waste of an actor.

There are two possible contenders in theaters now that may change my mind. The Dark Knight might just be better than Batman Begins, certainly looks that way on the commercials, and then there is Hellboy II which would have to be spectacular to get my vote, but it's possible.

Got a favortie sequel? Or ones that you hate?

Dixie Cup of Love: Francis Ford Coppola

2008-07-17T06:40:00.002-07:00

"Sometimes it's fine, Sometimes I know just what it's all worth. Sometimes it's fine, Sometimes it feels like heaven on earth." Stiff Little Fingers from "Cold"

The nurse brought me with a sandwich with my Dixie cup of Dopamine doublers. I don't know what caused this ingestible gesture but after dealing with the cafeteria food for so long I was grateful for the outside edible. As I unwrapped the hoagie I noticed that it was half eaten. What the hell? That's when the nurse smiled like a ghoul and told me that it was her leftover lunch. Worse than that it was a hot sandwich which was now cold. Fantastic, she's so good to me.

When it comes to the kitchen, I can get around with the dexterity of a cat with attention deficit disorder. Not just a heat and eat guy, I can make a batch of cookies, cheesecakes from scratch, and plenty more. But I also know when to save the microwave and enjoy my left overs cold.

Some foods, not all mind you, but some taste wonderful when served straight from the ice box.
Chief among them greatest cold left overs is SuperMom's meatloaf. A sandwich, mayo, ketchup, a slice of cheese and a healthy, or completely unhealthy, slab of cold meatloaf can be a meal all in itself.

Now, any college student or poor person worth their salt knows that while pizza straight from the Queen of Coins delivery service is awesome, it can be even better the next day, cold. Not all ingredients make for a good cold slice. Pepperoni isn't my favorite, ham and pineapple, though, that's the stuff of dreams. Supreme pizza, the veggies tend to loose their snap in the fridge so I would pass on that as well. I'm sure the Queen will have some excellent advice for you on this.

Spaghetti. Mixed with a nice marinara meat sauce, is delectable when frigid. I have been known at times to place cold spaghetti between two slices of Wonder bread and wallowed in the carb load sandwich. It's decadent and bad for you, but isn't the best stuff always bad for you?

What's your favorite cold leftover?

Dixie Cup of Love: MeatLoaf, cause naming yourself after a glob a meat is tough.

2008-07-17T06:40:00.001-07:00

Getting the Wind

2008-07-16T04:46:00.000-07:00

"Pick it, pack it, fire it up, come along and take hits from the bong. Put the blunt down just for a second. Don't get me wrong it's not a new method. Inhale, Exhale - just got a ounce in the mail" Cypress Hill from "Hits From The Bong"

As the nurse came in for my morning pharming expedition she sneezed. Customarily I would intone a blessing upon her, but I didn't want to waste any of my good kharma with the G man on her. I guess it was rude of me, bad manners and all. SuperMom taught my siblings and I to be the perfect picture of well adjusted normals in public, but at home the real heathen side came out. I don't know quite how she achieved this since when I look around today kids are about as well mannered as sports fans in Philadelphia (ask someone who likes sports if you don't understand). And then there are other issues of proper etiquette that often come to my attention.

People are constantly coming up to me on the street and saying "Hey Mike, when I'm in the "Circle of Chinese Eyes" what's the proper etiquette?" Okay, so it doesn't happen all that often, but as a once proud consumer of "the Chronic" I have a few things to say on the manners associated with marijuana.

What to call it. Weed, pot, Mary Jane, Cheeba, Aunt Mary, wacky tobaccy, reefer, Goofy stick, loco weed, the Yellow Submarine, call it whatever the hell you want, there are more names for "Acapulco Gold" than there are for God. Which is why some think of "Mowing the Grass" as a religious experience. I've never smoked a blunt and seen Jesus, but then I don't usually toke with people of Hispanic heritage.

Which way to pass. Left or right. If your biggest problem is not knowing which person to hand the spliff to, then I guess you're doing better than the rest of us. For my part, I like being in a "Ring of Fire" that has a joint going one way and a bong load going the other. It keeps those involved in the moment and doesn't allow for the dreaded "babysitter", you know that person that holds onto the "pocket rocket" as if they are trying to get high through osmosis of the fingertips. Puff, puff, give. That's all one needs to know in a "Tour de Fatty".

When to say when. When "Burning the Broccoli" there are those among us that inhale at an alarming rate. A quick rule of the thumb is to "bomb the bud" until one starts to get the "tingle of the mingle". As it does take "the Assassin of Youth" a while to come to full effect, some smoke into a place we like to call "coma". That's when they can no longer move their limbs without intense thought and have a hard time staying awake. Nothing worse than sleeping off a "bake sale". Smoking with people that are of the same tolerance level as yourself is a key component. Novice and "brown frown" smokers who are firing up some "kind bud" need be cautious.

When is the best time to blaze. The myth of 4:20 states that at that particular moment in each day, it's the best time to have some "laughing leaf". Truth be told if you're a "wake and bake" specialist who puffs just as your eyes open, a Price is Right fan who waits until just before noon, the "All My Cheeba" afternoon specialist, the "Drive Time Doobie" traffic toker, or the "Nighttime is Righttime" kind of person there is no prescribed time of day when the "Green Goddess" is gonna get you any more "Squirrel eyed".

Should I smoke out the dealer. A common misconception is that the guy selling you the "Northern Lights" is just rolling in bags of "Kush". Does a car salesman have extra cars sitting around in his driveway? It's just common courtesy to ask. There are times when you, yourself aren't ready to hit that "nickel bag". In times like this explain that you would, but whatever it is that you are about to do requires that you be "straight", most likely going to court or work, and that next time you will "fire up a bowl of cereal" for your guy. And do always call him "My guy". Male or female, doesn't matter, when it comes to the "purveyor of potent smokables" no one wants to be referred to as a dealer. Those people are slimy. My guy is a facilitator.

As more questions come to me I will try to answer them, but I gotta be honest, I'm a few brain cells short of Stephen Hawking at this point, so I may not remember.

Questions? Comments? Queries?

Dixie Cup of Love: Nancy Botwins of the World.

Better Back End

2008-07-12T04:57:00.000-07:00

"I don't mind stealing bread from the mouths of decadence, but I can't feed on the powerless when my cup's already overfilled" Temple of the Dog from "Hunger Strike"

Funny, the nurse was holding a picket sign when she came into to give me my morning cup of rise and shines. The sign said, "Fair Wages for Fair Work". I scoffed. Who did she think she was fooling, fair wage, on any given day, after my Dixie Cup is administered I completely forget about her because, well, I'm not always thinking about the Asylum, hard as it is to believe, but alas it's true. I think of friends, friends that aren't being friendly, friends that are being too friendly, friends that are pretending to be friends and those are the ones that got me thinking. The fakers. The pretenders. The actors.

The writers strike nearly crippled the television industry last year, leaving us, the viewer with shortened versions of LOST, Heroes, and lame shows as well. Will that parlay into lower prices for the strike shortened seasons on DVD, of course not. Because we are loyal fans, we buy them, and THEY know that they can charge full price for inferior product. And now, there is a gauntlet being thrown down by the producers guild, stating, it is the final offer the union will make as the Screen Actors Guild threatens to strike. Seriously? While that whole writers strike shit was going on not one person thought it might be a good time to lock up the actors? And I suppose after a length strike, that will force the networks to produce more reality fair like America's Greatest Cats, the directors will strike. Might as well. They seem to be the only ones not getting a bigger piece of the pie, and isn't that what it's all about?

Actors make more than any other person on the production team. That seems about as fair as only paying the Management of Company X a great wage, while the hard workers get screwed, oh wait, that is the American way, never mind. Actors are like gas company CEO's. $20 million a picture just doesn't go as far as it used to. Oh, and let's not forget the back end bonus dough as a cherry on top of the ten figure sundae. Charlie Chaplin would shit his pants.

I love the movie industry. I have always aspired to be a player, as a director and now far more as a writer, but I will curse the God that gave me an incredible gift of wordplay instead of blessing me with a jawline of stone, eyes the azure of the Mediterranean sky, and the abs of a washboard. I mean I could use the $20 million a flick for good, it could happen, but most likely I would blow it on hookers and weed. That's probably why I don't get the big deals? Bad karma.

If the actors do go on strike, and it does look like a possibility, at least the 70,000 member AFTRA organization has signed it's deal already. So, the part of Peter Petrelli will be played by the guy from the Verizon commercial, I'm sure it won't affect a thing. The role of Dr. Jack Shepherd will be played by the guy from the Cialis commercial, so maybe he and Kate will get it on, of course Kate is going to be played by the woman from the Special K "pinch an inch" commercials. But television will roll on. The big blockbusters next summer will star the guys from the Alltell wireless with Chad being the romantic lead in the 4th of July weekend winning "Wireless Commincationator". But I'm sure the quality of the films will remain as high as say "Rise of Taj".

And yes, I think that the day player who only gets paid something like $300 a day for two hours of work is just as overpaid as the Will "I only make one kind of movie" Smith's of the world. If these actors are such great pretenders, then let them pretend to actually work for a living. I would love to see Russell Crowe hump through a week at HellJob.

Will you support the struggling actor's if they strike?

Dixie Cup of Love: Kevin Smith, writer, director, editor, actor, and soon to be professional striker.

Dummkopf

2008-07-06T06:02:00.001-07:00

"And the way I feel tonight. I could die and I wouldn't mind. And there's something going on inside. Makes you wanna feel, makes you wanna try, makes you wanna blow the stars from the sky. I can't stand up, I can't cool down, I can't get my head off the ground" The Jesus and Mary Chain from "Head On"

There is something I didn't know about the nurse, she's Jewish. Not that it matters to me as long as she makes with the Goose Step and gets my Dixie cup into my eager hands as fast as possible. But she was slow with the pills this morning and I got worried. No, not that something was wrong with her, couldn't care less about that, I was worried that I was going to have to end up sober as Carrie Nation. Turns out she was dealing with a friend of the family who was arrested on the other side of the Atlantic. The reason for the bust, made me cheer. So I thought I would share it with you.

Yesterday, 41 minutes after the exhibit opened, a German man made his way past security guards to lop the head off a waxwork statue of Adolf Hitler sitting in a bunker at the Berlin Madame Tussauds museum.

The problems that I have with this are numerous. First of all, who was the dick wad that thought it was a good idea to melt down some wax and reshape it to look like the man responsible for starting a world war. Not to mention that the depicted ordered the murder of approximately six million Jews. For those of you with no sense of numbers, it's akin to the complete annihilation of Los Angeles. Yeah. So, the person that commissioned the work, idiot.

Second, why, someone tell me, why was there a need to post a sign in the museum that asked visitors to refrain from taking photos or posing with Hitler "out of respect for the millions of people who died during World War Two." That was necessary? "Honey, snap a shot of me with Hitler, it'll make for a great Christmas card." I understand that there are people in this world that practice hate because of a lack of education, ignorance, or just plain stupidity. Do these people go to museums? I seriously doubt it.

Third, not last cause this list could go on forever, but the last thing that struck me about this story is the subject matter itself. Madame Tussauds is a place where parafin replicas of Michael Jackson, Madonna, Brando, Chaplin, and W.C. Fields are found. None of them tried to exterminate a race, well Michael Jackson has tried to change, from human to alien, but to move through the Thriller stage, to the Like A Virgin booth, then straight into The Fuehrer's bunker? Not the trip I'm interested in. I think I would rather see the Crowd Pissing on David Chase diorama or maybe the Salute to Bulemia Vomitorium. Madame Tussauds, whose new slogan is "We haven't been relevant in 50 years!".

Share what you would like, I have no question for this.

Dixie Cup of Love: The Security Guards that let the guy through.

A More Perfect Union

2008-07-04T07:20:00.000-07:00

""Let us be lovers, we'll marry our fortunes together. I've got some real estate here in my bag". So we bought a pack of cigarettes and Mrs. Wagner pies and walked off to look for America" Simon and Garfunkel from "America"

For some reason, fireworks are banned here in the Asylum. It might have something to do with the pyromaniacs in the L wing, but the 4th of July here is pretty much just your average day of medication that makes the lights look like the brightest bursting American Freedom projectiles you've ever seen. Though we don't get the big bang, it's still a day to think about what it means to be America.

There is one place that makes me feel more American than any other. No, it's not Mount Rushmore, or Gettysburg, as a matter of fact, it wouldn't be considered a tourist destination at all. It's in every town, in every state, all across this vast expanse that most of us call home, many of you Aussie readers are probably chocking on the patriotism but bear with me. This magical location that stirs the old red, white, and blue in me is the grocery store.

I know, it doesn't make sense. But think about it. Walk into the frozen food section of your local Piggly Wiggly and you'll see display cases, plural, full of frozen pizza. With various toppings and cooking methods. Microwaveable, oven ready, meat, veggie, supreme, mini, maxi, all sorts. It's overwhelming. And seeing the gross amount of Italian pastry that we can stuff in our gobs makes me a little squishy for apple pie and Chevrolet. Interesting side note, Apple Pie, originally a French or Dutch dish depending on which website you choose to believe.

As I stroll through the market, my eyes are bewildered by the copious amounts of beef, pork, chicken, ostrich, bear, fish, marmot, and wildebeast that we have at our disposable for consumption. Think some pot bellied kid in Ethiopia is fighting Sally Struthers to the check out stand with a 10 pound box of Big Ben Burgers under one arm and a melon the size of Pam Anderson's brain, no way you saw that coming, under the other arm? Of course not. There are no super markets in Rwanda and there's no melon as small as the Blonde ones cranial cram. It's American to not only shop with a cart the size of a European car but to fill it with incredible amounts of processed foods that could survive nuclear obliteration.

Turning towards the 10 items or less express check out line with your cart over flowing with meats, frozen pizza and melon, it's impossible to not at least check out the greatest item available at the Vons. Tabloids. It makes me feel like an elite citizen to check out these rags and wonder how many people in the market at that very moment are going to consider what they read on the covers to be news. And for some, their only source of news. Amazing to me that people who can't find Canada on a map, know that Brad and Angelina have kids named Shiloh and Maddox. It's one of the few things that make me proud to be an American.

On this 4th of July, what makes you feel American? If you're from somewhere else, how do you percieve Americans?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Stater Bros.

Knockwurst for 12

2008-07-03T05:43:00.000-07:00

"Well if they'd free me from this prison, if that railroad train was mine. I bet I'd move just a little further down the line. Far from Folsom prison, that's where I want to stay and I'd let that lonesome whistle blow my blues away....." Johnny Cash from "Folsom Prison Blues"

The nurse was higher than Hendrix on New Years Eve as she entered my room for my dose of daily delusion. She had obviously spent the night partying like a rock star and then just decided to come to work. It must be against the law to perform her job while under the influence of fun stuff. I thought about calling a cop, but do you really think they would listen to an Asylum inmate. Even if they did arrest her the jury would probably dismiss the case because she's hot and I'm insane, I mean, how much harm could she really do?

Here's the thing about jury ineptitude. There isn't a better system. I know, I wish there was, believe me, but a trial by jury still beats one man, judge, jury, executioner. The thing that gets me riled up like the Tazmanian Devil with a pimple in his nose, is that it's supposed to be a jury of my peers. That means they need to find 12 people that are smart enough to get out of jury duty to begin with. If I was on trial, as some of you may think I already have been, I certainly wouldn't care about any personal information about the jurors, except their IQ score. Whether they were black or white, Catholic or Protestant, male or female, Oprah fans or no, I take that back, I would hate to be staring at the jury box and know they liked The Dark Large One, but whether they believed in Santa Claus or saw the Grinch as a better symbol of Christmas, the only thing I would want to know was their IQ. And since I am of above average intelligence, my peers would be as well. Your system, not mine.

In Tennessee yesterday, a man by the name of Paul House was released from Death Row, not the Suge Knight record label I mean the about to be electrocuted until the Big Light appears kind of Death Row, after the Supreme Court decided in a 5-3 decision that reasonable jurors would not convict House if they knew the results of the DNA tests that were revealed 12 years after his conviction. 12 years after the conviction the DNA evidence points to the husband of the deceased, but it still took 10 years for the Supreme Court to decide, by a wire thin majority, that 12 uninformed people made the wrong decision. 22 years on death row. That's a long time. How long you ask? Paul House has never seen the Simpsons! Something needs to be done. We either need to get a more effective trial system or a faster execution plan for our death row inmates.

Now, you can be pro death penalty or anti death penalty, it really doesn't matter to me. I, for one, will stand by the ideals of the old west. Some times, somethings are just too vial to let a person live. So if you asked me if I was on a jury panel if I was for the death penalty my answer would be "Do you smell Knockwurst, I love Knockwurst, my shirt is from Sears, I don't like mice. What was it you asked, oh yeah death penalty, I think it's a woman's right to choose." Then, of course, I would be excused from jury duty because I was obviously a nutjob, but in reality, I just didn't want to sit in a courtroom for months on end listening to what, in 22 years, may prove to be bad evidence. I'm too smart for that.

In this fine country of ours, a country that I love beyond a shadow of a doubt, I feel that many systems are in need of some repair. One of them is the judicial system. Health care, Social Security, Prisons, the two party system, the FBI, CIA, and a bunch of other organizations with initials need to be looked at. Today, I'm glad that Paul House is out of jail, he may be guilty as OJ Simpson, but there will be another trial, and hopefully that jury will be filled with people that were wrongfully sentenced to prison for 20+ years so that he can be tried by a jury of his peers.

Any jury stories?

Dixie Cup of Love: Juror #4

The Spandex Privilege

2008-07-02T05:26:00.000-07:00

"Have you heard Gene Loves Jezebel?" I said, "Ask me if I care, all I know is Joni Loves Chachi," then I hit him with my chair. So if your honey fancies hippies well here's all you need to know, stay clear of L.A.'s Guns & Roses, take her to a Vandals show" The Vandals from "Long Haired Queer"

It finally dawned on me what it is about the nurse that I find so sexy that my every thought of her features her naked flesh. It's something so primal, so basic, that I have looked right past the somehow obvious answer. She looks like the girls from the 80's hair band videos. Those demi-Goddess creatures in heavy make-up, lace, fishnet, and hair so huge that it took hours of prep time in order fro those dolls to walk out the front door. The Aqua Net bills alone certainly caused many a death metal dollie to leave the scene for good, opting for the flat hair and cargo shorts of the Lilith Faire set. But the nurse, she's all devil signs and Vans sneakers.

There was time tat I too walked around in the swish of parachute pants, with a handkerchief tied to both wrists, matching my Rising Sun Japanese flag sleeveless. I was a freshman, in a new school, running with the "bad" kids seemed live a helluva lot more fun that bangin around with Mods and New Wave kids. It wouldn't be until I changed schools yet again that I would meet Wes and be introduced to punk. But my metal years had some moments, not fashionable, but moments.

Mostly we smoked and listened to metal. The bands were, and still are awesome. Motley Cure was playing "Shout of the Devil", Ozzy was still the Blizzard of Oz and not a cartoon of himself, Iron Maiden had us learning and worshipping Alister Crowley and drawing pictures of Eddie Maiden. It was a great time for eyeliner, spikes, and slutty girls. It was a bad time for big men as the girls all wanted skinny long haired Poison look-a-likes. Though I was not of the "in" type there was a large group of us that kicked around in our apartment as SuperMom was working two jobs at the time. This left hours of unsupervised time for the gang to play Intellivision and smoke pot, pop pills, and try coke for the first time. We, my sister was part of this motley crew (hee hee), would throw raucous parties during school hours. One was even busted by the cops. Though their timing couldn't have been better, since they arrived 10 minutes into the school lunchtime. They did clear the apartment and make everyone go back to school, but they couldn't bust anyone for anything, no one was cutting at the time. It was a a riot.

It was the beginning of MTV and there was the Headbangers Ball. A two hour block set aside to let us watch the good stuff without the interference of Michael Jackson and A-Ha. Yeah, MTV used to play these things called music videos, wild I know, but true. We watched Headbangers Ball like it was the greatest advent since television itself. The videos, filled with busty, lingerie clad vixens armed the cockles of our burgeoning libidos. Some of those digital darlings we knew by name. Like Tawny Kitaen and Bobbi Brown, she of the Cherry Pie video, not he of the beating Whitney Houston. We adorned our walls with babies who were so banging hot that the wore spandex like a second skin. Not everyone should wear the material, it's a privilege, not a right.

It was strangely innocent times for all the drugs, rock-n-roll, and sexual innuendo. At least it was for me. I look back on the metal years as a phase, not my favorite, not my coolest, but one that rounded me out as a musical connoisseur. Without the freshman year I wouldn't appreciate the wondrous duel guitar of Iron Maiden, or the post Black Sabbath Ozzy who was known primarily for pissing on the Alamo and biting the head off a bat. Sure the music was dark, it was rife with Satanistic imagery, it was heavy. That was the point.

Have a phase that you look back on with some fashion regrets? Musical regrets?

Dixie Cup of Love: Tawny.

The Engagement Ring

2008-07-01T05:38:00.000-07:00

"Crawling down the alley on your hands and knee. I’m sure you’re not protected, for it’s plain to see. The Diamond Dogs are poachers and they hide behind trees, hunt you to the ground they will, mannequins with kill appeal." David Bowie from "Diamond Dogs"

The nurse had what I would imagine to be a drug and alcohol fueled weekend that had culminated with her walking in wearing an engagement ring. I almost felt bad for the poor sap, but after listening to her talk to one of the Mongoloid orderlies, I realized that she isn't positive if her betrothed's name is Matt or Mark. Ah, love. So rare, so passionate, such a whore. When and if I ever do find a woman who stands against my lofty criteria to be Mrs. Asylum then I shall drop to one knee, produce a ring, and ask her by name if she will be my bride.

On my last weekend in LA I was without a vehicle. A fate worse than death as the Missing Persons were right, Nobody Walks In LA. The Ford Explorer that I had paid $1400 for was no longer a viable mode of transport seeing as the transmission decided to take some time off, the estimated fix cost, $2000. Not a smart deal. The problem was that Bob Knows Best was playing in the regional finals of the BODOG music search down in San Diego, German for Whales Vagina, and I wasn't about to miss the show. So, I rented a sensible set of wheels, a Dodge Charger. Damn car was awesome and fit me like Anna Nicole Smith. All soft and curves and just enough attitude. Anyway, the night before the trip down the shore I decided to head down to Huntington Beach from my crib in Pasadena, home of the Rose Parade, yeah. The drive would take me by the old neighborhood, so I figured why not stop in and say a quick farewell to my youth. I drove by the familiar haunts: Don's, Wayne's, the high school, and my Grandparents house. It was there that fate intervened.

When my Grandfather passed away a lot of family weirdness came to the surface. One aspect being that my waste of a life Uncle had run up about $197,000 of debt in my Grandfathers name. The shit sack never had a chance to deal with it as SuperMom came in and financially karate chopped him. He walked away, literally, with $10,000 and my Grandmothers engagement ring/wedding band. That fact always bothered SuperMom. As she figured that as the asshole walked away she had seen the last of the ring. Life as a funny way of fixing some of its wrongs. as I drove through the neighborhood I noticed the next door neighbor, Chris, was outside. I pulled my cherry rental to a stop and his jaw dropped upon seeing me. He was so glad that I popped by, he had something to give me.

While enjoying a beer he produced my Grandmothers ring. I was shocked. Turned out my useless Uncle had pawned it and Chris, whose wife Karen grew up next to my Grandparents, couldn't stand the thought of the ring sitting in some pawn shop. So they claimed it. However, they had no idea where to send it, so it sat on Karen's dresser. By sheer coincidence, that I took that sentimental journey, that he was outside at the moment I drove by, well it was fate, that's all I can say about it.

It was like I was Frodo as I didn't tell a single family member that I had the ring as I made my way to the Slow. Upon arriving at my sisters house, which functioned as my own Mount Doom, I told SuperMom the tale of my journey. Of course she cried when I handed her the wedding ring of her mother which she never thought she would see again. and now, I have the sole right to propose with it when and if. Fate, it seems, wants me to find a wife. Someday.

Has fate ever intervened in your life so brilliantly?

Dixie Cup of Love: Chris and Karen

A Different Perspective

2008-06-30T03:43:00.000-07:00

"Cause in nothing there's something I feel and my heart takes it straight. Or it'll break down again. In your lips I sense a danger, you've got the eyes of a stranger" The Payolas from "Eyes of a Stranger"

When I entered his room, much like I do every other morning, I had a little paper cup filled with the medications that make him easier to be around. It's not that without them he is a monster or anything, though I'm sure he would love it if people thought he was. He's really just a very scared, very lonely guy who took the long road to maturity. I think you all know a little bit about him, but you're never heard my version.

Mike, or inmate 4815162342, checked into the Asylum in March, though it does feel like he as been here a lot longer. He came here because he had moved away from all of the friends that he loved so much, the reasons for the move were varied. He'll tell you that it was all a bout of bad timing and cheap housing, but it was also about getting away from his addictive behaviors that had him switching one vice for another. See, Mike, the guy loves his rum. He let it control and nearly destroy his life during his 20's. It was just a decade of meaningless nights with mostly unworthy women. That Captain was the only thing he really cared about after what I'm gonna go ahead and call "The Michelle Situation". Once that was over he stopped hoping, nearly stopped dreaming, but he never stopped drinking. All that intoxication, all those blackouts, well it stunned his ability to grow up. He was still a 19 year old child after 10 years of boozing, and at 29 it came crashing down on him, literally.

His second DUI occurred on July 1st, 1999. His blood alcohol level at the time was .24, that pretty God damned drunk. He blacked out behind the wheel of his Celica, and without the guard rail would have plummeted to his death on the highway 22 to 57 freeway interchange. It scared him, it woke him up, sort of.

He stayed sober as a saint for nearly 1 year, but then he found something better than rum, marijuana, which had been absent from his life since high school. This lifestyle claimed him for another seven years, before he started getting his shit together. He stayed off the pot for over a year before taking a hit at the Embassy. That started yet another bender that would take him up to his move. He needed to escape the place he loved. Needed to find out if he could really be a man. That's why he is so dedicated to HellJob, which believe me, is killing him. But he has to prove to himself that he can make the most of a bad situation. Make it without his safety net of friends around him. He's really trying. Yeah, he's surviving, but he's miserable a lot of the time too.

So, I heard that he started asking you all for advice. Sounds like he's about ready to really take a step in a new direction and I hope he does. I know he says some pretty mean things about my sex life and how I look, but I think he just sees me as a porno type girl. Fantasy that you would never catch meeting his SuperMom. Well, I'm glad I got to yell you a little about him. Hope to talk to you again.

The Nurse

Do you have any questions for the nurse?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Nurse is only allowed to give them to the inmates.

Art Teacher Needed

2008-06-29T05:33:00.000-07:00

"It feels so good, you lying here next to me. Oh, what a groove. You have no idea how it feels, my hands just won’t keep still. I love you, baby. I just wanna hold you, run my fingers through your hair. Ooh outta sight. Uh-huh, right there, you like it like that. Closer. Come here, closer, close. Oh, baby." Barry White from "I'm Qualified to Satisfy You"

As the nurse pulled her uniform up over her McNamara/Troy enhanced balloon kit, I felt the lust start to build in my core. She's a skank, dirty and possibly ridden with any number of easily communicable viruses, but there is something so splendidly sexy about her that I can't help thinking what it would be like to seduce her. With someone of her appetite and sex drive it wouldn't take too much wooing, a fifty dollar bill and a bottle of Snow Peak Peach flavored Boone's Farm ought to do the trick, but I just can't bring myself to part with the coin. Guess I still have a lot to learn when it comes to "the art of seduction".

It dawned on me that I may have been going about this bloggity blog challenge all the wrong way. Perhaps, I thinks, instead of feeding you little pellets of who I am, I should be tapping into your collective knowledge on how to be the man I aspire to be. After all, most of you have snagged a husband, even Marc(o) Porno conned Mrs. Porno into the nuptials. Maybe the thing I'm really after, is just a few pointed questions and improvements away. So let's get down to the nitty gritty, shall we?

We've already come to an accord and agree that a sense of humor and confidence are the two most attractive qualities that the male of the species can possess, besides of course, the seven figure bank account. I own funny like it's a Nikon, the confidence, well that's a work in progress. But I'm getting there. Which now leads us to "Finding the Other Half". How? Where? When? I'm haunted by these thoughts, more frightening than a Nicole Ritchie hot dog purge. The qualities I'm after in the future winner of the "Be Mrs. Asylum" competition are silliness, enough self esteem that I don't need to fix her, a good sense of self, and a brain. Sure a nice rack and a pretty face would help, but I don't think I'm asking the Wizard for too much. I hear this stuff all the time, how women hate men who don't want a commitment, Hello! Poster boy for "Not That Guy" right here! So if I'm not commitment phobic, I'm attractive (at least some of you seem to find me appealing), funny (check), motivated and ambitious (checkity check check) This should be a piece of bundt cake, right. So, I'm a 6lb river trout, a good catch. Now how do I bait the hook?

What do you women want to hear in the first five minutes of a conversation? Not looking for a magical line to get in your knickers, I mean, what will make you want to know more from the very start? How should I be presenting myself? Where does the line from confident to cocky get crossed? Is the bar the wrong atmosphere to be hunting? Come on ladies, you all love to change men, here's your chance to make it a team effort.

I'm a romantic, candle lit dinner, walk in the moon light kind of cowboy, but it's getting to that point where I seem to be failing like Jeff Conaway in rehab. I'm thrashing around under the waves of dubious debutante wannabees and depressing Dorothy's hoping that I can sweep them away from Kansas to Oz. I understand that as I near forty, there are less women in the "No big issues" aisle. The shelves are getting pretty barren. And I can except that some of the packaging may not be as pristine as it was, but so far, my search as eluded me. What am I not doing? What am I doing wrong?

What are the keys to a good seduction?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Future Mrs. Asylum

Fame Will Cost An Arm And A Leg

2008-06-28T04:19:00.000-07:00

"I am doll eyes, doll mouth. doll legs. I am doll arms, big veins, dog bait." Hole from "Doll Parts"

Sorry to make this so short folks but my brother is in town for the weekend and I don't have a lot of time for blogging. But something did cross my sight line that I thought you would all either get a kick out of or find so disturbing that it grossed you out.

It seems the BBC, Britain's number 1 television network, is launching a new show next week called "Britain's Missing Model." It's a reality show rip off of America's Top Model, the biggest difference being that the contestants on this show have disabilities, many are missing limbs. One is deaf.

So, okay, I get it. To the fashion world these women generally wouldn't exist and to give them a show and a spread in Marie Claire is an impassioned power play, but what type of sick fetish freaks are gonna watch this? I admit the idea of watch a one legged woman pogo stick down a runway in the latest European togs is appealing to my sense of sadistic humor, but I've got a conscience and I don't think I could live with myself knowing I was enjoying something so evil.

It's not that I don't think that gals with disabilities can't be attractive, of course they can. :It's the show in general that I have a problem with.

What do you think?

Dixie Cup of Love: Marlee Matlin, Deaf and Hot.

Liza and Other Scary Things

2008-06-27T05:43:00.000-07:00

"Evil woman how you done me wrong, but now you're tryin' to wail a different song, Ha Ha funny how you broke me up, you made the wine now you drink the cup." Electric Light Orchestra from "Evil Woman"

There was a wicked grin pasted across the nurses overly made up face as she came in with my Dixie cup of morning medication. As I was again tethered down after a night in which I tried to escape through a doggie door that lead to the head of John Malkovich, she teased me with the pills. Dangling them over my waiting mouth. Cruel temptress whore. She reminded me of all those evil women of the cinema. Though one particular nurse of film comes to mind instantly, I found others far more frightening.

When I speak of scary women on film I'm not talking about how the size of Mary Tyler Moore's head freaks me out or how some of the implants that certain porn stars have look more like soccer balls than boobies. What I'm referring to is those femme fatales that made my testicles seek sanctuary deep inside the cavity of my body.

Obviously there was Glenn Close in "Fatal Attraction". I like to think that I am loyal in a relationship because I have integrity and a sense of decency, but the fear of a woman making rabbit stew without skinning said Bugs before cooking terrifies me. Sure, hot steamy sex with an aggressive woman in an elevator sounds like a party hat of an interesting fit, but being stalked by a psycho, though flattering at first, is scarier than Peter Fonda without drugs.

In "Misery" she turned Sonny Corleone in to her bed bitch. I didn't think I would ever be more afraid of Kathy Bates, but then I got a look at her nude scene in "About Schmidt" and that was more cringe inducing than anything Linda Blair ever did in the Exorcist. Some things should be left to the imagination, and if you are imagining Kathy Bates naked, shame on you. That's just wrong.

And I'll probably take some heat for this one, but the Wicked Witch of the West and her array of flying monkeys were chilling to the bone. Granted I was just a body-hairless child at the time I first watched Dorothy open that black and white door to the Technicolor of Munchkinland, but the effect of "I'll get you my pretty, and your little dog too." that was enough to make me crap my Toughskins. Eventually I grew out of fearing the Witch and turned my psychosis to Judy Garland's offspring, cause Liza is fucking scary.

The reason that I hang my vast array of retro bowling shirts, yeah that's how I roll, the reason they swing on plastic hangers is Faye Dunaway. Well, Faye Dunaway and the fact that they were 30 for $3 at the swap meet. But that movie, that character, that's creepy. Mommie Dearest. The flick could give Stephen King night terrors. If SuperMom suddenly had all her circuit breakers flip to crazy like Mommie Dearest, I'd cut her power cable before putting up with a wire hanger beating. Of that you can be sure.

My final example of heebie-jeebie causers is the character that Juliette Lewis brought to life in the Quentin Tarantino scripted epic, Natural Born Killers. Mallory Knox is perhaps the most terrifying woman that has ever been captured on celluloid. She goes from sexy to psycho faster than a drag racer on meth. Generally I find that to be right in my wheel house, I mean who doesn't love a crazy girl? But when the end result could be my head on a pike, I pass on the crazy.

What characters scared you? Who is the wickedest femme fatale of all?

Dixie Cup of Love: Robin, who kind of scares me.

New Classics

2008-06-26T06:23:00.000-07:00

"People you hate will get their hooks into you, they'll pull you down. You'll frown. They'll tar you and drag you through town, but you still don't like to leave before the end of the movie. No you still don't like to leave before the end of the show" Cake from "End of the Movie"

The nurse, bless her crusted heart, thought that I would enjoy an issue of a fish wrap that listed what they thought were the top 100 new Classic Movies. Ok, first of all, the nurse should know better than to antagonize the patients. You don't hand a suicidal man a loaded gun. How did she think I was gonna react to seeing The Talented Mr. Ripley on the list? Was this magazine trying to have a certain someone walk into it's headquarters, armed like a bunch of outcasts at Columbine and start unloading on the insipid so called writers that they employ? Why else would you make this list public? Damn nurse, how dare she.

Of the 100 films that Entertainment Weekly, perhaps the lamest magazine since O, there are many that I wouldn't put in my "New Classics", a horrible idea to begin with, but I digress. I narrowed it down to 11 films that I wanted badly to replace. Those being: Hannah and Her Sisters (Not even the best Woody Allen movie), Crumb (a documentary that wasn't half of March of the Penguins), Casino Royale (Oh please), A Room With a View (Yeah, um, Hitchcock may have done with one better), The Bourne Supremacy (Wasn't nearly as tight as the book), Speed (Keanu, enough said), The Truman Show (Classic Really?), The Lives of Others ( No, just no), Michael Clayton (not even the best movie from last year and it's a so called classic, loading bullets), In The Mood For Love (When you see the films that I will replace these with you will understand why this one gets shit canned), and of course The Talented Mr. Ripley (lousy film, period). Okay, so I could have waxed more off their list, but I decided that I would just replace these 11.

The first film that I nominate is "Clerks". Not the best Kevin Smith film, but it was innovative, it was ground breaking, and yeah, it's a qualified classic. If I was just sucking up to my hero I would have thrown Chasing Amy on the board, but I think Clerks is more justified.

The Ususal Suspects. Omitted from the list. How? That was a slap in the Singer face. It stood out like a white guy at the million man march. The tale of Keyser Soze is so masterfully spun that it should not just be on this silly list, it should be in the top 10. It should have been a no brainer, which is exactly what I believe the EW staff to be, no brainers.

Trainspotting. Again, How? I will agree that some of my choices are just that, my choices, but there are some movies that you just shouldn't leave off a list. I mean they decided that Speed was a classic, but Trainspotting wasn't? Ridiculous. If I want something to wipe my ass with I will buy Charmin not Entertainment Weekly.

So those were my big three. I couldn't believe they weren't on there. A few more of my choices to replace the 11 that I in no way, shape or form think belong in the New Classic category are El Mariachi - The Robert Rodridguez film that started him on a path to greatness. Almost Famous - They elected Jerry Macquire from the Cameron Crowe album, I would have chosen the William Miller story and it's spot on sentimentality. High Fidelity - The wasn't a John Cusack movie on the list. How does that happen? The Ice Storm was my close second pick for him, but I really liked High Fidelity, so it was a personal choice. Lethal Weapon - Only the greatest buddy movie in the history of cinema. Yeah, why call it a classic when there is The Bourne Supermacy to suckle on? Good Will Hunting - See, I don't really hate Matt Damon. This movie is so much better than half the movies on EW's list. I hate seeing it left off. Batman - Tim Burton's Bat was the kick start. It was awesome, it proved that comic book movies could be a little dark and people would still line up. Certainly worthy of Classic acclaim.

The last open spot on the list I leave up to you. What movie would you add to the list? I know you don't have the list in front of you, I just want to know if your choices would be on the list?

Dixie Cup of Love: Every magazine with the exception of Entertainment Weekly and O

You Get What You Pay For

2008-06-24T05:36:00.000-07:00

"Half my life's in books' written pages, live and learn from fools and from sages. You know it's true. All the things come back to you" Aerosmith from "Dream On"

the nurse had the nerve to ask me if I watched "America's Top Model". Is she serious? Do I strike you as the type of guy who would waste my precious ticks of the clock watching a bunch of broads who consider a Tic Tac a meal as they plod, bones clanking, along a runway in what some designer asshole calls fashion? I think not. When it comes to a night of the tube I've got some pretty lofty standards. I want my Dixie cup filled, I want my binding straps loosened, and I want my television to provoke more thoughts than "Jeebus, I want to slay all those skinny nit wits."

There was once a little show called "Dream On". HBO produced a half hour comedy series that featured real people, speaking real profanity, and having sex with women with real fake boobs. It may not have been the greatest show since the Honeymooners, but it proved that pay channels could produce original programming at a level that the major networks couldn't touch.

The progression has got out of hand. While network television consistently offers up more reality shows and CSI spin offs, it's on the pay channels that the real entertainment is coming from. And have been coming from for some time.

My love for the Sopranos, even after the unfulfilling finale, is the paradigm of what all programs are measured against. Never before had I found a show more entertaining, more solidly written than the tale of the New Jersey mob boss and his crew. It was something that captured my attention through incredibly long season breaks, I mean year and a half, that's a while to wait for a new episode of anything, but for Tony and the fellas I waited, and celebrated their return. And with that program it seemed HBO went on a rampage.

The next great show that I watched like a crack addict was Deadwood. Here was another great example of the HBO formula. Cast a bunch of relatively unknown actors who have some major talent, give them scripts that featured some of the most sharp dialogue that was written, and toss in a bit of violence and some sex. Listening to Al Swearingen break down his troubles while getting felated shocked and mesmerized me. This show was too good to last and found it's end after a very short run.

Then I got transported to Rome for the story of soldiers, Marc Antony, and of course Cleopatra. This show was another step in the right direction. High production levels, beautiful sets, amazing performances, and my Atia. Polly Walker, Goddess. It had just the right blend of villainy and heroism.

Entourage tapped into a different side of my brain. The Hollywood lust that I have. No, I've never wanted to be an actor. But a writer and director have always been on my wish list. This show caught me from the first episode and though it sometimes get knocked for the sitcom formula where everything seems to work out for the guys in a half hour, I kept coming back. All lot of that had to do with Jeremy Piven in the greatest role of his career since PCU. Ari the Agent.

Now lately, I'm becoming a fan of some Showtime fare. Weeds is the most intriguing show I have seen and I eat it like candy. Californication is wickedly well written. The humor and pace of the speech on that show will make me a fan until it's dying day.

I can't wait to see what the next great show is gonna be.

I would be remiss if I didn't mention FX. Though not a pay channel, shows like The Shield, Rescue Me, The Riches, and Nip/Tuck are all amazing. So, they are moving in the right direction. Well done cable channel. Well done.

Do you watch any pay channel series? FX? What would you like to see?

Dixie Cup of Love: The best $14 I spend a month.

Kid's Gotta Be a Kid

2008-06-23T05:25:00.000-07:00

"Set down your Nintendo joysticks right now! Unplug the television and make way for an old vision, Which will now be a new vision. Yes, Headliner, lay the foundation, dig your hands in the dirt, that's right children play with earth. That's right" Arrested Development from "Children Play With Earth"

The nurse laughed like a child on Christmas morning as she entered my room to sedate me into a coma-like existence. Normally I would see her giddiness as a sign of relieved sexual tension, but in this case I could somehow sense that it had nothing to do with her loins. No this joy was brought on by sheer child like glee. She had been playing. The fact that she looked so happy brought to mind an idea of mine, time to share it with the world.

Kid Week. This could be something amazing. But for it to be, I need your help spreading the word. It kicks off on Saturday March 14th, 2009 and ends on Friday March 20th, 2009. The whole point is to reconnect with the child that you gave up on, that being you.

For one week you should play everyday. Play hide and seek, play tag, use your imagination, but for the sake of your own sanity, play. A board game, a video game, chess, cribbage, whatever it is that makes you happy do it. Make a new friend. When's the last time any of us made a new friend? We meet people at the office or through the PTA but how many friends do you really have? Friends you call just to shoot the breeze or talk about a movie? During Kid Week you can play with anyone you want, so make it someone new.

Yes, we all have responsibilities that make this a difficult task. That's sad isn't it? Playing should be something to look forward to. Remembering being a kid, not being able to play was hell. Now look at yourself. Are you still so excited about having fun that you can't sleep in anticipation? What I don't want you to think about during Kid Week is the tedium of your day to day life. I want you to concentrate on what happens after work. What's it gonna be that you won't be able to wait to do?

For my part, I'm gonna design some banners to promote the event. It doesn't cost anything to participate, just a willingness to be childish and silly. And I'm gonna have a prom. That's right. Now, I'm thinking Vegas, but I'm not totally committed to the it. But I will find us a place to dance, to mingle, to drink, and to have one hell of a night of memories. The perfect end to Kid Week and the end of the Asylum Blog Project.

Details will be forthcoming. Plans need to be made, a committee needs to be formed. All in good time. If you would like to be involved in the planning efforts, let me know, via mail.

What other things can we encourage people to do during Kid Week? Will you fly the banners and promote the week? Do you think this is ridiculous?

Dixie Cup of Love: Celibetty for inspiring me to come up with Kid Week.

Playtime for the Mind

2008-06-22T06:46:00.000-07:00

"All my life I've always wondered, what it would be like to fire off a bazooka. All my life I've always wondered, what it would be like to fire off a ballistic missile." Dead Milkmen from "Shiny Colored Plastic War Toys"

Apparently there was a special at the plastic surgery clinic cause the nurse came in bandaged up[ like a 15 round prize fighter on Sunday morning. Her nose, eyes, lips, stomach and arms had all gotten work. I heard her tell one of the steroid engorged orderlies that someone in Hollywood had decided to make a live action Barbie movie and she was not set to audition for the part. My jaw was slack both by her willingness to cut herself up to look like a toy and that some producer thought a Barbie movie was a great idea. Seeing her got me thinking about the toys I had as a kid.

Back in the days before X-box, okay before Atari, when I was a kid we had to use imagination to play. I think it was the seed to my being a writer. With a couple of dozen Hot Wheels cars and a large section of floor I would be entertained for hours. Intoxicatingly happy creating elaborate scenarios for jumping, crashes, and all that boy stuff.

But my imagination soared to new plateaus when I got a few action figures. All about twelve inches tall, and modeled after the heroes of the day. G.I. Joe with Kung Fu Grip was and still is a favorite, the Steve Austin Six Million Dollar Man with the bionic eye was astonishing, then there was Ken, well someone had to get their ass kicked by Joe and Steve, and my sisters Ken doll was a perfect subject of their torture.

We played games as a family, these cardboard phenomenons called "Board Games", Judi Sunshine knows what I'm talking about. Clue, Monopoly, Life, the memory let's me down a bit, but I'm sure you all can remind me of some of your favorites. No matter what the game was it was a family activity that SuperMom, my brother, my sister, and I always seemed to enjoy, even when it was sometimes forced upon us by a failed electrical bill payment. Hey it takes a good board game to make the tough times enjoyable.

The biggest travesty in the toy world has to do with outside toys. Lawn darts were awesome. The danger factor only added to the excitement of the game. In my day that was good times. So was a Frisbee. A nice heavy piece of plastic flung at you by a playmate, not necessarily a Playboy playmate but how spectacular would that be? As the disc of density flew at your person it was stylistic to attempt a wide array of catching techniques. Some would end only with your head being the immovable force. Danger = excitement.

Now I love my X-box. It's a fantastic source of amusement for me, but it doesn't do much to stimulate my imagination, and that's a shame. Should I ever have a litter of kids I'm getting them BB guns, lawn darts, and Monopoly, just have to make sure to pay the insurance premiums.

What was your favorite childhood toy?

Dixie Cup of Love: Whamm-O!

McFucked

2008-06-21T04:21:00.000-07:00

"Oh, folks but lately I have been spotted with a Big Mac on my breath. Stumbling into a Colonel Sanders with a face as white as death. I'm afraid someday they'll find me just stretched out on my bed with a handful of Pringles potato chips and a Ding Dong by my head" Larry Groce from "Junk Food Junkie"

The nurse was late with my dose of happy fun time pills and the worry must have been all over my reality facing mug when she entered. She smirked, taking a bite of her breakfast burrito, the cause of her tardiness. Of course she is allowed to feed, I just always assumed that she did so like all the other Nosferatu, draining the hemoglobin strait from her preys carotid artery with her fangs. But seeing her chomp on a tortilla surrounding eggs, bacon, and enough sausage to make a porn star nervous, I realized that even though the sun light would turn her to dust, the nurse liked to eat fast food like the rest of us. Though, I'd venture to guess that she mostly haunts the 24 hour variety, as they would be open in the pre-dawn hours.

We all know that eating fast food is the equivalent of pouring fat directly into our veins, consequences be damned. We do it because it's convenient, the single thing that makes America American. Waiting isn't our strong suit, hell it's not even that suit that we keep in the very back of the closet, you know, the baby blue job with the lapels wider than Tennessee. Speed is not only our drug of choice, but our lifestyle of choice. Think about it. Have you ever been sitting in line at the drive thru of your local McSatan's and cursed the minimum wage earning, grease covered, teenagers and convicted felons that jockey the headset and fryer? Ever time how long it takes for that obscenity laced diatribe to start? I bet it's about 3 minutes. 5 tops. If the Big Mac Attack isn't squelched in a time frame that should make us question how long that cholesterol burger has been sitting under the heat lamp, we freak out.

So, with our need for speed taking precedence over our need to be healthy, why aren't there any fast food establishments that offer healthy grub on the go? Wouldn't you eat at a place that could service you with a good for you menu if it could be delivered at the speed of Burger Hut? No, probably not. Because it doesn't taste as good as a cardboard box of canola oil soaked potatoes. But if the option existed and the food didn't taste like dirt or tofu, you'd probably try to hit it once, maybe twice a week. Wouldn't you?

That's my challenge to America. Stop with the news stories and documentaries about what a bunch of fatties we all are. Start offering us an option. Face the fact that we live in our cars, we eat on the run, and time is the most precious resource we have, except for cheap gas. Show us that you care enough about your citizens to offer these establishments tax breaks. Offer grants to open these types of businesses. Prove that you don't want us to die choking on our own weak will. And you restaurateurs out there, make the chow edible, make it tasty, that's how you get us hooked. Crack is awesome at retaining customers, why shouldn't your new wholesome drive thru?

Would you eat at a health food drive thru? Is this the greatest idea since sliced tofu? Isn't tofu disgusting?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Slender Being inside All of Us.

75 Cents From A Dollar

2008-06-20T05:43:00.000-07:00

"Go 'way from my window, leave at your own chosen speed. I'm not the one you want, babe, I'm not the one you need. You say you're lookin' for someone never weak but always strong, to protect you an' defend you whether you are right or wrong." Bob Dylan from "It Ain't Me Babe"

The psychiatrist at the Asylum had the nurse and I in for a little couples therapy session. I tried to explain to the mentalist that she was just a made up fantasy and that having her in on my therapy would, in fact, probably do more harm than good. But Dr. Quack saw it a little differently. He thought that maybe I wasn't being honest enough, wasn't looking deep enough, wasn't letting go enough, and the nurse was my restricter plate. Having her in on the appointment might allow me to see things for what they really are. He held a mirror up in front of the nurse and asked me what I saw. And in her reflection, I saw the nurse as I never had before, and she saw me as something more than just an inmate. This realization got me thinking.

How do you see me?

Interesting question. Hard to answer in an honest way if you have negatives to say, hard because you don't want to hurt the feelings of the recipient. Even harder to answer when the person you are talking about is yourself.

I've been more honest in these blogs than I imagined I would be. The words flow from my fingertips like bullets of truth, piercing my armor, letting my emotional blood pour across the cyber world. Why? At first I thought it was a great way to allow people to see my talent, to garner fan support and adulation, but as the first quarter of the year closes, that's right one fourth of this project is now in the rear view mirror, I realize that I am addicted to you all. A comment junkie who needs his fix and writes in order to procure just that. And it turns out the more I reveal of my inner workings, the more you respond.

Along the way I have lost some people, those whose blogs I no longer have the time to comment on, and I can't blame them for stepping away. When I was pre-HellJob I had time to sit in front of the monitor and read blogs all day, as a matter of fact, it got me through that time with what little sanity I had still intact. But lately I have been slack in my efforts to read the writings of my fellow bloggers. I apologize to those that I have offended with my busy schedule. It's not intentional, if I had the time, I would like nothing better than to pour through your magnificent words all day. Sadly, I can't.

For those of you that have stayed with me for the first season, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Your insights are sometimes just the thing I need to see whatever issue I've decided to ramble about from a different angle. Some of you I have gotten to know a little bit, some I only know by your comments, but you're all important to me and I miss you when you're not around. Some of you have mystified me, some have inspired me, some have shown me things that I would never have seen, and some have occasionally pissed me off. That's proved to be the point that I didn't know existed. When I was tired, and thought of giving up, a few of you stood strong in your opinion that I continue to try and see this thing through to conclusion. Thanks. Without that, I would have quit, but as out of material as I am, I'm gonna find a way to fight on.

We're gonna have a prom on Mar 20th of 2009. I don't know where yet, I don't know how, but I think it's gotta happen. The greatest gift that has come from the Asylum is how you all support each other. I don't feel like the center of the universe, but I brought a lot of you together and I think that's amazing. And I have to meet you all. So, start saving your pennies.

So, after 92 blogs, how do you see the Asylum?

Dixie Cup of Love: Spring 2008.

Named After Waldo the Bus Driver

2008-06-19T05:34:00.000-07:00

"Alabama, you got the weight on your shoulders, that's breaking your back. Your Cadillac has got a wheel in the ditch and a wheel on the track." Neil Young from "Alabama"

I was movie night in the Asylum and the nurse begged as if my pockets were lined with snausages for a romantic movie. If there is one thing that a strapped down inmate hates more than shock treatment, it's the silly notion that romantic comedies give the ladies. But alas, I wanted to make the nurse happy in order to ensure one helluva Dixie cup, so I suggested we watch a truly romantic film. One that features wonderful characters in the throws of a romance much bigger than themselves, and who better to pen such an opus than Quentin Tarantino. Scribe of two of the greatest love stories ever told. No, not Titanic or When Harry Met Sally, I'm speaking of Natural Born Killers and more to the point, True Romance.

If you have never peeked this high octane love story you are missing out on one of the most underrated films in the last 15 years. To make my point I will start with the cast. Christian Slater who I have always had a good time with since I viewed Heathers for the time time. Patricia Arquette with a body so smoking hot you'll never believe it's the chick from Medium. Dennis Hopper and Christopher Walken share the screen for one of the single greatest scenes in cinema, better I think than DeNiro and Pacino in Heat. Val Kilmer as Elvis Presley, no more need be said. Gary Oldman was the blackest white dude since Al Jolson. Brad Pitt as a complete pot head stone named Floyd. And a couple of lovable lugs named Tom Sizemore, Chris Penn, and a brief appearance by Samuel L. Jackson. That, ladies and germs, is one of, if not thee, greatest casts ever assembled. I will give credit for what Emilio Estevez did with Bobby, but when your old man is Martin Sheen, things must be a little easier to pull off.

The tale of Clarence and Alabama covers everything from Kung Fu movies and comic books to man on woman violence between Arquette and an anorexic looking James Gandolfini, oh yeah, Tony Soprano is in this behemoth too. The dialogue is at times razor sharp, cutting at you with words so shocking you think you're watching a very racist film, never more so than in the afore mentioned Hooper/Walken scene. The hooks get in you early and you really do care about Clarence and Alabama, as twisted as their love may seem, it feels impassionately real.

But what truly sets this romance apart form other love stories is the connection our two lover birds share and how they win over nearly everyone in their path. A journey that takes them to Los Angeles from Detroit all in an effort to sell Dr. Zhivago. along the way the innocence and purity of Alabama captures your heart. Clarence has this cool demeanor that almost feels too empowering for a guy who works in a comic book shop, but his love for Alabama changes him, motivates him, because to her he is three simple words: "You're So Cool".

I don't know why I have been thinking so much about this film lately, but watching it inspired me to share it with those of you who haven't seen it and to remind those of you that have what a fantastic piece of cinema this is. You need to watch it again or for the first time, really, you do.

See it? Thoughts? Based on my review do you want to see it?

Dixie Cup of Love: Quentin and Tony Scott.

Bad Johnny

2008-06-18T05:15:00.000-07:00

I gave the nurse today off, because this pissed me off so much that I had no way to tie her into it. So...

HellJob has moments when I can't believe the people that we service. The rent to own business is essentially a business in which you only deal with the poorest dead beats in society. If you, a normal consumer, want a 50" plasma television you save your change or you go into credit coma like a civilized American. In my line, if they are on Government assistance, have a couple of convictions for spousal abuse, or are just degenerates in general, we will get them that big screen in a matter of hours. And a week later, when they miss their first payment, we will repossess said idiot box and rent it to their cracked out neighbor. You get used to the lowest common denominator. However...

As I took a moment between trips from one bad neighborhood to the next, a gentleman, a term that will soon fail to fit this scumbag, walks in with his rented Dell computer tower under arm. My boss knows that I'm okay with computers, I mean, I pirate, and I pirate well. So, when a computer comes in with a complaint of slow workings, I generally have a grasp of how to speed the machine back up.

Well, Johnny Asshole's computer is on the verge of serious viral shutdown. I mean, this computer had AIDS. It was on meds and dying. So, my boss hands Johnny a suitable replacement model and off he goes. I start working on the hard drive, seeing if I can be the first to cure the incurable.

My first step is to isolate the virus. I know from the icons on the desktop, LimeWire, Azureus, Morpheus that this guy has probably been downloading a Library of Congress sized amount of porn. I check out his Incomplete folder first, just a bit of advice kids, empty the Incomplete Download folder from time to time, it's a trail and it's full of usable memory. Anyway, the flag goes off when I see the first file name in the folder. "Daddy Teaches Daughter a Lesson in Fisting". At this point I am really hoping that the poor girl that is getting this highly painful lesson is of legal voting age. The second file assures me that she isn't. "10 year Old Rape". You have to be kidding me?

Johnny Asshole brings in a dead computer full like a coffee cup to the rim with child, incest, and bestiality porn. I couldn't believe my peepers. I've mentioned that I, like most red blooded American men, have some porn. Not ashamed of it, don't hide it in a drawer, it's all above the board, some fetish stuff but that's for my own "special time". And nothing that is so scandalous that you would be mouth agape if you saw it. But this sick shit, I mean, I saw some things on that hard drive that I can't unsee, you know? My boss laughed and thought it was a funny, that was until I called the cops. Yeah, that's right. I ain't the kind of guy that let's some sick-o pervert get his rock off at the expense of girls that don't know that what Daddy is doing is so God damned wrong.

The cops show up and take one look at the sheer volume of crap that this waste of life has on 'our' machine that they can barely look at it. One says, "Are you sure he downloaded it?". And I'm thinking, no, asshole, we pre-load the computer full of elementary school seduction videos. I show him the time signature on the properties, it tells you when the file was downloaded, definitely during Johnny's rental agreement. That seemed like all they needed. They took his name, address, and the computer and said they would contact the feds as this type of disgusting fetish falls to the Government to control.

I hope they lock that vile son of a bitch up for a long time in a prison where he is looked at like he ogled those young girls on his computer. If I find out what prison he gets sent to, I will visit every inmate in there so that word gets around that Johnny likes to watch kids. Bastard.

Tomorrow the song lyrics and Dixie Cups return.

Gabba Gabba Hey

2008-06-17T05:45:00.000-07:00

"I sit and stare into the grin of Skinny the Foo. I just wanna have something to do! Life goes on, I'm still an angry punker with a view, but an icon is now gone, and he's left me here with you." Anderson Silva from "Joey Ramone is Dead"

The nurse has taste like Nancy Reagan, a strict "Just Say No" policy to anything that isn't Grade-A certified smash by the collective masses. she may be all falke boobs and tattoos but if you spin through her Ipod you'll find enough Mariah Carey and Pink to choke the world to death on bubble gum. She would never had appreciated my musical voyage, hell she wouldn't understand the beauty, the brilliance, the ballistics that were The Ramones.

I quote Joe Strummer, founder of one of the greatest bands in the history of music, The Clash. He said "If that Ramones record hadn't of existed, I don't know that we could have built a scene here because it fulfilled a vital gap between the death of the old pub rocking scene and the advent of Punk." That's a statement. Saying that a little band of misfits and uncool kids from Queens helped establish Englands punk rock scene.

For me, punk rock, and I'm talking real not for commercial distrubution, punk rock was an essential part of my high school experience. Wes, thank Jeebus for Wes, opened my ears to the likes of D.I., the Dils, Rhino 39, Sham 69, The Adolescents, the Sex Pistols, and of course the Ramones. We would sit in his room, drum set nearby, and listen to records, yes records in the 80's, as we made mix tapes that I would play until they stretched so bad that Joey Ramone started to sound like Pat Boone. If it wasn't for Wes and those sessions I never would have been able to appreciate all the different types of music that I now do, but the Ramones were special.

I remember driving with Don to the Rock Shop on Hollywood Blvd for the express purpose of buying The Ramones. The debut album. Now granted this was like 1986 and punk rock had long been gagging on the vomit it had spawned, but there were few albums I absolutely remember buying. It may have been after the game was over but we found something amazing. We popped the cassette into the deck of the Mazda trucks tape deck and listened to it twice on the way back to Don's house. It brought us together. It was angry and raw. Our Reagan-era upbringing was in need of a swift kick to the BMW. Finding punk help[ed us to stand against the yuppie epidemic that was all around us.

I think there are maybe 5 albums that changed the musical landscape. Elvis Preseley's Sun Sessions, the Beach Boys Pet Sounds, the Beatles Sgt. Peppers Lonely Hearts Club Band, Nevermind from Nirvana, and the Ramones. The only other two albums I would even think about including are Thriller and, this will make someone out there very happy, Guns N' Roses "Appettite for Destruction". None of which could or would exist without the others, except Thriller, because it's not a rock-n-roll record. Important in the history of music, sure, but not in the same genre and leauge as the others mentioned. Each of those records has been a part of my life, none of them played as important a role as The Ramones. It is still worthy of my love and devotion, even if I look like an aging hipster driving my huge SUV while listening to "I Wanna Sniff Some Glue". When I see a 14 year old kid walking down the street in a Ramones T-shirt, I feel bad for the kid. He thinks he knows, but he doesn't really know, you know?

The Ramones wrote some great mix tape making love songs to go along with the slam and pogo standards. For me, that's whay makes them fascinating, 30 years later, yeah, I'm feeling old, but my ears are still young. I wouldn't want to have grown up without the countdown in my head. 1,2,3,4. The Ramones made those numbers seem like the start to everything, the beginning of the story, the birth of a genre, the emergence of my adulthood, all with three chords, a leather jacket, and the right attitude.

Did punk rock effect your life? The Ramones?

Dixie Cup of Love: Joey, Johnny, Tommy, and Dee Dee.

Sin At The Street

2008-06-16T03:49:00.000-07:00

"Back in school, we used to dream about this everyday. Could it really happen, or do dreams just fade away, Now everybody is singin' now, it's in this town, woo ooh, So we started a group and here we are kickin' it just for you" Boys II Men from "Motown Philly"

My tolerance level to my meds has become a huge topic of discussion here in the Asylum. No inmate has ever shown such a high resistance when it comes to substances that alter the brain waves. Luckily for me that means my Dixie Cup overfloweth. As the concentration of good stuff gets higher, the effect is less wondrous. This lull in my liveliness was a source of glee for the nurse, as it's usually her misery that feeds my giddiness.. With the shoe on the other foot I find myself thinking of another time that my tolerance level started to impact my life.

Before there was a certain married red head to occupy my time I was just turned 21 and employed in a low paying job. I needed wild adult nightlife at bargain basement prices. A high school friend that I was working with at the time had a second job s a DJ at a bar called Basin Street. He informed me that Thur day night was $1 drink night. YATZEE! That's what the future alcoholic in me needed, good drunks for under twenty smackers. I had to check it out.

All I can say about the place was it was dark enough to hide many a flaw and bright enough that you had to use you hands to walk. It was dark, that's all I'm saying. So with the advantage of bad lighting and cocktails cheap enough to make Scrooge happy, I was set to move to the rhythm of the night. The problem with my timing was that the music of 1991 was, well, crap seems like too nice a word for it. This was a hideous time when the clubs were ruled by Gonna Make You Sweat and Things That Make You Go Hmm, from the never to be immortalized in the Rock-n-Roll Hall of Fame, shit sandwich that was C&C Music Factory. If that wasn't bad enough you could add a pair of hits for Color Me Badd, the second D was for "depression" One year later Nirvana would change the way we all thought and dressed, but 91 may very well have been the worst year for music in the history of strung instruments. Oh, did I forget to mention Jesus Jones and Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch, feel it, feel it. Thank God for the dollar refreshments. Without them, unbearable.

Bad music aside, Basin Street was full to the rim with girls every Thursday. A happy hunting ground if there ever was one. So I endured the cheese that my pal spun. After just a few weeks I was a regular, with tabs running near 30 bucks a night, that's drinking. Hated the music, but the booze being cheap made up for a lot, and Jamie made up for the rest. Jamie had as ass like an onion, it would bring a tear to your eye. I had never seen a backside that made me lustful before Jamie, and I didn't see another until Corporate Monkey posted that new default picture of hers. Both those cans are world class. Jamie's backyard was a sight to behold and even more lovely when grinding on me on the dance floor. Cause yeah, enough $1 Heinekens and I start thinking I'm Deney Terrio, Dance Fever Madman.

We did end up in a game of naked twister one night after a party at my house, splendid party, but for some reason we never hooked up again. We danced, we smooched in the parking lot, but we just never got around to being a couple, just wasn't in the cards for us. Too bad. But still pretty memorable.

Did you have a bar at 21? Did you hate that music? Did you have a Jamie?

Dixie Cup of Love: Jamie and Corporate Monkey for opening my eyes to something else.

All About Ashley

2008-06-15T06:15:00.000-07:00

"She said, she said' you don't know shit, because you've never been there. She turned upon him, took him by the hair. Spun him round about, laughing as he fell about, sat down for a drinkin her father's favourite chair." Ned's Atomic Dustbin from "Kill Your Television"

Every year about this time the Asylum holds a talent competition for the entire staff. In years past the winner, four years running, has been Doris the Cafeteria lady. Her vast array of useless talents has had everyone gunning for her like she was Jessie James. This year the nurse was dead set on being Doris' personal Pat Garrett. A bullet in the back would not have surprised me, but hearing that the nurse intended to do sketch comedy, that was more shocking than the end of The Usual Suspects. I didn't know the nurse had it in her, comedy I mean, you dirty filthy minded adolescents.

I'm a decent enough writer, not too shabby as a director either, though I still have much to learn on that skill set. Acting, however, well I've never been one to think of myself as the next DiCaprio. But for two different seasons of KYTV my skills, such as they are, were on display in a limited way every Friday night.

While doing work with the Insurgo Theater Movement in Orange County I got roped into being the tech guy fro my pal Russ' brain child. A talk show. A live in the theater talk show. It had the familiar markings, a monologue, the bit, a guest or two, then a musical act. It was insanely popular. I'm sure Russ takes most of the credit when he discusses the show, and he rightfully deserves it, but the two people that came out of it with fan clubs were Darcy and I.

We played characters, though our names were our own. Darcy was the stage manager and neighborhood man hole. I don't know how that came about, maybe it just evolved into that, who knows. As for me, well, I was the tech guy portrayed as a constantly stoned and enamored with Ashley Olsen kind of fellow. I even wore a "Fuck Mary Kate" shirt. And there is a song. You can here it right here: It's All About Ashley.

We had more fun than should be allowed in theater. And our fans were rabid and loyal. Every Friday night, no matter what show was on stage during primetime, the KYTV supporters would arrive, sometimes drunk, sometimes stoned, sometimes somewhere in between. No matter what the audiences state of coherency was Russ, John, Darcy and I always tried to entertain them as only we could. We even managed to squeeze in a few reoccurring characters like the Russian UPS guy, Jombi from Pee Wee's Playhouse, and Uncle Beer who would not only teach us to make booze, but offered up samples to the crowd.

The musical guests were often times more entertaining than the show itself. Mike Barnett, Jessica Dobson, and the world famous Hokie Brothers, who later became a little band that I might have mentioned from time to time, Bob Knows Best.

My favorite episodes were The One Twinkie To Rule Them All, a Lord of the Rings spoof and our lost 70's Episode. It was a grand time to be a theater geek.

Ever done any performing?

Dixie Cup of Love: Russ, John and of course Darcy.

In The Zone

2008-06-14T04:05:00.000-07:00

"I should have seen the signals and stopped, what a flop! Now I see the way it ends. I'll let her turn me down and say "Can't we be friends" Jamie Cullum from "Can't We Be Friends"

The nurse must have been crying all night based on the puffy appearance of her eyeballs. Normally this shocking display of emotion from my dealer would warm my heart like a puppy fetching a steak bone, her misery is usually my adulation, but I have been feeling a skosh more human as a late, which reminds me that I need to get my meds adjusted. So in an altruistic effort to show a glimmer of compassion I asked her what was causing her blues. She informed me that her latest victim told her that he only wanted to be friends with her. My hysterical laughter obviously wasn't helping her feel better, but come on, guys don't have the "Friend Zone."

I know I'm gonna earn some chauvinist pig points for this one, someone may even bring up the "misogynist" word again, but I've had some time to think about the "Friend Zone" and the times that I have been relegated to it. I won't claim to speak for all men, just myself, and my experiences.

I have friends that are female. The capability for me to spend time with someone and not want to hump their leg like a Shitzu does exist. There can be conversations that don't involve the slightest whiff of sexual theme, granted that's about as rare as steak tartar, but still it's possible. But I never fully rule out the idea of being physical with that person. I may not be attracted to them physically, or on a one or two occasions I just find someone that I know I won't be compatible with intellectually, but I always think in the dark recesses of my testosterone fueled brain that if the circumstances were right, I'd take a run at her. I'm not sure if females share this quirk with me. It's not that I don't believe that women can act in sexually irrational way, I just don't know. Do they? Do they think that almost every man they have the least bit of commonality with is a possible sexual partner?

And I do believe that there are women out there that don't have a "Friend Zone" Women that try not to put Baby in a corner. Whether it be a bad current situation or don't find them physically desirable, but still care about them, enjoy their company, and don't close the option door. They may not answer that door when I knock, but they don't fully consider me sexually neutral. And I postulate that most women will say they are of this order. Which I, remember just me, thinks is a bold faced lie on most accounts. They have a "Friend Zone"

What I'm really getting at is this: Why does the "Friend Zone" exist at all? Time changes people, all people, male and female. The woman that I didn't find attractive last month might now be more desirable to me as I've gotten to know her better. I know that I am a different person today than I was when I started this here campaign. Different things are important to me, people I used to find undeniably attractive I now could never imagine being intimate with, and there are others that I wish I would have paid more attention to. If I enacted a "Friend Zone" these changes wouldn't allow for chemistry, so why is it still around?

Do you have a "Friend Zone"? Been in it? Lived there? Will you help me to abolish it?

Dixie Cup of Love: Abolitionists.

Power of Green

2008-06-13T04:58:00.000-07:00

"But green's the color of Spring. And green can be cool and friendly-like. And green can be big like an ocean, or important like a mountain, or tall like a tree." Kermit The Frog from "It's Not Easy Being Green"

The nurse accidentally slipped on a slightly used condom as she entered my super soft padded walled room. She showed amazing dexterity for a gal who does her best work in the prone position, walking only suits her until she finds a John, I mean a date. Looking down at the implement of her near annihilation, seeing the prophylactic strewn on the floor like unwanted banana peels, she turned her gaze to me, as f I was responsible for leaving the slippery spermicidal balloon in her path. I swear I could see the vein in her forehead throbbing to what could only the the best of "Tainted Love" by Soft Cell. I thought she was gonna freak out, turn green, and start ripping her clothes to shreds, Hulk style.

If I turned into the Hulk every time someone pissed me off I would have a serious shortage of clothes. Think about what the poor bastard has to spend on Tough Skins every month. Not like one yearly, before school starts, shopping trip, I would be shopping for dungarees in bulk. And sadly, it wouldn't be me getting all pissed off over the social ills of the world, fuck no. Cut me off in traffic, I need a change of clothes. Step in front of me with an empty shopping cart at Wal-Mart, and two seconds later I'm heading to Mens Wear to get new sweats. It would seriously be a burden.

But would the ever expanding wardrobe budget be off set by the utter coolness of a jade skinned freak out? Sure it would impress the ladies, I mean if just getting me angry would force my body to triple in size, surely a well timed use of teeth during foreplay would only engorge Mini Hulk, right? And we all know what a pain in the ass parking is during the holidays. One kick to the giblets and I could throw that Hummer taking two spots over the JC Penny and halfway to Macy's.

Pros and cons would exist on both sides of the gamma radiation experiment. But as a tortured soul, Banner, would never see the pros. The negatives for him would outweigh any possible good that could come from being the Hulk. His rage leads to random destruction, which only ends up leaving him feeling worse. A cycle of unbreakable inertia. Atomic and the Jew may ring in here with a time line in comic continuity when the random destruction came under control, but by then the damage was done. That's the dichotomy that the first Hulk movie failed to capture for me. Maybe I missed it, maybe it wasn't there, maybe Ang Lee should stick to period dramas. I don't know.

Today, Edward Norton, one of the finest actors on the planet, takes on the role of the human form of the UnJolly Green Giant. Will this Hulk movie suffer the same fate as the first? Will the franchise die? Not to worry, even if it does suck like a Hoover upright, at least Dark Knight is still coming out later this summer. Thank God Christopher Nolan knows what he's doing.

Is there a Hulk inside of you? What brings it out?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Wonderful minds of Stan Lee and Jack Kirby.

I Suffer from Allodoxaphobia

2008-06-12T05:15:00.000-07:00

"I smell the fear that rains inside, the thought of children who must oblige. To tainted dreams and polluted seas, the missing moon and melting trees. A mist of doom and clouds of pain. A toxic waste and an acid rain" Lenny Kravitz from "Fear"

When the nurse came in this morning to narcotize me I found myself suffering from what the Asylum, psychiatrist would call pharmacophobia, which is the fear of drugs. What I should have been diagnosed as having was bartonophobia, the fear of evil psychotic surgically enhanced nurses as named for Clara Barton founder of the American Red Cross and perhaps a witch. Okay, I could be wrong about the witch thing, but my nurse is definitely worthy of my fear.

Fear is a funny thing. Not funny in a haha, makes me pee a little kind of way, but more of a how can that actually terrify anyone kind of way. Take uranophobia for example. Now, necrophobia or the fear of death, I can understand. I get that. But uranophobia? It's the fear of Heaven. Seriously. It's such a common affright that they had to come up with a name of it. Or what about bolshephobia. Knowing that the Russian dance troupe called the Bolshoi Ballet exists, I thought, what man doesn't have a slight trepidation when it comes to ballet, but then I learned that pirouettes and arabesque's have nothing to do with it. It's the fear of Bolsheviks. Really?

Ballistophobia is the fear of bullets. Would that be a box of ammo sitting on a counter or a small metal projectile zooming through the air with the goal of ending my life, because one of those things I'm afraid of. The other is just a box.

I don't suffer from epistemophobia because if I did then this blog wouldn't be written. Knowledge, after all, is nothing to be scared of. Pretty sure that I don't suffer from cypridophobia, parthenophobia, or eurotophobia either, because I don't get the nits in front of hookers, virgins or female genitalia. There really is a terror for every occasion. I don't have Judeophobia cause I like Adam and the Weinsteins, but I do have a touch of theophobia which is just a general bugaboo against religion in general.

Though as I did research on this I realize I am coming down with hellenologophobia, no not the fear of Helen Slater, the Legend of Billie Jean rocked, no it's the fear complex scientific terminology. It's quite possible that I suffer from oprahophobia, which is the fear of black women that want to rule the minds of other woman. And, though I didn't know it had a name I also suffer from anuptaphobia which is the opposite of gamophobia. I could tell you what all that means but it would lea to your sophophobia.

Basically, I'm scared of snakes, reptiles, wooden roller coasters, and Keanu Reeves movies, other than that I'm as sane as Lizzie Borden. Relatively speaking.

Got phobias?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Reaper.

The Hourglass

2008-06-11T05:32:00.000-07:00

The nurse had enough delays. She wanted to hear how the Michelle story ended. Some of you might not even remember the beginning, so here is a link to: The Hourglass Syndrome. With my shackles keeping me under the nurses watchful eye, I had no choice but to make with the rest of the story. Don't be sad, I thought, be glad that I ever got to know her love, even if it was not meant to last. I continued...

This friend of mine knew the minute he saw me that life was about to throw me a twelve to sex curveball that was definitely gonna make me look like a fool in the batters box. when I drove up to his house with Michelle in the passengers seat two things became as clear as crystal. I was now sleeping with a married woman and it wasn't gonna be a one time thing. This game was gonna be the hardest that I had ever played.

So, I alluded to the fact that the love of my life was married when we met. What I left out was where her husband was. As far as I knew he was on Mars, but I learned that he was on an aircraft carrier doing his duty as a member of our Navy. Mind you that this was pre 9-11 and the rspect that we had at the time for our fighting men and women wasn't at the level that it is today. I say this to aswage my own guilt, there is no lower snake than I. He was out defending my right to persue my happiness with his wife. And with him out to sea for the foreseeable future, the girl was mine.

Michelle and I dated like there was nothing standing in our way. We spoke of the future, we made love in an all consuming fire of passion, we laughed, and we fell in love. Not I fell in love, no, we did. It was the first time I said it to someone who meant it when she said it back. One conversation that I will never forget involved where we would go on our honeymoon. There were serveral destinations on the board, but we finally agreed on Montego Bay, Jamaica. All we had to do was get married and start living life, oh yeah, and she had to deal with that one thing.

In November, right around Thanksgiving, the time came. We were standing out on the rocks at the jetty at Seal Beach when she informed me that he was due home in one week. The conversations from that moment on got more and more intense. Twice we fought after sex that week, not fights built on anger, but frustration. The big talk was looming over both of our heads. With two days remaining before the ship pulled into harbor we sat down for our last face to face conversation.

We stared at each other for almost a half an hour without saying a word. It was unnecessary. I knew what she was going to ask and I'm pretty sure she knew my answer. I loved her. I wanted her. I had dreamt of marrying her and honeymooning in Jamaica. But when she finally got to asking the question the reality took over. She kissed me, then while holding my face in her hands she asked "What do you want me to do?" My deepest, no only, but my deepest regreat was the speed with which my answer escaped my lips. "You cheated on him, what makes you think you won't cheat on me?" Truth. Honest, brutal dagger all in one statement. She drove away. My love.

You can ask or relate however you want.

Dixie Cup of Love: The One That Wasn't

Enchantment Under the Sea

2008-06-10T05:27:00.000-07:00

"Dance with me my dear, on a floor of bones and skulls. The music is our master, the devil controls our souls. Swirling and swirling with the music all our turning, swaying to the sounds of a demonic beat." TSOL from "Dance With Me"

Just before I was set to drift off to sleep last night the nurse came into my room in a stunning strapless gravity defying gown with a fragrant purple orchid corsage covering most of her plastic surgery. It was a sight that my stoned eyes wasn't at all sure was real upon initial glance, but the angry look on her mug was all the assurance I needed, reality can be exquisite from time to time. What was the occasion, I pondered? Was she a hell spawn Bridesmaid for a fellow succubus? Was she the first prize in a Dirty Whore Auction with the proceeds going to some wretched charity? No. The reality was far more entertaining. For the sum of $1000 she was going to be the prom date of a local high schools Chess Club founder. As I billowed laughter I thought of my own prom.

Here's something you need to understand about high school, my luck and skills with the feminine side of the locker room is the same now as it was then. Once in a while the blind squirrel gets a nut, but for the most part I'm an abject failure when in comes to the dames. A hideous combination of lack of confidence and unsightly body mass. So for me prom was an event to be scorned, shunned, laughed about, and in quiet alone times cried over. Alright you caught me, I never cried over it, but I certainly wasn't interested in attending the "Night of 1000 Rufie's" celebration that the alma mater prepared for a whopping $75 a bid. I'm sure if I tried I could have scrounged up a date, but why throw $75, plus dinner and a limo, at a girl who was obviously not going to be the pick of the litter? No I left my dance card empty. Besides Wayne and I had a better plan.

The only reason Wayne and I ventured to the Hyatt in Long Beach that night was that we had heard the most provocative rumor. Don was dyeing his hair blue to match his date, and future wife's, dress. A fashion statement that bold would rival Bjork showing up to the Oscars in the Duck dress. It was something that had to be seen.

The thing about the Hyatt is that the old MHS prom was on the second floor and you had to take an escalator to get there. Of course to keep riff-raff like Wayne and I out the escalator was being guarded like it was the Vestal Virgin stronghold. You had to pay for a bid to get up the magic moving stairway and of course be in "proper attire". We were in jeans and T-shirts, I only wish that TshirtHell.com was around then because this story would rock so much harder if at the time I was wearing a shirt that said "I fucked the Olsen Twins before they were Famous" (yes, I own that shirt). Regardless, we didn't look like a couple of Dapper Dandy's so the escalator to Heaven wasn't open to us, but the service elevator took you right to the main room if you had the sack to try it.

When the doors opened the look on Vice Principle Dick Pierce's face, okay it was Richard, but come on what would you have called him, but his shock was worth the possibility of expulsion. After being seen by a very scant few, though enough to make it known that the prom had indeed been crashed, we were escorted back down to the lobby where we were greeted by Christine Anne Basch, guidance counselor extraordinaire. She smiled the grin of a woman proud of her little mischief makers, but then scolded us as was her job. After assuring her that we meant no harm, we just wanted to see Don, she slightly hesitated but then she relented as always. She went and found him. As he descended down the escalator like a blue haired Republican at a fund raiser, we applauded then left those who were $75 lighter in the pocket to enjoy their paid for memory and premeditated date rape.

What was your prom like? Who did you go with? Was it worth it?

Dixie Cup of Love: Christine Basch.

A Very Special Episode

2008-06-09T04:13:00.000-07:00

"Stars in the sky, they tell me what to do. I don't care about your city or your fat income. I don't care about your Vanity Fair or your fucking sitcom." Iggy Pop from "Starry Night"

Yesterday there was some commotion here at the Asylum. One of the other patients, you really didn't think I was all alone in this head of mine did you? Well, one of the others got the wrong meds and everything got locked down on a suicide watch. It was touch and go for a few minutes, until a wiser person than the wrongly medicated patient talked him off the ledge, then the wiser man cracked a joke about his wife's cooking. We all laughed and after a half an hour it was over. The nurse came back in to usher me to the land of night terrors with an Ambien laced Dixie cup. And I slept in total peace.

Those were the good old days of television. Back when 30 minutes and a laugh track was enough to solve even the biggest of problems. Sometimes it required a special guest star like Davey Jones or Bob Goulet, but for the most part it took them simple discovery that there had been a misunderstanding. That's how life was supposed to play out according to sitcoms. Even when they jumped the shark.

M*A*S*H lasted longer than the Korean war, true story. Not every episode was hysterical either, some where what they used to call "very special episodes." Hearing those words in a promo spot meant that one of the following things would happen: A) Someone would develop and overcome a drug problem. B) A character that had everything to lose would lose it. C) News would arrive at the 4077th that someone's loved one had passed away, be it Henry Blake or Col. Potter's horse.

Cheers would have special episodes too. Ones about Sam's alcohol problem or Carla's kids. Then there was the death of Coach. That one stung, I won't lie. But they would quickly rebound with Woody Boyd and without him there would be no Kelly Song.

I used to be forced by SuperMom to attend family dinner on Sunday night at my Grandparents. Dinner was always, without fail, followed by the tedium of 60 Minutes, trust me when you're a kid that show felt like 180 Minutes, but when it was over it was time for "All in the Family". My Grandfather would roar with the laughter of a lion at Archie Bunker, primetime racist. But it's the show I will always remember watching with a single scoop of plain vanilla ice cream, even the dairy treats were Aryan on Sundays, at my Grandparents house.

Over time my own taste would form. I would consume Different Strokes with great vigor. I would have crushes on many members of the Facts of Life cast. Find hipness in the geeks of Square Pegs. Wish I was a member of the Keaton family, or the Cunningham's, or even a Brady. I would laugh at Ted Knight yelling at JM J Bullock and never thought it got old on Too Close For Comfort. They were good shows, true entertainment. Far superior television than a bunch of metro sexual kids trying to be Pop stars. Especially when it was a very special episode.

What was your favorite sitcoms?

Dixie Cup of Love: Dick Van Patten, best TV Dad ever.

Joined at the Coda

2008-06-08T07:20:00.000-07:00

"All these double knit strangers with gin and vermouth and recycled stories, in the naugahyde booths with the platinum blondes and tobacco brunettes. I'll be drinkin' to forget you. Lite another cigarette and the band's playin' something by Tammy Wynette" Tom Waits from "Warm Beer and Cold Women"

She was singing along to her Ipod as she be-bop-a-lulaed into my room for a breakfast of pancakes, sausage, and a Dixie Cup of multi colored pills, of course there were no pancakes and sausage, but doesn't that sound good? What got me thinking was the look on her mug as she bounced around the room like Richard Simmons rolling on Exstacy. Whatever song she was listening to was reminding her of something wonderful, and quite possibly erotic, based solely on the swing of her hips flipping up the edge of her little skirt for the quickest glimpse of her lacy underwearings. As I tried not to stare I got to thinking about the songs that get me thinking.

I knew that it would be impossible for me to list all the songs in my life that are permanently linked to specific people, places, or things. There are too many songs, too many faces, and too many alcohol sodden memories. But there are a few that would be prominently featured in the soundtrack of my life story. For example:

Kodocrome by Paul Simon. I'm not the only one that's gonna have this song tied to the memory of "Love Hurts", my second play. The show itself was so amazing, well acted on all fronts, I dare say well written though large sections of it were lifted from other sources. The Presidents speech from Independence Day, Oren Ishii's declaration to the heads of the Yakuza, Kevin Smith films a plenty, but each night the show opened with Kodocrome and it will always take me to that time in that place.

Two Princes by the Spin Doctors, yes the Spin Doctors. It was a favorite song of Kelly and I's jukebox wars at Lucky John's. Every time I hear it I wonder what would have been if I had the skills to break her down, get her to fall for me, but alas the heart wants what the heart wants and hers didn't want me. But that stupid song will always remind me of Kelly, well that and the Animaniacs tattoo on my back.

You Can't Always Get What You Want by the Rolling Stones is forever attached like conjoined twins to Don and Wayne. It brings back assorted flashes of high school, driving to Hollywood, Rocky Horror Picture Show, Alondra 6, Jack In The Box, and all kinds of weirdness in one song.

American Pie by don McLean is like the closing credits on the Minnesota saga. It instantly takes me back to the porch of my cabin looking out at Cari and Angie getting some sun on the dock. It was such a wonderful time in my life, and the song was really the perfect ending.

Lastly there is Heaven by Canada's biggest failure Bryan Adams. The meaning behind that one lies in the deepest recesses of my memory and I'm not ready to unleash that demon yet.

What song's make you remember the important events?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Songwriters of the World.

PS - Tom Waits will forever remind me of Wes and Mark Adams, two guys that have had a profound influence on my life.

Glossy Pages

2008-06-07T04:45:00.000-07:00

"We take all kinda pills that give us all kinda thrills, But the thrill we never know, Is the thrill that'll gitcha when ya get your picture, On the cover of the Rolling Stone" Dr Hook from "Cover of Rolling Stone"

The nurse has this habit of stealing magazines from the dingy lobby of the Asylum. She could buy her own, but she doesn't. But she reads then sitting outside my room for hours on end. It's always the sound of the rigid page turning, the stench of whatever new rapper inspired cologne that is being shilled, then the grunt of her disgust at the model or article that she sees. It makes me wonder if she only reads them to pass the time and piss her off, or if she actually doesn enjoy the pictures, cause reading above a fourth grade level would be a Reed Richards like stretch. And let's face facts, the Asylum doesn't have the greatest array of periodicals to being with.

When it comes to me shelling out five to ten bucks for a magazine the content if really what's important. Every guy who reads Playboy does so because it's the classiest way to ogle naked women. However, the writers for Playboy win awards, it's informative, and a hoot of hilarity, but when the last article has been read we keep the stroke book lingering in the bathroom for the pictorials. Didn't mean to break any man codes, but it's true.

Rolling Stone used to be the pinnacle source of music news and interviews with some of the greatest musicians, politians, and entertainers of all time. To hell with Parade, Spin and Circus. Sure Lester Bangs did bring some street cred to Cream, but there is only one Rolling Stone. Now, I'm as liberal as the next Obama supporter, but Jan Wenner and team now take themselves way too seriously. They used to have PJ O'Rouke there to even things out, to give the conservatives a voice, because even Republicans like music, I think. The once proud musical beacon in now just a Bush hate factory and Blender is a far more reliable way to get music news. When I'm really interested in finding something new, it's Blender that I turn to, not the quintesential rock magazine of the last 40 years. Maybe when Rock-n-Roll died it should have taken Rolling Stone with it.

When it comes to a men's magazine I'm no GQ fan. There is very little, if anything, in that ad over-packed fashion disaster that I can actually relate to. Instead I turn to the man's man's magazine, Maxim. Now here's a rag that has it's fair share of hot women, great articles on sports, drinking tips, plus you can learn how to survive a natural disaster. You think Reader's Digest can deliver all that? Of course not. Niether can "O". Have you ever noticed that only one person has ever been on the cover of that waste of paper? What the hell is that about? Even in the Asylum had it's own magazine I'd put Dr. Dot on the cover before me, some people just have ego issues I guess.

As for some of those super market scandal rags, well, I miss the Weekly World News. It was a fine publication that wasn't bogged down by silly things like facts and the truth. It did more for the phrase "sources close to" than the National Enquirer ever could. And I do love the celebrities that file lawsuits against the tabloids. It's like admitting to the world that these fish wraps actually matter. The best advice I could give the celebs is this "It's the fucking National Enquirer, it matters about as much as "O"."

With the increase in Internet traffic, I think it's only a matter of time before all print publications go the way of Jessica Hahn, gone and forgotten. I will miss them, but "sources close to" the Asylum don't think "O" would be missed by anyone.

Dou you read any magazines? Do you think they are going to disappear?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Weekly World News.

Hazards of Duke

2008-06-06T04:49:00.000-07:00

"Southern man better keep your head, Don't forget what your good book said. Southern change gonna come at last, Now your crosses are burning fast." Neil Young from "Southern Man"

The nurse was outfitted in a T-shirt from her so-called med school which bore the statement "Nurses do it because they care." Sweet sentiment. Must have been a wonderful educational establishment, I mean as wonderful as one can be when it's located above an auto repair shop. But I was still kind of envious of her for sporting the alma mater's gear. I never attended college, so I can't wear sweatshirts emblazoned with Screaming Eagles or anything like that. And I won't shill for a college that I didn't attend, unlike my other cohorts down here in the Slow. I can't get two feet from my gurney without seeing a Duke University hat. It's one of the constant reminders that I am not in Los Angeles anymore. But it's not really the head wear that picks at me, it's the fact that I had no idea what the South was gonna be like when I moved here and seeing the nurse wearing her college togs got me thinking about the place I live.

Being a native of California, my only real exposure to the South came in the form of movies like Deliverance and television programs like the Emmy winning "Dukes of Hazzard" What do you mean it never won an Emmy? Surely if the Six Million Dollar Man could garner a statue, then Bo and Luke Duke were deserving. Oh, I see, Six Million Dollar Man never one either, go figure. Anyway, the point I am getting at is that no yokels have yet to anally rape me while demanding that my squeal sound like swine.. But the similarities to the Dukes of Hazzard are uncanny.

Is there stuff that you could jump a car over? Hell yeah. Almost everywhere one looks there is something broken down or boarded up that would be perfect fodder for a bitchin car jump, provided your car was a big enough heap of crap that you didn't mind bending it like a Gumby doll. There are gully's, ravines, and downed trees around every turn. I was thinking of welding the doors of the cruiser shut, but who am I kidding, I ain't fitting through no car window without a girdle and two pounds of Crisco. So, no, I won't be doing any high flying stunt jumps with Dixie blaring from the horn.

What about Daisy Dukes? Now mind you, summer hasn't arrived yet, but unless the women down here lose weight like Al Rooker, I don't want to subject my orbs to a bunch of Daisy Dukes. You all know that I have no problem with a plus sized girl, but there are some things that you don't show off in public. I mean, I don't go around shirtless because I have respect for you, well that and the pointing and gagging is a bit much to take. The point is, same rules should apply to the gals. Be big, be sexy, but that doesn't mean putting on a handkerchief and calling it a top.

Does everyone sound like Paula Dean? If you don't know Paula then you must be an anorexic, because those of us who eat think of Paula as the Butter Queen. Her accent is so thick that you may wonder if everyone here says "y'all" in every sentence. Um, yeah, they do. I was talking to a customer at HellJob who asked where I was from. I asked if he knew my origins lie elsewhere because of my lack of an accent. He said "No, but y'all are wearing them shoes" Of course referring to my Chuck Taylor All Star's, which are apparently the official shoe of the West Coast in the eyes of my Southern friends.

Is everyone like Roscoe P. Coltrane? No, not really, the people are actually pretty friendly, but not as open as I'm used to. In LA I swung with a group that was pretty inviting to strangers, sure we had tons of inside jokes, but we allowed others a chance to be the butt of their own new jokes. Here they don't invite those they don't know, but time will determine the outcome, maybe they just have a longer incubation period.

Any questions about the South? Or thoughts on the Dukes of Hazzard? Or Paula Dean?

Dixie Cup of Love: Catherine Bach

Don't Pick At It

2008-06-05T05:23:00.000-07:00

"People act so proper when they're going 'bout their business Cup of coffee, friendly conversation 'Til they get home, 'Til they get home . Turn the phone off, lock the door and shut the curtains, Make sure that the neighbors are without suspicion, No one will know, No one will know. Nasty habits, I must condone, No one knows what I do when I'm all alone" Oingo Boingo from "Nasty Habits

When the nurse came in to give me my daily dose of happy pills I couldn't help but notice that her finger nails have been gnawed down to stumps. It's a bad habit, but in the realm of horrifying rituals it only ranks about a 2 out of 10 on the destructive scale. Tolerable, but still something that she should have some control over. But isn't that where we all fail? Self control? Looking at the nurse and her gnarled up piggies got me thinking of my own lack of self control.

When it comes to bad habits I have a few that I could do without. I have some that I enjoy too much to let go of, smoking cigarettes for one. I'm not one of those smokers who is constantly trying to quit, I've never even tried to stop, it's just one of the joys in my life. Oh sure, I know it's killing me, but since when should mere mortality make me quit doing anything.

Lately, I have been drinking a little more than I would like to. It's the "New Kid in Town" syndrome. It's a trying to find new friends mentality that keeps me heading for the bar. I've been in trouble with booze before, too much drinking and driving, too many black-outs, too much of the curse of the Captain. The curse being it doesn't start tasting its best until I'm out of the realm of soberiety. And I'm not enjoying myself like I used to, so, I think me and the Captain are going to part company for a while.

The hardest habit for me to break is this cycle of depression that I spiral into everytime I think something might be going against me. The first reaction I have is to head to the bar. I've been good about not doing that, except for the last few weeks, and seeing that I recognize the potenial in the problem behavior I can make advances towards curbing it like a broke down Impala. Which leads me to dealing with the overall depression.

Like most everyone on the planet I get into moods when I don't feel worthy, necessary, or wanted. These are the days when I am at my darkest. Sitting in the pitch black, listening to a haunting melody, thinking questions like "why me" this and "why not me" that. Usually it revovles around one of two things. A dame that I am fully into who doesn't quite feel the same intensity of emotion towards me. Or that I am unhappy with what I am writing. So I stoop to different levels of denial. I write things I know will please, even if I hate them. I start dating people that I have no chemistry with, whether it be her inability to make eye contact, a sure fire hint that the chemistry set is out of juice, or my own personal foibles. It feels worse than being alone.

That's not the person I want to be, so I'm not gonna. Right now, I'm in a good head space, sure lonely, but not depressed, not over joyed, but content. So, no more. No more wasting my time looking for that which I can't find. No more wasting my will on things that will not change. No more negativity, yeah right, who am I kidding.

These habits can be a part of me, but they can't be me. I have the will power to stop the cycles, to reamin happy regardless of the circumstances. No matter if it be HellJob, the Asylum, or other people, I will not let others nor myself to be brung down.

What bad habits do you have that you would like to change?

Dixie Cup of Love: Me.

Some Say Monkeys Play Piano Well

2008-06-04T05:00:00.000-07:00

"The Ants are my friends, they're blowing in the wind, that ants are a-blowing in the wind." Bob Dylan from "Blowin the Wind"?

When the nurse came in to give me my daily Dixie cup of Chemistry I heard her say something that shocked me to the bone. I thought I heard her say "Wake up dead dick!" I mean, how the hell did she know that the old tentpole wasn't hoisting the canvas? Instantly I went into defensive mode as any guy does when his manhood in challenged. My first line of defense was that it was the medication keeping Sargent Stiffy from standing at attention. When she didn't respond to that, I immediately attacked her appearance. I shouted horrible things about her hair, her make-up, how the left boob was bigger than the right, all sorts of hideousness. That's when she clarified that she said "Take your meds quick." Oh, well, that's, um, I hate when I hear things wrong.

As a musical snob there is nothing I hate more than being in a car with someone that butchers the lyrics to a song like it was a side of beef at Sam's.. If you don't know the words, just shut up, don't attempt to fill in for Kurt Cobain. The line is "Here we are now, entertain us." not "here we are now in containers." That doesn't even make sense. Why would the be in Tupperware, why?

The most common misquotes are "Excuse me while I kiss this guy.", "There's a bathroom on the right." and the line from Manfred Mann's Blinded By The Light is "Revved up like a deuce, another runner in the night." It has nothing to do with feminine hygiene wash, I swear. But in doing a little research for this here bloggity blog, oh yeah, I do research, I came across a few things that cracked me up.

In Addicted to Love Robert Palmer does not say "You might as well face it, you're a dick with a glove." It's not even a song about Michael Jackson. In the "Summer of 69" Canada's greatest disgrace Bryan Adams "got his first six string at the 5 and dime" not "got his first sex dream, I was 5 at the time." besides the next line is played it till my fingers bled, the wrong way is just gross. Johnathan B. Jovi did not say "It doesn't make a difference if we're naked or not." he cared whether or not they made it, the fact that they were naked is a given because he's J.B.J.

But the worst is what you people do to Bennie and Jets. There's no funny lyrics for you on this one, you all kill it in your own unique way, so as a service to Sir Elton John I present you with the actual lyrics to the most butchered song of all time.

"Hey kids, shake it loose together, the spotlights hitting something that's been known to change the weather.
We kill the fatted calf tonight, so stick around.
You're gonna hear electric music, solid walls of sound.
Say Candy and Ronnie have you seen them yet, but they're so spaced out.
Bennie and the Jets.
Oh but they're weird and they're wonderful, oh Bennie she's really keen.
She's got electric boots, a mohair suit, you know I read it in a magazine.
Bennie and the Jets.
Hey kids, plug into the faithless, maybe they're blinded but Bennie makes them ageless.
We shall survive, let us take ourselves along.
Where we fight our parents out in the streets to find out who's right and who's wrong."

No shit.

Do you butcher songs? Any lyrics you aren't sure of? Do you make up the words you don't know?

Dixie Cup of Love: Sir Elton John

PS - To understand the title of blog, sing Michelle by the Beatles until you get to the section in French.

The Face

2008-06-03T05:27:00.000-07:00

"I've just seen a face, I can't forget the time or place, That we'd just met, she's just the girl for me, And I want all the world to see we've met" The Beatles from "I've Just Seen A Face"

I was thinking about how I would react if another inmate stole my nurse. Not exactly an actual possibility, but an interesting "what if". Would I fight for her? Would I let her go to happily medicate another sociopath for ever and ever? Would I declare all out war in an effort to win her back? I didn't get the chance to fully think these ideas through when the nurse entered with her normal zest, like a Gothic kid watching Donnie Darko, apparently everyone's top 5 movie of all time, I wasn't that big of a fan. But anyway, as she walked over with my Dixie Cup I knew the answer in one bolt of lightning. I would definitely declare war.

Helen of Troy was nothing but a cheating whore. She may have been "the Face that launched a thousand ships" but I wouldn't have sent so much as a frigate to get her back. If I had been Menalaus I would have kept my warriors, like Ajax and Achilles, close to home. Hector and his whore stealing brother Paris would never have been the tale of legend that they are today. Instead the history books would say that the Spartan King Menalaus once had a wife who ran off the be anally penetrated by a dirty Greek. He soon remarried a woman who understood what it meant to be a Spartan queen. End of epic.

Helen of Troy cheated on her husband. Now, I'm not saying that in those days women had the right to say no, as a matter of fact they didn't have rights period, but a Spartan queen? A higher honor there could not be. And to top it all off she chose the lesser of the Greek brothers. Were history has painted Hector as a warrior and a hero, Paris is considered a pretty fey boy. A coward. All Helen saw in him was a reflection of her own self, skin deep beauty and nothing more.

Now, why am I ranting on about Helen of Troy? Reasonable question. I have been thinking a lot lately about what I consider to be beautiful. There are things that I look for on a purely plastic, superficial level. I like blondes, I like big boobies, I like curves. But I also like sex appeal. That's something different from good looks. Sex appeal is Marilyn Monroe, Jane Mansfield, Rachel Welch, Monica Belucci. It's a want and desire to get naked with someone. It either exists or it doesn't, and I'm not sure if it can be learned. Without it I can't feel chemistry for someone. And I'm guessing that Helen of Troy had it in spades.

The really strange thing I am finding about sex appeal is that it doesn't have anything to do with beauty or size. It's an interesting commodity in that the only cost is enjoying and oozing of sex, yet still it is in higher demand than sticky green buds of Danger Girl down here in the Slow. If ever there was a substance that could flood the market and still remain in higher demand than a President who isn't a complete imbecile, it's sex appeal. So, what are we gonna do about this problem? Where's my national campaign to bring the sexy back? My God, I'm referencing Justin Timberlake, time to go.

Are you sexy? What's sexy to you? Can sexy be learned?

Dixie Cup of Love: All the sexy people, except Helen of Troy.

The Team That George Bought

2008-06-02T04:27:00.000-07:00

"Hey Mr. Pinstripe Suit. Hey Mr. Hi De Hi De Ho. Well I know you got the answers that we all wanna know. Hey Mr. Wingtip Shoes. Hey Mr. Always On The Go. Well I know you got the answers that we all wanna know." Big Bad Voodoo Daddy from "Mr. Pinstripe Suit"

The nurse thinks that sports are about as useful as filling a hand gun with blanks. Kind of fun, but not exactly helpful in a life threatening situation. She doesn't understand the way that cheering for a sports franchise can fill a spot in a man's soul that no amount of love, or sex, well okay, maybe some scandalous sex with paternal twins, not fraternal ones cause, sorority girls are tight assed. I mean the twins that don't look alike. If you're gonna forgo the big game for a threesome the girls shouldn't look the same.

Alright, I'm gonna admit something here, I'm not afraid, I'm strong, and yes, I'm a Twins fan. Also a Vikings fan, but that's the agony of another blog. For this one, what's important is that I bounced at a bar that was adjacent to Anaheim Stadium. The groovy thing was I ended up meeting a lot of the players from the Angels and the other teams throughout the American league. But once a year, the vibe in the bar would change, the accents would start to thicken up, we'd start selling a lot more pizza, only one thing could explain this phenomenon. The Yankees were in town.

The first time I met anyone from the Bronx Bombers it was future hall of famer, Bernie Williams. Let me say that if nice was a batting average Bernie would be batting around .700 in life. He was unpretentious, unassuming, funny, and a good sport. See, the bar was divided into two sections. On the restaurant side I was the sworn protector of the ballers that didn't want to be pestered by mere fans. The were untouchable in the restaurant which is where people like Barry Bonds, Ken Griffey, and A-Rod always sat. On the other side was the bar and pool tables.. There the protection was limited to physical altercations. Bernie played pool and always seemed to enjoy the bar side. Any fan that approached him with a baseball would leave with it signed, he would chat, I mean, seriously, he is a nice guy.

As I worked at the bar for six years, I got to know some of the players on a different level. Angels relievers Mike James and Troy Percival I could call friends. Jamie Moyer from the Mariners, Matt Stairs from the A's were frequent guests. But it was the Yankee players that I grew to like and party with.

David Cone and I used to smoke in front of the bar together. Jorge Posada, Tino Martinez, and I played pool. After a couple of years I even got to be pretty tight with Derek Jeter. One night before the Angels home opener against the Yanks, I was sitting next to Derek as we watched Tino and Alfonso Soriano playing a game of nine ball when a female regular of the bar rushes up to me and asks me if Derek Jeter is in the bar. Mind you the guy is sitting right next to me. I look at him and ask if Jeter is indeed in the bar. Without missing a beat he looks around casually and tells the girl "I think he just left" She got totally pissed off and storms away. The four of us laughed for an hour, none stop. It was a riot.

Who is your favorite ball player or team?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Bronx Bombers

Cruise To Mexico

2008-05-29T21:50:00.000-07:00

"I wish I was in Tijuana eating barbequed iguana. I'd take requests on the telephone, I'm on a
wavelength far from home. I feel a hot wind on my shoulder I dial it in from south of the border, I hear the talking of the DJ. Can't understand just what does he say?" Wall of Voodoo from
"Mexican Radio"

When it comes to celebrities the nurse and I have very similar taste. Of course she loves
Leonardo DiCaprio with the same passion as myself, she too thinks Jenna Elfman has a body
that rocks harder than, you wanna guess, that's right, Appetite For Destruction. It's actually
harder to find people that we are of opposing viewpoint, rough to imagine seeing is that she is a
figment of my imagination. But for some hideous reason she thinks Tom Cruise is the most
underrated actor this side of Phillip Seymour Hoffman. How could someone so scorchingly hot,
be so incredibly clueless.

I have serveral reasons for dismissing the diminuative dialouge drummer as nothing more than
hard candy. sure it's shiny and pretty, but it's got all the charisma of a box of charcoal and it's
bad for your teeth. If you are a practicing Scientologist, or as I like to call them, The Cult that
makes the Mormon's look normal, you might want to skip down to my lambasting of his film
work. Because seriously this L. Ron Hubbard cult of alien worship holds as much credibility as
Jim Craemer after his bold prediction to hang on to your Bears And Stern stock. That
collapsed like Marissa Tomei's career. I know that Scientologists are just another gaggle of
believers, but why have Cruise as the face of your religion? I believe in smoking pot and having
a great time but I don't allow Matthew McConaughey to speak for me. And really what does it
say about a faith that has a "Celebrity Center"? Sell out much?

Then, if the Xenu worship wasn't enough there's that once wholesome Stepford Wife of his.
Let's see, he couldn't ruin Nicole Kidman or the stackhouse that is Mimi Rogers, so he defiles
Katie? What a butt plug. I read somewhere that there was a casting call put out for the job of
Mrs. Wack-o and that Scarlett johannson passed on the gig. If it's true I will overlook the fact
that my Ghost World lollipop was in The Island and that she recently released an album. Katie,
if you're out there, get out, get out before they completely brainwash... wait she just spend a
month taking Scientology workshops? Damn, we lost her. Guess that might have something to
do with Maggie Gyllenhaal being the new Rachel Dawes in Dark Knight?

Anyway, back to Oprah's ratings ticket. Think about the last great Cruise role. Hard isn't it? I
know somebody out there is yelling Top Gun at their monitor at this very moment. All I can say is A) I can't hear you through the Internet and B) Gayest Movie Ever Made. The Bird Cage
wasn't as gay as Top Gun, neither is Boy On Boy KY's Greatest Hits Vol. III. There is so
much gayness that it's almost a chick flick. Even Brian Singer thinks it's completely gay and he
kisses men. I have no problem with people being gay, whatever gets you to Valhalla, but don't
tell me it's an action movie then show slow motion sweat drenched dudes playing volleyball.
That's a bait and switch.

Risky Business? Ok, the train scene with Rebecca DeMornay was hot, but Cruise sucked.
The Outsiders? Great book, excellent cast, I mean it was even Swayzeriffic, yet Tom sucked.
Days of Thunder? Come on. Far And Away? Even Opie couldn't save his pathetic
performance. I have an idea. Let's trade Tommy to Mexico for Salma Hayek. I may not be
able to understand her half the time, but at least she's hotter than Tabassco.

Which celebrity do you want to trade away?

Dixie Cup of Love: Val Kilmer who was in Top Gun, but awesome in Real Genius.

2008-05-29T04:10:00.001-07:00

"His mom and dad clutch themselves and cry. Their favorite son will never walk again. Coach says, "That boy gave a hundred percent, What spirit, What a man. But who cares? Games over, Let's go get wasted man to the 7-11, to the liquor store let's party all night and party some more " Dead Kennedys from "Jock-o-rama"

The nurse was howling with laughter as she entered my room. See, during a particularly violent shock therapy session my leg broke free of the restraints and my ankle snapped like a twig under the foot of Nell Carter. The cast that the so-called medical staff but me in was pink in color, I guess it was a joke, but the only one laughing is that evil bitch, so I guess they succeeded. I will get my vengeance, you can bet your bottom dollar, Annie. Those fuckers are gonna pay. But having my ankle in a cast got me thinking about another time I broke the same bone due to over zealous behavior.

I used to work, at one point, long ago, for a large corporation that I will call "Buy Me Toys".
Now, at Buy Me Toys they were big on extra curricular activities. Picnics, parties, and of course softball between the stores. Upon passing my drug test, which I found kind of funny that you drug test a bunch of people that basically applied for a job which would allow them to play with toys all day, but anyway, soon after leaving a urine sample that smelled of asparagus, my favorite thing to eat the night before testing, I was signed up for the softball team. I told the manager that I have a tad of a competitive streak and maybe it wasn't a wise move to put me on the squad. He waved off the comment like I told him that his sister gave me crabs. Get some ointment and move on.

During my first game I was informed that the winning team got a killer prize. Why must they flash the red flag in front of the bull? I was amped. That game I was 4 for 4 with two home runs. No small feat due to the speed with which I round the bases. As the season went on I was a star, the bosses would let me get away with murder as long as I buried the bodies on the softball field. And I did. Taking the team on my back like a mule and getting to the final game.

First at bat. Double, 2 rbi's. Good start. Second at bat. Home run, over the left field fence, leisurely stroll around the base path. Third at bat, legendary. I hit a worm killing grounder at the third baseman and quickly chucked my bat at the ground so hard that it made the centerfielder jump. As I lallygagged down to first, knowing I was out, I decided to use the one tool still in my arsenal. Intimidation. I screamed like Jack the Ripper was cutting my colon out and the first baseman spooked and the ball flew by him. SWEET. I raced towards second, looking over my shoulder and seeing that the first baseman was having trouble with the ball, I went for three. When I passed the shortstop I noticed that the third baseman was catching the ball. First baseman had a helluva an arm. So, I was a sitting duck. One last chance. Kick the ball out of the glove. So I slid the slide of an elephant in a frenzy. My left leg extended, aiming straight for that glove. It worked to near perfection. I say near because as the ball popped out of the glove, my foot caught on the bag, and the rest of me kept on going. The sound of my ankle snapping was so loud that Marlee Matlin came and asked if I was alright.

I was safe. That's what was important. The ankle, well, it was destroyed and still hurts all the time. What an idiot, what a competitor, what a bummer that I was gonna miss work for the next 6 weeks. I was no longer a star in my bosses eye. But, I was safe.

Let's hear the sports related injuries? Details.

Dixie Cup of Love: Dr. John Burkett who put my jigsaw puzzle like ankle back together.

Trapazoid of Lies

2008-05-28T04:18:00.000-07:00

"And then, you meet me. And you whole world changes, because everything I say is everything you've ever wanted to hear. So you drop all your defenses and you drop all your fears, and you trust me completely. I'm perfect in every way" Henry Rollins from "Liar"

The nurse and I have a strange relationship to say the very least. What else can you say about a man and his imaginary drug dealer? It's comical to say the least. But when I talk to her, it's like I'm talking to myself, does that make sense? Of course it doesn't, who am I kidding. I know she isn't real, but it doesn't hurt anyone that she exists in my head, does it?

I love my truth box. I swear it's the greatest thing since Cherry Pop Tarts. The thing I love about it is the fact that I don't know who is saying the things they are saying. Some of them are incredible. Some of them are awful, and it's time that I shared some of my favorites with you, and who I think they are from. This is gonna be a good one, don't touch that dial.

"You are asking questions and seeking answers outside of yourself. The guy you look at in the mirror everyday is the one you need to talk to instead." -- Now I didn't know what to think of this one. It seems that this junior Dr. Phil is trying to fix that which I don't think is broken. If I am asking questions and seeking answers that are inside of me, why the fuck don't I know the answers? See, that makes no sense to me. My issues with the sperm donor and the cards that I chose to play aside, I ask questions because I want to hear what other people think. That's the purpose of the blog, not to fix me, or make me somehow whole, it's to get to know the world outside of me. Who do I think wrote this - Someone that doesn't know me as well as they think they do. There would be too many names to name, so I will just say that I think whoever it is should leave the analysis to Dr. Phil.(odds that it was Dr. Phil 10000000-1)

"I agree with alot of things you write about, and I disagree with alot of things you write about. To each his own, huh? and...I have this compltely weird crush on you...not like a stalker kind of crush....but a if I ever saw you in public would I be able to speak to you kinda of crush...so weird, huh?" -- Now this is why I created the Truth Box. It's both insightful and gets the imagination going. When I think about this entry I can think of three people as the possible author, and mined you, I'm asking no one for confirmation or denial. But my choices are Mrs. Nikki Sixx(odds 5-1), Darling Niki(odds 8-1), and Judi Sunshine(odds 100-1).

"i would do you in a box, i would do you in your sox, i would do you in a car, i would do you at a bar, i would do you in the rain, i would do you til there's pain, would you could you in the park? do me do me in the dark. ok i'm done here..." -- A Suess fan. Or someone that knows I am a Suess fan. I can think of many people that I wish this was, but there are only two that I think are responsible - *B*O*B* (wishful odds 2-1)or Marc(o) Porno(more likely odds 4-1, you sick-o). LOL

Last one. "I think you have a talent for writing and I want to read your daily blog for a year. I also think, you have been asking simple questions. You're not challenging your readers. I think you should dig deep everyday. Some of us depend on you for conversation topics and lately you've simply been telling a story and asking a question about the story. Let's kick things up an intellectual level shall we?" -- I got this one during the run of the Minnesota saga. Obviously not a fan of my story telling skills. So, I looked at it a little deeper, as were the instructions. Who would feel that I am not asking the hard questions? Someone that has hard answers. Who would depend on me for conversation topics? Someone that talks about me alot, but then ther ewas the "us" that means they converse with someone on a regular basis that also may be a reader of the Asylum. My thoughts. Mandy(odds 3-1), Penelope(odds 3-1), Queen of Coins (odds 1000-1).

If you don't have a truth box, you should get one.

What do you think of these "Truthes"?

Dixie Cup of Love: Post Secret for doing this Way Better.

Industry of Cool

2008-05-27T05:28:00.000-07:00

"I gotta tell you, you're lookin' real good, They let us in so I'm feelin' all right. I like to go where sometimes they refuse, Yeah, I remember last Saturday night. But I'm feeling cooler now. And they could tell we're cooler now." Sparks from "Cool Places"

I have always found the nurse to one of the coolest people that I ever imagined. Something about her seems to exude the quality of "Take me as I am", never a trend follower, nor a setter be. She just is and that's what makes her cool. But when I ask her how she got to be like a cucumber or the other side of the pillow she invariably tells me that she things she's a big dork. Not something I would ever think her to be, I mean, the outfit, the tattoos, no way she isn't hipper than Ginsberg. But cool is something that is extraordinarily difficult to explain.

Let me start by saying that I'm not cool. Lester Bangs, William Miller, and I could have a great night rocking back pills and cough syrup, talking about the style of David Bowie, the easy of Eric Clapton, and the sex appeal of Bon Jovi. And we'd be envious of them all. But across the universe in a part that I'm not privy too Bowie, Clapton, and Johnathon B. Jovi could be sitting in a similar Robitussin circle talking about the style of Morrison, the easy of Hendrix, and the sex appeal of Roger Daltrey. Cool is a relative term, after all.

My biggest clue to unraveling this mystery was when I met a guy who would later become a friend. His name is Kerry. His occupation: guitarist. He is in a band that most of you have at least heard of, maybe not ever listened to, but you are probably aware that they exist. When I met him I was a bouncer at a bar that had it's share of celebrity sightings, mostly athletes, but also the likes of Michael Bay, Charlie Sheen, and Gwen Stefani just to name drop a few. So by the time I met Kerry I wasn't star struck, I just treated him like any other bald, tattoo headed guy that came in. Once we got to talking we realized that we had some common ground and became friends. Now his band has this mad legion of fans, all of which consider him to be the coolest things since peanut butter. After I could call him friend I could also call him a dork. There was no aire of cool to him on that level. He was just a guy I knew that had a way sweeter job than I did.

Once I realized that this so called "cool" guy was a lot like me, I gave up the notion of wanting to be one of the cool kids. Being in the "In Crowd" is about making the most of the time you spend with people. If you and your group are the ones in the bar laughing, joking, and having a great time then everyone in that place who looks at your group will think "you're cool." If there is a large group of sad sack emo kids on one side of the room and me and the comic book reading nerd herd on the other, at least one of those black eye liner wearing morbids is gonna wish they were with us. Cause we have a good time. Who wants to be depressed all the time, well besides Bono.

Beauty has nothing to do with cool. Being attractive can open some doors into different social groups but you could look like Brad Pitt and if you can't bring wit and intelligence to my crowd, it's exile on Main Street time for you. I've met women who were at one time as gorgeous as Scarlett Johannson, yet at the same moment as ugly as Sandra Bernhard. Attitude, brains, and humor go a long damn way to making you cool.

So, I'm not cool. No big worry for me because all my friends are cool with me the way I am. There's a line in Juno when she tells Paulie that he is the coolest person that she knows and he doesn't even try, to which he responds "I try really hard, actually." Been there done that. I've moved from Paulie Bleeker to a very happy to be me Lenny Kravitz kind of place, and you know what, I'm cool with that.

Do you fancy yourself cool or a dork?

Dixie Cup of Love: Alabama Worley for the line "You're so cool"

2008-05-26T05:40:00.000-07:00

"He's a legend in the bar with every scar fights a thousand bigger men, But now he fights and looses got all the bruises will someone please step in? Cause this Irish fools got a great big heart he keeps climbing back in to the ring, In the low down circles where he holds his court this man he once was king." Dropkick Murphy's from "Barroom Hero"

the nurse looked like she had gone 12 rounds for the heavy weight title when she entered to give me my dose of happy pills. If there was another man besides me in her life I would have sworn a statement to the law about spousal abuse, but as there was no one like that, I just assumed that my little kitten just clawed at the wrong pussy's man and got the hair balls beat out of her. I never really saw the nurse as Mike Tyson with a stethoscope, more like Meredith Grey with a penchant for tattoos and piercings. She's a dirty little nurse, but she's no brawler.

When it comes to blood for pleasure, it isn't fighting that will slake my thirst. As a matter of fact, blood and I don't get along like Heckle And Jeckyl. It may have something to do with that dreaded relationship that I was never a big fighter in my youth. Actually, I can only remember two fist fights in my entire high school career. Now, in my 20's, well, there was a lot more booze in a lot more biker bars which lead to my baptism into the realm of self defense.

At 21 I was working as a bartender in a seedy bar in Covina, California. The place could hold no more than 20 people without it feeling like a sardine can. Any more and the little fishies stopped trying to spawn and started trying to establish themselves as King of the Sea. One drop of blood and it turned into a feeding frenzy.

One of my pals at the time, was a Cherokee, Crow, and Blackfoot mixed Indian named Kenny. He taught me two things that I will never forget. The first of the life altering things that my Indian taught me was that I should drink Captain and Coke as it was the sweet elixir of life. The second important moral of the story was he instructed me on how to survive and succeed in a bar fight. Seeing is that my sperm donor wasn't the tudor of Mr. Miyagi proportions, more like a Henry VIII kind of Tudor, married a lot and never good with break-ups, it was Kenny that taught me which end of a pool cue to hit a guy with, why you should never break a beer bottle on the bar and threaten to shank a drunk dude, and how to simply understand the dynamics of getting hit. It hurts, it bruises, it heals, it doesn't last forever.

The first time I plied this trade, I was shocked by my confidence and excitement during the melee. How it stated I have no idea, but I remember coming over the bar like John Wayne hopping a corral fence in order to save some dame from being trampled by a bull gone mad. From that moment I was, what the Vietnam veterans refer to as, in the shit. I punched the guy nearest me square in the snout causing a flow of crimson that would rival a kitchen faucet. He must have had a buddy with him because no sooner did I end one fight on a doctors stoppage, I got hit in the ear with an ashtray. The ringing would wait to be dealt with, but my retribution was served quickly and effectively with a two finger thrust to the ashtray wielders Adam's Apple. After he hits the ground choking, I swing to look at the Indian as he actually broke a pool cue over some guys back. It was wicked surreal, a TV bar brawl in real life. However there was no commercial break and it was over before I really got into it. I was so disappointed, until Kenny handed me a towel and pointed at my ear. The ashtray wielder drew blood, that bastard. I wanted to hit him again, but when a fight it over, it's over.

What's the worst fight you've ever been in?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Indian.

2008-05-25T06:57:00.000-07:00

"So sing a lonely song, Of a deep blue dream, Seven horses seem to be on the mark, Yeah, dont you love her, Dont you love her as shes walkin out the door." The Doors from "Love Her Madly"

Lately I think I've been harder on the nurse than Kirstie Alley is on a pair of stilettos. After all, she shows up to work everyday, she is usually right on time with the meds, and on the rare occasion she throws in a little tug during my sponge bath. She's under appreciated like Val Kilmer. And it all got me thinking about some other gales that fly under the radar.

I was contemplating the 5 woman that I think are absolutely gorgeous, funny, or otherwise worthy of mass adoration but who somehow slide under the tag. I will think of anything to keep my mind from HellJob. Five to One, here it is.

5) Jenna Elfman - Get it all out of your system, the laughing, the pointing, the name calling, it's true I dug Dharma and Greg. The biggest reason to watch, besides Alan Rachhins hippie dad character, was the infectious Elfman's combination brains, humor, and a body that rocked harder than Appetitte for Destruction. She cemented her position of this list with a mad hot turn in Ron Howard's EdTV.

4) Chistina Ricci - Wednesday Adams grew up to be the hottest gothic since Yvonne DeCarlo. She does tend to lose some of her allure when she stick figures and for that reason Ben & Jerry should send her a pint a day for the rest of my life, after that I just won't care. Though she has had my affections for some time two roles stand out in my mind. Her corset busting role in Sleepy Hallow was certainly the stuff of "Polish The Purple Heated Pope" legend, but it was nothing compared to watching her cling to Samuel L. Jackson's leg while he played the blues in Black Snake Moan. I two would chain her up and keep her in the house, just not for her own good.

3) Patricia Arquette - The psychic Mommy of Medium is hot, say what you will about the fact that she is on the plus side, that don't matter one damn bit. This woman was Alabama Worley, and if you can watch True Romance and not think that she is the sweetest thing since Peaches, you need help from the nurse. Big body, crooked teeth, doesn't matter to me, in the grand scheme of life she could be my psychic friend any day of the week. She might even change my mind on all that mumbo jumbo.

2) Polly Walker - Siren of all sirens she plaayed the uber bitch Atia on HBO's blood and fuck festival ROME. Aside from the brutality of the show it was Polly that kept me coming back week and week, cursing Marc Anthony for falling for that pipe cleaner of a Cleopatra.

1) Sarah Silverman - Jimmy Kimmel has hit the lottery so many times he should be banned from gambling. When you woman is the hottest, funniest, woman ever to fuck Matt Damon, what else can one ask for? It's her sense of boy humor, the crooked smile, and her tractor beam like boobies that make her my number one. All hail Sarah.

Honorable mention goes to the ladies who read the Asylum. It amazes me everyday the collective beauty of the women who leave me comments. So lovely, so smart, and such good taste in bloggers.

Who flies on your radar that you think other people miss? Who's hot?

Dixie Cup of Love: The X Chromosone.

Bonfair of the Vanities

2008-05-24T04:16:00.000-07:00

"That's the way it began,We were hand in hand, Glenn Miller's Band was better than before. We yelled and screamed for more. And the chorus tune, Made us dance across the room, It ended all too soon" Little River Band from "Reminiscing"

The nurse and I were having an Alternate Reality kind of morning as we sat around, taking the meds slowly, and talking about the good old days. See, thought this here bloggy is only about two months old, the nurse has been with me since birth: day one. From my epidural high as I squeezed my way out of SuperMom's Play Doh Fun Factory of Life to yesterday's horrible day at HellJob, she has always been there. So, as we verbally danced through the years three names came to reign supreme. Don, Wayne and Atomic.

I will get to more tales of Wayne and Atomic, but today I want to introduce you all to Don, fuck that Donnie. Say hello to the nice people would ya? You fine folks, my fans and friends get special guests who stop by from time to time when I write about them, and I'm hoping today is no different. Donnie will be available for questions in the lobby after the show.

Donnie and I met in high school through another mutual friend, Stevie. But Stevie didn't have the razor wit that Donnie, Wayne and I shared, so he ended up being the constant butt of jokes both practical and verbal. In Donnie, though, I found one of my "other" brothers, Wayne and Atomic both qualify under this auspicious title. See, I basically lived at Donnie's. His parents were my second parents, his Pop was my only real father figure and I called him Pop. Donnie's mom I called Cherie for that is her name and I already had SuperMom at home, so no need for the Mom tag, but surrogate mother she most definitely was.

Donnie's house was the scene of many a shenanigan. Whether it be pulling the tacked down carpet up in the middle of the night or wakes that somehow felt more like parties, times were rarely dull. We would inflict upon his mother movies like The Wall, Tommy, Clockwork Orange, or Blue Velvet while she smoked and drank incredible amounts of coffee, I'm amazed she ever slept. And she has this laugh, a cackling howl that if you were the recipient of, heaven help you. It was wicked. Funny, but wicked.

We built a weight room, we swam, we drank copious amounts of booze and beer all under the watchful eye, she only has one, of Cherie. And when Pop was home we minded his business which he was never allowed to talk about due to security clearance issues, at least that's what he told us, probably just didn't want to talk to a bunch of drunk teenagers about his day at the office, and really, could you blame him? But Pop would let me mow the lawn of a pack of Pall Mall Non Filters, crushingly harsh smokes to take in my youth, but hey smokes were smokes. For all the good stuff and the bad, they were my family.

Even when the truth of my origins became known, I lied for years about where I was from, they scolded but loved me just the same. I introduced, kind of, Donnie to his wife. I learned much about how a family works. I grew up as the third, well fourth if you count James, child of the Harris family and I am forever grateful to them for allowing me in.

Donnie will now field any questions you may have about himself? Me in high school? The shenanigans that I don't dare mention? Whatever.

Dixie Cup of Love: My brother Don.

Squirt Some

2008-05-23T05:22:00.000-07:00

"And please remember that I never lied, And please remember, how I felt inside now honey. You gotta make it your own way, But you'll be alright now sugar, You'll feel better tomorrow, Come the morning light now baby" Guns 'N Roses from "Don't Cry"

As the nurse came in with a decorative Flintstones Dixie cup full of meds cut in the shape of Betty Rubble, the most edible of the cast, I couldn't help but notice her eyes were swollen and red. As I have stated before the nurses pain in one of my great sources of amusement, the others being children running into closed sliding glass doors and the movies of Pauly Shore, it true, it's sad, but it's true. In order for the effect to fully envelope my being I have to know the cause of her anguish. Symptoms are great, but the impetuous really pumps my nads. After asking what was the matter the nurse informed me that sometimes she just cries so that she knows she's alive. She needs to feel something and in the absence of anything else, she clings to grief. Holy Hell, what a gyp. Crying for no reason, totally senseless.

There is a myth that real men don't cry. That's hogwash. Anyone who says that I am any less of a man because, yes, the end of E.T. The Extra Terrestrial is touching and emotional, well they can kiss my whole ass. Sometimes tears flow at the strangest times. For instance, I didn't cry when my grandparents died, not for any of them, but I did when my uncle passed away. It wasn't about carrying for any one person more than the other, it just hit me in a different way. And that's what I'm getting at today, the unexpected tears.

The last movie that made me cry, totally snuck up on me. I was sitting at home, an yes, I was a lot of high. I think it was the numb maker cocktail of weed and Ambien. Yes, it's hard to stay awake, but it's also so relaxing that you really do find it difficult to move your limbs without a great deal of thought. It's the perfect "space" to be in while watching cinema. So, with my concentration completely transfixed on the film showing in 53" of colorful splendor, I never saw it coming.

To understand how this wonderful flick got to me, you need some important background information. I used to write these letters, still have them in the boxes and boxes of scribblings that I've kept, these letters were to my daughter, Megan. Now, don't freak out like a character on a soap opera that just found out that they have an evil twin, well all do, but I don't have a daughter, not yet. Always thought if I had to have a kid, if by some cosmic accident I was chosen to be someones father, then I wanted it to be a girl. A son would be fine, but a daughter, a Daddy's Little Girl, that's something that I always thought I could be worthy of. Now that you know that we can get back to our regularly scheduled blog, without further interruptions.

As I watched the film, zoned out of my mind on downers, I wasn't paying attention to the details. The over all grasp of the movie was getting through, bit I missed the smallest of details and it caused the water works like chopping onions. For those of you who haven't seen the Paul Haggis movie "Crash" I don't want to ruin a beautiful moment. If you have seen it, you will understand that the daughter of the Latino man was the impetuous of my tear duct betrayal. I'm not afraid to admit it because, a real man can cry, and those that tell you otherwise are lying to you and themselves.

Any movies make you cry?

Dixie Cup of Love: I wrote this because my sister asked me to explain to my nephew that it was all right to cry, that he didn't have to be a tough guy all the time.

PS - A quick favor. Ms. Judi Sunshine, whom most of you love and adore as much as I, needs to get a few more subscribers to her blog to achieve a great personal goal. I don't know what it is, as it was personal. But if you haven't subscribed to her site, please take a moment to do so. The blog you save could be your own. Judi's Blog.

Taking Summer Back

2008-05-22T06:03:00.000-07:00

"So let's board the dogs lock the door. We'll roll down Interstate 94. Be the best week of our lives I can tell. We'll take our dream vacation in the Dells" The Gear Daddies from "Dream Vacation"

The nurse informed me that it was time for her annual getaway week. This always made me uneasy, as I was never sure if she would ever come back, and of course I had no idea how I would get my meds while she was gone. It's not like she deserved a break or anything, how hard can dealing with yours truly be? I'm strapped down eighty percent of the time and I ask for a sponge bath every other day. It's not like I'm some Naomi Campbell of a patient, throwing cell phones, ranting about tofu, and generally being a spoiled bitch. I'm a tethered down patient in an Asylum for the love of Pete. Why does she even get vacations, she's imaginary?

We've all played the "Where would you go for a vacation if you could go anywhere game?". It's fun to think about ourselves in exotic locales, smoking worldly strands of marijuana or sipping shots off the belly of a locale prostitute. Wait, maybe that's just how I envision my vacation. I don't have the kids that I need to make happy. Disney World is not on my radar screen. That is, unless they built a Disney World Amsterdam, in which case I'm certainly gonna enjoy the shit out of Mr. Toad's Wild Ride. Maybe spend the day at Goofy's Bakery eating pot brownies and giving passing children the bird. Stoned to the bone I just might figure out what the appeal is of "It's A Small World", cause sober that is just a boring, mind numbing ten minutes.

I'd like to go to Italy, zip around Rome on a Vespa, pointing and saying "Ciao" to the locals. That would be a trip all about food and finding an Italian hooker with baby seal sized brown eyes. Sure, I'd want to take in the sights, maybe get high and visit the Vatican, cause that would be the only way to do it. But alas, this would require finding weed in a foreign land that isn't as friendly to the Glaucoma set as The Netherlands. You know, I'm sure there are museums and plenty of old stuff, not just talking hookers here, in Amsterdam. Ciao Italy. I hardly missed you.

What about the land down under? Australia seems appealing. I've heard that the women there are quite the free spirited batch. Not that I am saying that all Aussie women are whores, not at all, I just read that it's the easiest place in the world to get laid. But you know, the problem with Australia is, it's at the other end of the world. The plane ride if like four days long, that's no way to start a vacation. Sure, getting piloted with an Aborigine sounds like a hoot, all that fire, dancing and digereedo playing. But you know, Scott can blow that bamboo and he's not quite four days away. Nope, Australia is off the itinerary.

So where does that leave my vacation planning? How about some place right here in the old U.S. of A.? Now, just gotta pick a destination. Let's see. Florida, too humid. Washington, too much rain. New York, too New York-ey. North Dakota, why the hell would anyone vacation in North Dakota? Hawaii, interesting thought, but now that I'm east coast it's a hella plane ride, might was well go to... Amsterdam.

Well, I guess picking a destination for the week that you are allotted for personal time from a dead end, soul crushing, slave waged job is harder than I thought. Am I the only one that thinks that we should get some kind of summer vacation package? Not all of us can take off June through Sept., I'd be willing to take Dec through Feb, doesn't matter that much too me, it would just be a great way to increase productivity, happy working environments, and vacations wouldn't have to be crammed into a seven day window, which would put Australia back on the board.

Where would you go on Vacation? What's the best one you've been on? Family vacation horror stories always welcome.

Dixie Cup of Love: Dutch Hookers and Bakers.

Hanging My Hat

2008-05-21T05:12:00.000-07:00

"Somewhere round mile marker 112, Papa started hummin the funk, I gotta jones in my bones before we know, We were singing this melody. Stop the car pulled out the guitar, Halfway to New Orleans." Marc Broussard from "Home"

Being locked in the Asylum for as long as i have, and trust me it's been an eternity, I have found ways to make the most of my surroundings. I've come to think of my nurse as something like family. Granted, it would be an enabler/addict relationship. She supplies the drugs and I need them to remain docile amongst you so-called "normals". Whatever our relationship is, the nurse makes my time in personal hell feel like home. And thinking of this got me intrigued about the idea of what home means to me.

I've traveled around, seen some country, but I always ended my journey where they began. Home. Now you can imagine that as great as SuperMom was at juggling three brats, two jobs, and a social life, we did tend to more about like gypsies in a traveling show. The only home that she has ever owned in the one that we currently live in. So, home was never a particular place, more of a feeling. It was where I felt comfortable as Oprah at a buffet. When my dreams were sweeter than Miley Cyrus on lithium. Where the food always tasted like I'd just smoked a bowl.

When I was in Minnesota it was friends like Jeff, Travis, Angie, and of course Cari that made it feel like home. It was the way they welcomed me into their lives. The opened their blessed Norwegian hearts to me like Brian Wilson opened my ears to music. Like Kevin Smith opened my mind to the snap of dialogue. They were accepting and non-judgmental in a way that only people who spend months covered in Jack Frost's dropping, eating hot dish, could be.

When I went to Michigan, though there was the same amount of crappy weather, it never felt like home. There was nothing in that dirty depressing p[lace that would ever make me want to come back. Sorry Michiganites, or Michigonians, or whatever it is you call yourselves, Detroit ruined the whole state for me. Much the way that the Packers ruined the entire state of Wisconsin. But hey that's only 2 out of 50 states that are on the black list. And of the remaining states that I have not visited only one has the potential to be added, not saying which one.

Even though SuperMom, my sister, and my niece and nephews are here, the Slow still doesn't feel like home. LA does because for the last five years my friends there made it feel like no other place on Earth. It's the first time in my life that family isn't enough to make me feel secure. There's something about home that makes you feel invincible. Think about it. Do you ever feel safer than when you get inside the walls of home? Whether it be the house you live in, your parents, or the state where your friends are.

Will this place ever feel like home? Sure it will. Once I get my friends here, my smoker set up, a round of movie bomb, and a bottle of rum. Until them I guess I'll just click my heels together when I miss everyone back home, worked for Dorothy, and we've had plenty of tornadoes.

What make you feel at home?

Dixie Cup of Love: Darling Niki for the idea.

The Complete Idiot

2008-05-20T06:09:00.000-07:00

"Welcome to a new kind of tension. All across the alien nation. Where everything isn't meant to be okay. Television dreams of tomorrow. We're not the ones who're meant to follow. For that's enough to argue." Green Day from "American Idiot"

The nurse was reading a book entitled "The Complete Idiot's Guide to Nursing in An Imaginary Asylum" and I realized that these books have gotten out of control. First of all, I didn't even know that the nurse could read above a fourth grade level. But the fact that there was a book that so was specific to the nurse and her role in my life was astounding to me. And it got me thinking about other idiot guides that I think the world is ready for and some that really exist.

There are things that an idiots guide are useful for. A Complete Idiot's Guide to HTML can come in handy. The Idiot's Guide to Self Esteem isn't. If you're self esteem is so far in the porcelain altar that you feel the need to read a book that begins by calling you an idiot, thereby lowering your self esteem, you need bigger more professional help than that book can offer you. If you buy an idiots guide to being funny, you're not, get over it, move on, take up scrapbooking. There's an idiot's guide for that to help you get started.

If you are currently reading the Complete Idiots Guide to Breaking Bad Habits, the first habit you need to break is buying worthless books. You can't quit smoking because a book tells you to, you just have to set down the smokes. I can't, I love smoking, but I know that I won't buy a Complete Idiot's Guide to Cancer because I know that I got the cancer because I was a complete idiot. Did you know there's a Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Time. This book should be one page long. Reader, buy a watch, get more shit done. The End. Do you think your time is being well spend reading that book? Do you think the 17 bucks you shelled out for it is listed as a great expense in the Complete Idiot's Guide to Managing Your Finances?

I will admit that I have a few of these books. Why? Because I was feeling like an incomplete idiot and thought that I could gain some knowledge from them. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Writing told me to write. Insightful, no? I would never have been able to figure that one out on my own. I do not, however, own the Complete Idiot's Guide to Fly Fishing because I find the title to be oxymoronic. There are no Complete Idiot's Guides on my bookshelf that tackle Jesus, The Bible, The Book of Revalations, Jewish Myth and Mysticism, Understanding Mormanism, or Kabbalah, yet they are all available. Screw you Scientologists, you're not covered.

But there's a few books that I'm not sure if they exist, but they should. I'd like to read the Complete Idiot's Guide to Masturbation. If you can't figure out how to please yourself, you should be able to buy a book that teaches you. I'd like to read the Complete Idiot's Guide to Understanding Women. And I hope that it's written by a dude that has never been married, had kids, and still lives in his mothers basement, cause he would know as much as anyone else. The Complete Idiot's Guide to Being A Celebutante could actually teach you how to use millions of dollars to be thought of world wide as a whore. Where's the Complete Idiot's Guide to Becoming a Whore? What a read that would be, huh?

Now, that this blog is done, I feel like a complete idiot. Maybe I'll write a book.

What Idiot's Guide would you like to read?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Complete Idiot's Guide to Drugs.

Even Paul McCartney Had Wings

2008-05-19T04:00:00.000-07:00

"Take time for your pleasure, And laugh with love. Take the hand of another, And sing for the wings of a dove" Madness from "Wings of a Dove"

When the nurse came in to administer my dose of happiness inducers she could still smell the beer that was seeping out of every pore of my body. The look of disappointment on her face told me that she was sad that I chose to over consume, but I gotta tell you, it was just what the doctor ordered. The week has zapped the life out of me and I nearly passed on my evening out due to exhaustion, but I'm no quitter. I showered, donned my bowling shirt, scented up, and set out with a mission to introduce myself to anyone and everyone.

I arrived at the bar to find my beloved Bree behind the bar and my usual chair at the end of that bar was unoccupied. Lucky me. As I was a little light on funds, since I haven't gotten paid from HellJob yet, I decided on beer instead of rum. Bree decided that she would charge me for a pitcher, but she would tap my beers one at a time to avoid warming. What a doll.

It was race night in North Carolina which meant that my evening would be revolve around conversations about a sport that I really have nothing to say about. So, already my mission was facing some obstacles, but I was determined. Sitting next to me was a wonderfully drunk couple, April and Ron. They were great about answering my race related questions, being a good couple of single serving friends. Bree checked on me from time to time, filling my beer as it got low. I love her more and more every time I go in there.

When the race ended the crowd vanished. As that particular bar closes at midnight, stupid Sunday booze laws, I decided to head up to a private club that gets to stay open. I was a little tipsy, but not drunk, my tab, $6.75. Bree got a 13 dollar tip. Yeah, I love her.

I arrived at the tavern in high spirits.As I walked in I was greeted by my Irish friend Kevin, it was his birthday so there was much to celebrate. It was with Kevin that I realized something interesting about myself.

For some reason my irrational fear of rejection has always kept me from simply just walking up to women and saying hello. However, as a wingman, the rejection factor is zero. The job of a good wingman in to help his partner close the deal. There are many tasks that may be involved, but the initial introduction is the most crucial. I introduced Kevin to Jill, whom I had never met before sidling up to her and saying "Have you met Kevin?" Granted I'm no Barney Stintson, but I got the two of them talking, excused myself and went back to the table of Kevin's celebration. His friend, and my new one, Mike looked at me and said "Where were you five months ago when I was single?" Apparently, a good wingman is hard to find in South Carolina.

I chatted up a woman named Brooke and after getting stiff armed by her I started talking to Crystal. Neither gal would end up fulfilling my aching need for physical contact, if you know what I mean, but it was still a good night out. I wanted to sleep in seeing is that I closed the bar, but my two year old nephew decided at eight that I needed to wake up for pancakes. If it would have been anyone else I would have hit them with a shoe, but for him I got up and had breakfast.

Why is meeting people so hard?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Wingmen

The Cop Out Blog #1

2008-05-16T19:58:00.000-07:00

"I'm more ashamed of them than what I'm wearing. Not reaching past the window ledge. There's a view of life that we're not sharing. 'Cause they won't walk out to the edge." The Bangles from "I Got Nothing"

The nurse laughed at me as she walked in to give me my meds. The reason for her hysteria was obvious. She knew what I didn't, that I had nothing to write about.

I'm sorry for the shortness of this blog, it was a late night and it's being followed by a very early morning. This work thing is cutting into my blogging, there's no question about that. Which leads me to my first cop out.

When I was growing up SuperMom used to enact a thing she called "Five Minutes Free Time". It was a five minute period in which any of her children could confess to an atrocity without the fear of punishment. What was said in "Free Time" was completely nonpunishable, and as if that wasn't the coolest, she created an interesting side rule.

She could ask any question and we were to be completely honest. So, I offer you all "Five Minutes of Free Time". Any question that you pose to me in the comments section of this blog I will answer with one hundred percent honesty. This may rub you the wrong way, if you're not prepared to hear the real truth, you may want to carefully word any and all questions. So. I get off work at about 7pm this evening. I will come home and my first order of business will be to answer the questions, all of them, no matter how many each of you asks, no matter how long it takes. This, hopefully, will make up for me not being able to get to comments yesterday.

Okay, the clock starts....now.

Dixie Cup of Love: The Person That Buys My Script and Gets Me Out of Working A Real Job.

High Wire Days

2008-05-16T05:48:00.000-07:00

"I'll shine up the old brown shoes, put on a brand-new shirt. I'll get home early from work if you say that you love me." Cheap Trick Live at Budakon from "I Want You To Want Me"

When the nurse came in to give me some new drugs she had a backstage laminant from some band called Bob Knows Best or some other such nonsensical name hanging around her neck. As the pass dangled above me it occurred to me that some security guard most of gotten one helluva a blow job in order to let the nurse backstage. There must have been more attractive groupies there, ones that survived house fires or had their noses eaten clear to the bone from flour bag size loads of coke. How did my little whore of a nurse rate a backstage pass? Behavior at concerts makes no sense to me.

My first concert was epic. Not in scope or spectacle, but simply because it was the first time I stepped into Universal Amphitheater with the strict purpose to hear music. I won't bother defending the show, because it was the 80's and it was free. Untouchables opened for, are you ready,. The Psychedelic Furs. Ska meets Nu-Wave as only the age of the skinny tie could deliver. We won thickets from KROQ the greatest radio station in LA for years. Even as I grew older and started to find their constant shilling for the Red Hot Chili Peppers to grate on my nerve like a cat in a blender, I still listened to them from time to time just to stay loyal. Besides they were the only radio station in the City of Angels that spun Boingo, that and that alone vaulted them like Mary Lou Retton into a pantheon all their own.

My former brother-in-law was capital M, METAL. He went to shows by Judas Priest, WASP, Metal Church, shows that people showed up to in copious amounts of iron studded cow hide with a grimace on their faces, defying, begging, wanting to get in a fight. I never did understand the idea of paying $40 a ticket to go somewhere and be pissed off. I could do that at home and I didn't have to pay for parking, well most of the time. One day, back in the day, I took him to see Oingo Boingo. A vibe that was decidedly different than he was used to . At Boingo shows people laughed, they high fived as you walked by, the danced manically in the aisles. My sisters husband was slack jawed like Cletus the Yokel on the Simpsons. He couldn't believe the amount of pure joy that the collective displayed. There were no high fives at a Judas Priest show, there was no dancing to Pantera, just banging and moshing.

Boingo concerts to the contrary there are rules that must be followed. Holding your lighter lit and aloft through the entirety of Wanted Dead Or Alive, acceptable. Using your super glam dates hair spray in conjunction with said lighter to create the Aqua Net Fireball, unacceptable. It is acceptable to jump on your chair from time to time, however not during a 45 minute acoustic set by Elvis Costello. Taking a hit off the joint of the hippies next to you, totally cool. Taking the acid of the dirty hippy that has been to more Grateful Dead shows than Jerry Garcia will assure you end up in the first aid tent drinking Orange Juice while talking to a tent pole that sounds a lot like Morgan Freeman. It is okay to do a stage dive if: A) You do not weigh over 165 pounds, and that's pushing it. B) Don't stand up on the stage dancing like Courtney Cox in a Springsteen video, she was a plant, you look like a ficus. C) Don't try to sing a few bars with Billy Joel, we paid to hear The Piano Man, not you.

Other than those simple rules, feel free to act the fool, show your boobies, sing a long at the top of your lungs, and by all means, ladies, do whatever you have to do in order to get backstage, stage hands need love too.

What behaviors to you exhibit at concerts? Does the wild thing come out in you?

Dixie Cup of Love: Danny Elfman and the Boys.

Finding Pennies

2008-05-15T05:48:00.000-07:00

"I am aware, I've been misled. I disconnect my heart, my head. Don't wanna recognize when things go bad. The things that you'll accept, Except that I am finding the words" Jack's Mannequin from "I'm Ready"

Oh the nurse, the poor lonely haggard nurse. As she doped me up the tears poured from her sockets. Not that I really cared but for my own amusement I inquired as to what was the cause of the water works. She opened up to me like I was Dr. Phil and she was a soulless guest who wanted desperately to know why her alcoholic meth addicted daddy didn't love her. It was a pathetic display brought on by her lack of success in procuring male attention without a stripper pole and a ridiculous cover charge. Out of terror that she might actually continue talking, I asked if she had ever tried online dating. The look she gave me stunk of loser and superiority.

I'm not say that the online world is for everyone. But being the new kid in town without so much as a Rutter man let alone a solid wing man, I have to allow my mind to be open to other avenues of finding some female companionship. And without plunking down cash for a tumble with the three fingered hooker, I have decided to write about the success, see I'm being optimistic, or abject failure, realism over rides, of the proceedings. First step for me was choosing a site from which to find my Penny Lane.

When it comes to amoreous onlineous I don't necessarily think you get what you pay for. The object here is multiple options not a stellar portfolio consisting of eight million questions all leading up to the grand conclusion, which I already know or why would I be trying to find love on the Internet, that I am completely incompatible with the entire female populace of the The Slow. I don't need some quack TV shrink giving me advice on dating and relationships, he's getting a divorce anyway, so who the fuck is he to dispense wisdom on the subject? No, I decided on a cheaper service without celebrity endorsements for my soul mate search.

Next came the profile itself. What does one say about themselves to be honest and still be found attractive all in one paragraph? I didn't want to send out misinformation, but I needed to reel the truth in a bit. Somehow I didn't imagine "Eternally single male blog writer seeks big breasted woman for dirty, hot, immoral sex, movie companionship, and only occasional conversation. No Cats. No Tom Cruise Fans." was going to rake the ladies in like a twenty point in a row craps run at Caesar's Palace. So, if you have any suggestions about how I should sell myself, by all means, let me hear it.

As for the photo, well, I went ahead and used the default I have on this profile. It says alot, that photo. Yes I smoke, yes my hair is traced with gray, no, I'm not entirely serious all the time. That was really the easy part for me.

So I started fishing with a nice introduction letter that I sent out to 5 eligible ladies I found on the site. To keep you up to date I will call the potential bachelorettes by brief descriptions. #1 - The Short Cutey #2 - The Rocker Chick #3 - The Home Run Swing #4 - The Silly One and #5 - The Bobbie Queen. Those are the top 5 players on the program. I'm sure that I will never hear back from at least 3 of the 5, so after one week of no contact I will try to call up another player. Game on.

If at any time one of you would like to pull me out of the game, become the muse and heart of my world, feel free to apply. I'm equal opportunity.

Ever done the online thing? Do you think less of me for this attempt?

Dixie Cup of Love: I'm really routing for the Short Cutey.

Under My Skin

2008-05-14T05:22:00.000-07:00

"I've got you under my skin. I've got you deep in the heart of me. So deep in my heart that you're really a part of me. I've got you under my skin." Frank Sinatra from "Under My Skin

When the nurse came in to feed me the gel caps of bliss I couldn't help but notice that her left bicep was wrapped in cellophane, the international sign for "I just got a new tattoo." It would shock no one that the nurse was inked up heavier than an 80's hair band bass player. Her new piece looked, if my trippin' eyes didn't deceive me, like her. She got a tattoo of herself, in full nursing regalia. It was a work of art that I was sure she would one day come to regret, like a tramp stamp on a college sophomore.

Tattoos are stories. At least that's how I have looked at them since the first day I walked into an inkslingers studio. See, in my youth, like everyone else, I thought that tattoos were for bikers and sailors. Yeah sure Popeye had anchors inked on his massive, making Judi hot, forearms, but he was a sailor. Bikers, well they weren't in SuperMoms friend set, so they too were looked on with undeserving scorn. Yet, I was no sailor, nor Hell's Angels member, but at 18 I found myself one sleepy day, sitting in my ink man's chair while I watched an old black and white episode of the Andy Griffith Show, getting my first piece. SuperMom was unthrilled to say the least, but she couldn't argue with the picture. I now have three, and like Lay's Potato Chips, I wanted more once I started.

The first piece, my virginity breaker, is located on my right shoulder. It is a facial portrait of Marilyn Monroe. Growing up, and still to this very day, I have found Ms. Monroe to be the epitome of Hollywood. She strove for acceptance at every turn only to be seen as nothing more than a sex symbol, boy can I relate. But seriously, watch the movie "Bus Stop". It's one of the greatest performances I've ever seen. So getting Marilyn symbolized to me my desire for a career in LaLaLand, in my belief that the life I desire is attainable, and that dreams sometimes come true. That's what she's there to remind me.

Tattoo number two is one that no one believes I have until I prove it. On my left shoulder blade, on my upper back, there is a colorful rendition of the Animaniacs Logo. The Warner Bros crest, banner across it that reads "Animaniacs" and all three: Yacko, Wacko and Dot. Was it my favorite cartoon? No. That would be Scooby Doo. But as I was setting out from California for my Minnesota adventure, not knowing if I would return, I was leaving behind two of my best friends, Wayne and Kelly. Together the three of us were like the cartoon trio, with just as much singing and shenanigans. It's there to remind me of the friends that one often leaves behind, but never forgets. It marks a time in my life. As does my latest ink.

Under Marilyn in bold thick font are the letters "WWTSD". They are there to remind me of another group of friends, another time I would never want to forget. At a small apartment in Orange, California a tribe of friends with nicknames like Newman, The D, Buddy, Smitty, Atomic, Vash, The Boy, Big Mike, and the unnicknamed Chey would meet in total or lesser numbers each Sunday to watch The Sopranos. We cooked Italian food, we theorised, and we had more fun that should be possible. The tattoo is there to remind me, the letters stand for "What Would Tony Soprano Do." Gotta love a guy with a fictional mobster as a spiritual leader.

Do you have tattoos? What's the story? Do you want one? Why? Totally against them? Fascist?

Dixie Cup of Love: Shawn, the slinger who inked my Animaniacs.

The Tiki Amulet

2008-05-12T03:45:00.000-07:00

"When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer, Superstition ain't the way" Steve Wonder from "Superstition"

As the nurse fed me my morning dose of jitterbuggery I noticed that there was a small pendant on the end of her necklace. Yeah, I noticed it because of the way it danced in the cleave of her unnatural bosom. Like a tongue with attention deficit disorder darting from one silicone balloon to the other. When I asked her about the pendant, not the boobies, she said it was a good luck charm that she had worn since grade school. I had a hard time imagining the nurse being superstitions, though I had no trouble imagining her in a little school girl outfit.

There are certain things that I do the same way out of habit. I clean my left ear before my right. I start shaving from my left side and work my way across. I put on my left shoe first. These are not superstitions, they are habits, I'm left handed after all. Which is not to say that I don't have idiosyncrasies that baffle the mind.

When I prepare to write my blog I must write it by hand on a yellow legal pad, it can't be longer than two hand written pages, and I never include the song lyric in the hand written text. Why I don't include the lyric text is beyond me, I just don't. Granted I don't always precisely know what I gonna use. Superstition play a part, I didn't plan it that way and yet it seems to work so why change it.

When I push a yellow light, stepping on the gas instead of the brake, I rub the index and middle finger of my right hand across the roof of the car, twice. Why? Don't know. I'm sure it has something to do with Wayne and/or Don but I have no clue why I do it, but I do it without fail.

Before I write a screenplay I fill three or four legal pads with complete randomness about the plot, the characters, certain events that I would like and things I don't want to do. Some would call it being prepared, but these notes are generally things like "Steve eats macaroni and cheese every day." it's never in the script, but I will always know that about Steve, even if I knew his favorite food was Pastrami on rye, the Mac and Cheese is a habit.

Now you all know that I don't believe in voodoo or any of that hocus-pocus, so how is it that I have these silly superstitions? Can't really say. It's one of lifes unanswerable questions like how does Keanu Reeves get to keep making movies or what exactly makes Lindsey Lohan's sister and mother worthy of a television show? As far as unanswerable questions go, I'm sure my case of superstitious behavior is right under Oprah's dietary behavior in the grand scheme of worthless information. But for some strange reason that's something I thought I would share today. There is this nagging stubborn urge I have to be divulgent about what makes me go clickety-clack lately. Probably has something to do with the new job, newness often makes me think of silly things that got me where I am, it's a habit, not a superstition.

Do you have any peculiar habits? Any strange superstitions?

Dixie Cup of Love: The Lucky.

I've Been Called A Mother...

2008-05-11T06:57:00.000-07:00

"If you could Coddle the infection, They can amputate at once. You should have been, I could have been a better son." My Chemical Romance from "Mama"

It's not my place to know if the nurse has any demon like offspring. As a bride of Satan I can only imagine that she has spat at least one little Damian from her loins, but of this I have no proof, course if she was my mother I would breast feed for life. So seeing that the jury was still out I decided not to wish my medicator a happy Mother's Day. Who knows, it might have offended her.

To all those with children, cats, dogs, fish, real-dolls, and imaginary tykes I wish you a happy Mother's Day, but this shouldn't be a day for mothers, simply popping a puppy out of your womb should earn you no special recognition, it should be a day for Mom's. Like SuperMom. Women that take the time to teach, love, and support their seeds. Extraordinary women who accept responsibility when their "little cuties" are wailing so loudly in a restaurant that Marlee Matlin starts to complain. Amazing women that don't let their children use the aisles of the grocery store as their own personal playgrounds. Magnificent women who understand that discipline and child abuse are two entirely different things.

When I think about SuperMom in contrast to the Mom's on TV I am amazed that she is still walking. There was no Mr. Brady and his quarter dozen there to help her with the hard stuff. In my version Carol would have been living in an apartment while Mike Brady nailed every ugly piece of tail with a half a Johnnie Walker buzz. In my version of the story there is no Alice waiting around in the kitchen for Sam the Butcher to bring her the meat. It was just Carol, making a meatloaf and hoping it would last for two days. SuperMom wasn't a Marge without a Homer, A Peggy without an Al. She wasn't Roseanne without Dan, she wasn't even Miss Ramano, because in all those cases the father was at least in the mix enough to be a "without". Even Bonnie Franklin had Schneider. My sperm donor left SuperMom to do it all. And she did it with poise, intelligence, and a sensitivity that is second to none.

Many of you Mom's out there will get tokens and trinkets emblazoned that you are "The World's Best Mom", it's simply not true. I'm sure you're above average, maybe even superior, but SuperMom is the one and only, Champion of the World, Undisputed, Unchallenged, Best Mom that a boy like me could have. I owe her more than just my life, I owe her my respect, my love, and I need to prove to her beyond a shadow of a doubt that I understand all the lessons she taught me. I may not have always been the "Greatest Son on the Planet", I'm still not, there is no S on my chest, but that would never stop SuperMom from treating me like the Oscar was already on the mantle. For a woman who raised three children on her own, for her to support the dreams of the "artistic" child, well that means the world to me. I haven't made her proud enough, in my opinion, but as I was set to shoot the first frame of film on "Poison of Choice" I called SuperMom to thank her for supporting me. And she cried tears of joy. I love SuperMom and wish her a very happy Mom's Day.

Tell me about your Mom, if you want.

Dixie Cup of Love: SuperMom

Reality Bites

2008-05-10T04:21:00.000-07:00

"Sitting in my armchair thinking again and again and again, going round in a circle I can't get out. then I look around thinking day and night and day, then you look around - there must be some explanation." Killing Joke from "The Fall of Because"

I could hear the nurse in the hallway talking to the steroid riddled orderly about The Bachelor or Beauty and the Geek, or some such reality show. The nurse was bending the Hulks like mans ear off about how she would never stoop to the level of appearing on such an objectifying show. This from a woman who got her nursing degree from the University of the Lap Dance. But her indignation over the so-called television programs got me thinking about the state of reality TV.

I heard about this program that is somehow supposed to entertain us this summer from the wonder brains at G4. Granted most of you have no idea that G4 is actually a television network, but I assure you it is. A video game centric network, which I generally have no problem with. This new show they are launching for the outdoor season is to be called "Hurl". According to what I heard the gist of this train wreck is that contestants gorge themselves on food then have to participate in physical challenges. The last one to vomit, wins. I shit you not. These so-called challenges consist of things like roller coaster riding, mechanical bull wrangling, and high dive belly flopping. I'm sure the combatants will be Pulitzer and Noble prize winners, one and all.

What's next? How about a show called "Big Brotha". In this show I see like 9 members of rival gangs living in a 2 bedroom crack house in the middle of the inner city. The challenges will be something to the effect of stereo theft for speed, the 100 yard television carry, and the Baby Daddy challenge where they try to simultaneously knock up as many crack whores as possible. Those that fail are evicted in a Drive-by ceremony.

Or, maybe I could get you interested in "Kicked in the Crotch". Sounds like a winner already doesn't it? In this game contestants take as many knees, punches, and stilettos to the Man Bag as possible without screaming in agony. The finalists must ejaculate into a specimen cup, lowest blood content wins.

But why stop there? Let's all watch "The Fart Game". One player lies on his back while another takes a "Beef Stew" position over the lying players face. If you can't handle the wretched stench of your punisher, you lose. However if you happen to Cracker Jack a fart and accidentally shat on your competitor, you're out. The finals involve dueling port-a-potties sans air vents. Last one to pass out is the winner.

My final suggestion is just cruel. It's "Nic Cage Film Rag" which subjects contestants to film festivals starring the "actor", once a player utters the phrase "God he sucks." they are eliminated. It opens with "Face-Off" which usually cuts the playing field in half. The finals involve an actual conversation with Cage, last one to punch him in the snout, wins.

Got an idea for your own show? Sickened by the state of reality television? Setting "Hurl" on your TiVo now?

Dixie Cup of Love: The only good reality show - The Joe Schmoo Show.

Working in a Cold Mind

2008-05-09T05:00:00.000-07:00

"Welcome to the workin' week. Oh I know it don't thrill you, I hope it don't kill you. Welcome to the workin' week. You gotta do it till you're through it so you better get to it." Elvis Costello from "Welcome to the Working Week"

When I took my meds the nurse looked at me with a different glint in her eyes. She was sensing that another chapter in my shackled down - doped up life was about to begin. How she knew this, I have no idea. I'm sure that some would call it ESP or female intuition, but it was she, herself, that dispelled the questions. "I heard you got a job in the laundry room. You're gonna be getting out of this room a whole lot more often." Apparently there was a memo going around. No witchcraft, no ESP, no black smoke monster, just a memo.

Yes it's true. Today I start my new job. What does this mean for the Asylum? Well, it means I may not get to blog comments until the evening, so if you're interested in my keen insights to you stellar observations you may have to check back in tomorrow. It also means that I need to kick it up a notch so that I can start writing for a living, giving me more time to be directly involved with you, my (gulp!) fans.

It also means I will be adding some much need coins to my coffer so I can start visiting some of you in person. As you probably figured out by the "Sota Saga" I have always suffered from wanderlust.. I need to get around like Lindsey Lohan testing rehab facilities. Through this blog I've got to know some of you, really know, not in an Internet predator facing Chris Hansen after chatting with a faux fourteen year old for some kiddy loving way. I'm involved in your lives, I speak of you, I think of you, I worry about you, and I want to shake your hands, have a cocktail, and just talk to you. So the job, it's not a bad thing. It will end up helping in the long run.

As will my Truth Box. I installed it so that I could get a gander at what some of you really think. Figuring that anonymity would allow some of you to say what's really on your mind in regards to the Asylum and myself. Here's what I've managed to figure out. A lot of you think I'm holding back, that I'm not challenging myself or you. I never really thought that I was meant to push you into deeper thought, if it happened once in a while that would be outstanding, because I get so much out of reading what you write. However, my main objective, my mission statement, my mantra has always been "We aim to Entertain." That's all I ever wanted to do, write a series that people would enjoy, along the way I'd clue you into some of the things that make me, me. Now I want you to do me a favor. Go to the Truth box, here, and tell me what you would like to read about. Is there a topic that you would like to hear my opinion on? Is there something more you expect from One Man Asylum? What would make you happier? We are nearing two hundred subscribers yet only about a quarter leave comments on a regular basis. I would like to hear from the quiet masses. I would be curious to know why you don't leave comments. And if you or the regular commenters have the fortitude to tell me what you think in the comments section of this blog, I look forward to reading those too.

Dixie Cup of Love: The First 200

Summertime Series - The Day The Music Died Part 4 of 4

2008-05-08T05:53:00.000-07:00

"And the three men I admire most: The father, son, and the holy ghost, They caught the last train for the coast The day the music died." Don McLean from "American Pie"

The nurse was staring at me as I tried to open my crusted shut eyes. She shook the Dixie cup in from of me rattling the pills in the bottom. Yet, somehow I knew I wouldn't get them until I was done with the Minnesota saga.

With my darling dear Cari headed off to college to improve the size of her big old brain, me and the fellas were poised to rock at Wee Fest. This event is an all day concert, several different bands, lots of beer, and even a little blow. I was amped, for obvious reasons, to see the spectacle not because I was a fan of country music, no not I, but there were two performers on the bill that I was Bang Zoom to the Moon over seeing. One was the legendary Merle Haggard, come on, he's a staple of country and stone cold drinking machine, someone to be admired. Then there was the headliner who had me giddy like a school girl at Sadie Hawkins. The one, the only, Ray Charles. Oh Daddy! I was pumped. I endured Trisha Yearwood, drank my way through Merle, and then with a healthy buzz cooking I was ready to be dazzled. A little Minnesota summer rain started to fall and Ray pulled the plug on his set after two songs. Didn't even get to What I Say. I was crushed, pissed and too drunk to care. I booed him harshly and left.

All the remained was closing the Hotel. As winter digs didn't come so easy and Cari was getting her knowledge on, I decided to drive my $400 Ford Fairmont back to California, no one thought it was gonna make it.

Closing night at the Hotel is a combination of celebration and painful goodbye. There are moments of of joy followed by tears of separation. Jeff, Travis, and I all worked until Rick, the owner and all around booze hound, told us to join the festivities. We did, with gusto. I was scheduled to depart the very next morning, the car was already packed. I knew I would be hungover and I knew that wasn't going to matter, the night was for us.

As I look back on that summer, and yeah I romanticize it more than I probably should, but ti was the greatest time of my life. I knew I would never feel at home in LA again, I did, but I always longed for my small town. Guess now I have it again, and if Jeff, Travis, Angie, and Cari were here I would be content to stay forever, but I"m getting off the closing night festivities, sorry.

As the evening started to wind down, meaning the doors were locked, it was well after hours, and it was still packed to the rafters because no one wanted to leave, a yearly tradition took place. The singing of Sangria and Wine by Jerry Jeff Walker, a song I came to know there and haven't heard since, was the first of the two. The last song of the night was American Pie, by Don McLean. You have to imagine 100 drunk Norwegians yelling at the top of their lungs through the entire song, awesome I know. Jeff, Travis, and I, arms over each others shoulders were powering through it until the line "The three men I admire most" when from our right we heard Fudgie, another of the bartenders, yell "Travis, Mike, and Jeff" Instant tears from me. The other two held their shit together until "The caught the last train for the coast" The reality that I was heading back out west hit and my boys wept. Perfect ending. I drove back to California the next morning never to return and taint my memory of the perfect summer, the perfect time, the perfect place, with the perfect people.

Ever have a summer that stands out as the best one?

Dixie Cup of Love: The good People of Detroit Lakes, circa 1993

Summertime Series - The 4th of July Part 3 of 4

2008-05-07T05:24:00.000-07:00

"She's waitin' for me, when I get home from work, oh, but things ain't just the same. She turns out the light, and cries in the dark, won't answer when I call her name" X from "4th of July"

The nurse was sitting at the edge of my bed, with holding my meds until I made with the details about the biggest weekend of the summer, so in order to get my high I continued the tale.

One of the things you have to understand about Detroit Lakes, Minnesota is that Playboy magazine once rated it the 4th best place to get laid over the Independence Day holiday in the nation. Lake Havasu was #1, Palm Springs #2, and Bea Arthur's Hollywood Mansion rounded it out. In DL, as the locals called it, the population of the sleepy lake town exploded like a zit on a nerds back. The beach was packed, the streets were chaos, and the bars, they had lines like Hyde in Hollywood. It was the one weekend when I was told not to drink too much while working. It was perfectly acceptable to be enjoying a Captain and Coke on a regular shift, but over the holiday I was expected to remain sober and be on my toes.

This busyness was hell on my budding love with Cari, though I was certain she would show up at the hotel sometime during the weekend. I was wrong about that. She was nowhere to be found. I worried, but there wasn't much I could do, as I was up to my ass in North Dakota State coeds trying to get into the overly crowded Hotel. I was sure that everything would return to normal once the tourists left. And it did. However, you know when you get that feeling in the pit of your stomach like everyone is hiding something from you, yeah, you know what I'm talking about. And I had a case if it that would make a tape worm feel like an antacid. Something was up in Norwegian World and she was hiding it from me.

A couple of days later she confessed, to something that I , as a retarded youngster, could not look past as just youthful exuberance. I was destroyed by news that I knew was coming. And I drank myself into feeling better, as was the custom of my 20's.

Eventually we got past it, but it was never the same. What had been Mike, Travis, Angie, and Cari turned into Mike, Jeff, and Travis. I even tried, one drunken night, to make a play for Angie, but she wasn't having that at all. So, the boys would run wild. I started hanging out with them less and less, blaming it on my search for winter accommodations as the Hotel closed just after Labor Day. Even managed to find a partner for some naked aerobics, but it was short lasting, not the sex, the relationship.

I have always regretted the fact that I treated Cari like, well, I treated her like a whore and I really had no right to do so. She was being young and we had no binding relationship other than friendship and a crush, both of which I almost ruined. So, I take a moment to apologize to her.

We did patch up our relationship enough to remain friends. It was a difficult day when she had to head back to school in St. Cloud. It was late August by then and there were only two important events left in the season. Wee Fest and closing night at the Hotel.

Ever regret ruining a friendship because of jealousy?

Dixie Cup of Love: This one's for Cari.

Tomorrow the conclusion.

Summertime Series - People Are Strange Part 2 of 4

2008-05-06T05:47:00.000-07:00

"People are strange, when you're a stranger, Faces look ugly when you're alone. Women seem wicked, when you're unwanted, Streets are uneven, when you're down" The Doors from "People are Strange"

The nurse wouldn't give me any meds until I told her more about my Minnesota adventure. In order to achieve the blissful high of my pills, I relented.

I had arrived in the land of Norwegians and Hot Dish ( a casserole concoction made in a large Pyrex casserole dish, its ingredients are still a mystery to me) as the green of spring had taken hold. My first days were of acclimation and pinball. There was a great golf themed machine at the Cormorant Pub, they had a good burger basket (burger and tots) as well. The dialect was baffling, ya, the pace was relaxing, oh ya, the water in Lake Sally still pretty cool, oh goodness ya. Being that the cabin was on the lake getting my wayward luggage delivered was a chore. We ultimately had to go pick up my bags at a boat repair shop, a small price to pay for a change of unmentionables.

One night, in my second week there, the happy couple had themselves a tiff. For the sake of everyones sanity and their privacy I decided that it was high time( hee-hee high time) I checked out the Hotel Shoreham. The name is a bit of a misnomer as the Hotel isn't really a hotel, not anymore. It was at the turn of the century, like 1908, but now it was a restaurant and bar with a kick ass pizza shack across a small fenced in quad. I headed in and took a seat at the bar. There I met Tom, he was a different guy in a really sweet yet kind of creepy way. As I downed mad quantities of Captain and Coke we talked and I was informed that the Hotel needed a bouncer for the season. The next morning I met with Rick, the owner, I was hired, and offered a room in a cabin on the Hotel property, leaving Dave and Julie alone and to their bickering.

The cabin was located conveniently between the beer cooler and the "Love Shack", a small one room cabin that was the residence of the cook, Travis, and his dog, Duncan. We became friends over many a night of drinking cheap beer and listening to Tool. Also a new pal was Jeff, he was a bartender at the Hotel, but he doesn't factor in to this til later. As Travis and I bonded over barley and hops, he introduced me to XXXX beer, a butter ale that is as smooth as Alicia Keys complexion, two other key components to my summer were also introduced. Angie and my Cari. Being fresh off the scar of Michelleworld, I have no idea how I fell for Cari like a bag of bricks being thrown from a high rise. Bust she was not feeling the same way, a theme for me, so I started my pathetic attempt at wooing her.

For the next few months we was like peas and carrots. We drank, God did we drink, we camped, we boated, we fished, and I did my best to woo my Norwegian strumpet. I did this by almost never leaving my cabin, playing enough Sega to give me a blister on my thumb the size of a Kiwi. The thing about Minnesotans is that they are cooped up all winter so when it hits 60 they are constantly outside. Being from Los Angeles, nice weather didn't mean bull crap to me, just another day. But someone, I was getting somewhere with Cari. I have no idea if she just felt bad for me, or was trying to coax me out of the house, but on day in late June we kissed. Little did I know that the biggest holiday of the summer was about to break me in pieces. The day is legendary in Detroit Lakes, and nothing you can do can prepare you for the 4th of July.

Ever crush on someone and had it become something more? Are you enjoying this story?

Dixie Cup of Love: Travis, Jeff, Angie, and Cari.

Tomorrow: The 4th of July

Summertime Series - The Pinball Wizard Part 1 of 4

2008-05-05T05:28:00.000-07:00

"Well, he ain't got no distractions, can't hear no buzzers and bells. Don't see lights-a-flashin', he plays by a sense of smell. Always has a replay, 'n never tilts at all." The Who from "Pinball Wizard"

One word can bring a Noah's Ark like flood of memories. The nurse mentioned that she spend her Sunday laying on the deck of her latest sugar daddy's boat. Poor sap probably has no idea that at her demon core she is nothing but a succubus. I would warn him but with the package that she presents, it wouldn't matter. So hot, so evil. I want so badly to hate her but the drugs she brings me make everything so tolerable. I decided to put up with her for a bit longer, as I drifted off thinking about the strangest thing, pinball.

When I was twenty-three a pinball machine by the name of Fun House changed my life. Sounds as ridiculous as hearing the words "And the Oscar for Best Actor goes to William Shatner", but I'm telling you it's the truth. See, at the time I was fresh off the dissolution of my relationship with Michelle, working at a mattress store, and drinking like Jim Beam was about to close up shop. There was a bar, there's always a bar, that I hung out at, Norm didn't go to Cheers as much as I was at Lucky John's and they had a Fun House pinball machine that I could play for hours on a pair of quarters. These marathon sessions were widely ignored by the bar populace with the exception of Dave. He also enjoyed the flipper fever and since his wife Julie was a cocktail waitress there, he too spend uncountable hours within the smoke filled walls.

One night Dave got the the machine before me, so I was resigned to drinking and watching. While he played Dave informed me that he would soon be relinquishing control of the tilt box to me for good. He and the Mrs. were moving. I liked Dave and Julie so I was disappointed to hear this. So we drank. We drank like it was free, like it was our first day out of jail and our last day of freedom all wrapped into one. As the night turned into morning I heard Dave say "You should come to Minnesota with us." Somehow I think he expected me to decline the invitation, but a trip to the land of 10,000 lakes sounded like the perfect remedy for what was ailing me.

I had a couple of grand saved up, sold my car, quit my job, and 72 hours after hearing about Minnesota for the first time, I was aware it was a state and that it snowed, nothing else, I was on a plane headed to Fargo, North Dakota. That being the nearest airport to what was going to end up being a place that I still to this very day consider to be Paradise on Earth. The town of Detroit Lakes, Minnesota.

Dave and Julie picked me up at the airport, they had arrived a day earlier, to find my luggage didn't feel the need to accompany me all the way to Fargo, as it only went to Denver, then it decided to stay. So with a carry on bag full of three changes of clothes I left the airport and got my first hit of Mid Western air. It was clean, non-toxic, brisk, my lungs rejected it instantly. I would, as it turned out, build up a tolerance for it. We drove the 50 miles to Detroit Lakes, through fields of corn, a site that a Los Angelino had never seen, fields of corn, barns, lakes, no I was a city boy. We arrived in town, went through both stop lights, down two lane highway 22 until we arrived at their cabin on the shore of Lake Sally. And right next door was the Hotel Shoreham.

Ever take a trip like that, on a whim? Ever escape a bad break up by changing latitude?

Tomorrow: People are Strange Part 2 of 4

Dixie Cup of Love: Dave and Julie.

Juke Box Hero

2008-05-03T23:12:00.000-07:00

"It's in the way that you use it, Boy don't you know. So don't you ever abuse it, Don't let it go." Eric Clapton from "It's In The Way That You Use It"

The nurse came in today with a skip in her step.. I know that it had nothing to do with me, so I asked her if she went out trolling for victims. Yes, she said, she did go out but not to find an artery in which to sink her fangs in, instead, she said she just went to play some billiards and have a good time. I guess it was snanks night off from devouring. But as she skipped around the room it got me to thinking.

There are things in this world that go together. Peanut butter and jelly, Tom and Jerry, Ben and Jerry, loneliness and me. There are things that we always assume work better together than apart. Things like burgers and fries, Kate and Allie, Simon and Simon, BJ and the Bear, drinking and smoking. But no to things are so connected that they couldn't live without one another, except playing pool and hair metal.

Why is it that when the rack is set we feel the need to hear Whitesnake? Tawny Kitaen cartwheeled across that Jaguar over 21 years ago. Steve Miller Bands "The Joker" came out in 1977. Is there any reason the kids that are populating the pool halls and bars are relating to this music? And classic rock gets an exemption from me. Yes, hearing Led Zeppelin while sinking the 9 ball of the snap like Fast Eddie Felson is a pure entertainment. Yes, "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath should be played at least once a night in these dens of degradation. But why the hair metal. Cinderella? Are you kidding me? Poison? Give me a break, I swear if I hear "Every Rose Has It's Thorns" one more time I'm killing people, I don't care where I am. Do I need to hear "Cherry Pie" without getting to see the smoking hot girl in the video? No, I think that time has passed.

Is it so hard to shoot pool to Emo? Isn't your Fall Out Boy and Panic At The Disco enough for these kids? Do I really have to hear "Bad To The Bone" three times a night? I get it, you're bad, to the bone, now put on some Bob Knows Best for Christ sake. At least it would be funny as compared to the 12 bar blues of George Thoughorgood, for the One Gagillionth time.

Last night as I sat at the bar, downing Captain and Coke like it was a cure, I hear so many songs that made me sick, I barely knew where to begin. So I asked Bree the bartender why she thought the Jukebox from 1987 was still in service. The gorgeous barmaid gave me a smile and said that no good music had been made since 1988. Horse pucky I said slamming my fist to the bar so hard that it spilled my drink on Ashleigh, the three fingered hooker. Bree had no idea, Ashleigh was headed for the bathroom to wring out her clothes, cause who would want a hooker that wreaked of spiced Rum and soda pop?

The point that I am taking way to long to get to is this: Where's the pool hall greats of today? Where are the songs that make you want to play that cue stick like a guitar? Where's the Appetite For Destruction ( or the Chines Democracy for that matter). Where's the Swing Town? Where's the Brown Eyed Girl?

Are the classic songs gone? Is anyone writing music that is worthy of Color of Money status? What are your favorite songs to shoot some stick too?

Unscheduled Stop

2008-05-03T04:58:00.001-07:00

"I'm not aware of too many things, I know what I know if you know what I mean" Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians from "What I Am"

Today, as I mellowed out after my medication, the nurse came back in to talk. She wanted to set me straight on a few delusions that I had been harboring, little fugitive thoughts that I was keeping from the harsh reality of the light. One of the reasons I remain in this Asylum is I chose it. It's a wonderfully false world that allows me to be a version of myself. Not always the real me but, like Beatlemania, an incredible facsimile. Having the nurse spell out in one short paragraph what I wasn't able to wrap my mind around cracked my facade to the mortar.

First of all, the comments are being disabled today for two reasons. One is I have some family issues that I have to deal with and won't have time to answer all your comments. Two, I don't think comments are gonna be easy to come up with so, I'm letting you off the hook. Tomorrow we will return to our normal scheduled hijinx.

What I really am.

I'm delusional. I'm irresponsible with other people's feelings. I'm confused about what I expect from life. I'm inadequate in my own mind. I'm prone to fits of irrational jealousy. I'm self centered and opinionated, a horrible combination. I'm walking around in a near constant state of sadness. I'm more alone in a crowded room than I am when I'm by myself. I'm and idealist and a dreamer who prefers my fantasies to reality more often then I care to admit. I'm smart enough to finish the NY Times crossword puzzle and too stupid to realize that it doesn't mean shit.

What I am not.

I'm not the writer that I want to be. I'm not all that likable. I'm not very in touch with how other people feel about me. I'm not a bad guy. I'm not trying to hurt anyone. I'm not comfortable in difficult relationships. I'm not sure that I won't die alone. I'm not sure if I have what it takes. I'm not going in sane. I'm not about to give up.

What I'm becoming.

I'm becoming the man I wish I was through hard work and determination. I'm becoming the writer I want to be. I'm becoming more accepting everyday. I'm becoming worthy of you. I'm becoming a better person. I'm becoming more compassionate. I'm becoming undone by the truth, and I'm also becoming stronger by dealing with it.

What I wish.

I wish that things were different. I wish that I was proud, strong, secure, and happy. I wish you the best life you can imagine. I wish you undeniable happiness. I wish I didn't have to wish for these things.

Dixie Cup of Love : You.

2008-05-02T07:10:00.000-07:00

"Overkill, overview, Over my dead body,,Over me, over you, Over everybody. Too much information running through my brain. Too much information driving me insane" The Police from "Too Much Information"

Somebody must have pulled the string on the Chatty Cathy Surgically Enhanced Nurse doll because as she dropped pills in my mouth like a courtesan feeding grapes to Caesar she would not shut up. Her verbal assault and battery hammered me with bullets of information I just didn't need to know. Why would I give a rats blistery ass about her cramps? Do I seem like the king of sociopath that wants to hear about any one's first boyfriend Jimmy? As I prayed for a meteor to crash through the roof and crush the life out of her, I drifted off in the sweet bliss of dreamland, sponsored by Ambien.

Intelligence in the country must be at an all time low. Is it possible that we are de-evolving to a Jessica Simpson like mental state? Will I one day wake up[ to realize that crayons do, in fact, taste like purple? I can hear you out there, those are some disgusting noises coming from the Tri-State area, but anyway, you're saying "We're not getting no more dumber". But how else to you explain the way television treats us. And I'm not even talking about the insipidness of reality TV. I'm talking about adspace.

There are things that, as an alpha male, type A personality, Scorpio, Buddha Adonis I don't need commercials for in order to know that they are necessary and I must have them. For instance, I had the great displeasure of watching a couple lying in bed, smile splashed across their overly eager faces, as the woman tells about how she likes it for the tingling sensation. The hapless oaf next to her just nods in agreement. Then Sally Spinderella shucks more bullshit at me as she points to the chucklehead and says "He likes if for the silky smoothness." Again, nothing but smiles form the semi-human bobblehead taking up half the mattress. The across the television screen I see "KY Lubricants". Well no wonder he was smiling like a jack-o-lantern, it was butt sex time. Ridiculous. This commercial in not necessary. If I'm going to enjoy the company of a Sahara crotch, I knew where to get lube, in a jiffy.

OR. You see a woman in her middle years on a swing set with a much younger, hotter girl. I know the line is coming because this ad is the main sponsor of my "Girls Next Door" marathon, some ad executive should be shot. "Mom, do you ever get that not so fresh feeling?" Are you fucking kidding me? And the mom does that tilted head with a smile like she knew the question was coming look. "I knew you were gonna ask, I can smell you from here." Then the mom shoves a plastic bottle of Italian salad dressing the younger woman's Calvin's. I understand that its necessary to maintain good feminine hygiene, must I see commercials for it.

Limp dick. Get Cialis. Sorry to bother you while your eating dinner with my boner problems, please enjoy the bratwurst. Charmin, it's squeezable soft. Yeah, and it's for wiping my ass, not like I can live without it, not need for a commercial. These are products, yes, that we need. Do we need to have a non-stop barrage of these silly innuendo fueled commercials? Then we wonder why the youngsters seem to be growing up before their time. I didn't know what an erection was until I was 12, my nine year old nephew knows that if it lasts for more than 4 hours he should call a doctor. You can't just blame the shows, you must place some of the blame on the commercials. And speaking of that, if I'm paying for satellite or cable TV, why do I have to endure ads at all? Even watching HBO I have to put up with their constant self promotion. It's a world go mad I tell ya, gone mad.

What commercials do you hate? Or love?

Dixie Cup of Love: Super Mom for inspiring this with a brilliant rant.

Going Postal

2008-05-01T04:02:00.000-07:00

"I've been really hungry, baby. Trying to hold back these cravings for so long, and if you feel like getting a meal baby, come on, oh, come, let's go to Vons" Bob Knows Best from "Let's Go To Vons"

As the nurse entered with my morning Dixie cup of alternate reality inducers I smelled something that hadn't hit my sinus cavity since I was remanded to the Asylum for my own protection. The source of the scent was vexing until she bent over me, her bosom nearly spilling out of her tight white uniform. The aroma was coming from her. Specifically, her mouth. She had eaten a chili burger from Tommy's before work. That selfish tramp didn't even bring me so much as a french fry. And smelling that delicious sandwich on her breath got me to thinking.

The Food Network, according to a friend of mine, is ESPN of fat people. Not the most politically correct of statements, as I prefer the non de plume of "Big Boned American", but the gist of his analogy was pretty hysterical. But what is a food lover to do? Eating the same thing, even if it's the greatest mean ever prepared, eating it everyday would turn it into something you despise. Imagine your favorite chow, now imagine that it's Law and Order, on every friggin night, different side dishes, but the "boong boong" is still happening every time the screen goes black. Eventually, you change the channel to one of the 27 CSI's on CBS.

Super Mom makes my favorite dish for me, maybe, twice a year. Once for my birthday and if I'm lucky I get it once more during the course of the year. Lasagna. A giant dish of flat noodles, meat, sauce, and cheese.. It's the most perfect, yes I know it's improper English, there can't be a better than perfect, tell that to the guys that wrote that "more perfect Union" line in the Constitution, but anyway, there is no food that can can supplant Lasagna in my heart. Well, at least as far as home cooked fare goes.

When it comes to fast food, I am in hell. Don't get me wrong The Slow has it's charms and the Barbecue here will make your eyes bleed sauce, it's that good. But there is no Tommy's. No Del Taco. No In and Out. No good char-broiled burgers what-so-ever. In California I was spoiled by these things, as my waist line will testify, but here I'm like Richard Kimble looking for the One Armed Burgermeister. A good cheeseburger is like good sex. It satisfies. It's fulfilling. And a day or two later you want some more. Now that I'm not getting either, I'm starting to understand those people that snap and shoot twenty people waiting in line for stamps. All of them could be saved by a blow job and a burger basket.

Now go out to eat, and I'm talking dining here, there's only one p[lace that is worthy of my undying love. Lowry's Prime Rib. Don Jerry, reputed mob boss and father of Atomic, took, no that's the wrong word, treated the Jew and I, along with Atomic, to a dining experience that has forever stained my brain with lustful thoughts of 1 1/2 inch cuts of prime rib, red, medium rare, juicy as an Otter Pop, steak of the Gods. I salivate at the mere mention of the succulent beef. To you vegetarians, vegans, and PETA activists out there, you have no idea what you are missing. If God didn't want us to eat cows, she wouldn't have made them taste so good.

What's your favorite meal? Home cooked? Fast food? Favorite place to dine?

Dixie Cup of Love: Don Jerry

Neon Sign of Destiny

2008-04-30T05:01:00.000-07:00

"I left there in a hurry, looking forward to my big surprise. the next I discovered, that the fortune teller told me a lie." The Rolling Stones from "Fortune Teller"

The nurse had what I can only describe as a queer look upon her face. Not queer in the Isiah Washington calls her a faggot way, but in the Daniel Day Lewis is a nutty brilliant bastard kind of creep. She looked off kilter. As she forced a handful of meds into my pie hole I mumbled something about her not quite seeming like her dirty whore self. After a moments pause, she fessed up that she had been to a psychic and she was a little tossed by what she had learned. I swallowed my dose of peaceful easing feelings and drifted off thinking about what the nurse had told me.

Dionne Warwick and I are never going to be friends. It has nothing to do with her niece, Whitney Houston, being a crack addicted wack-o. It has everything to do with her lending name and image to her ridiculous Psychics Friends Network. She might as well of called it the How To Rip Off The Gullible Sheep Of The World Network. I would think that she was Satan incarnate, a title that rests on Dick Cheney's mantel, if it weren't for the lemmings that racked up ginormous phone bills because they wanted to get real answers from a telephone operator. Now I know you think that I'm gonna start bitching about lack of hope and mob mentality, but I have something different in mind. A story about my own trip to see Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic.

On one gray and gloomy Southern California Saturday I was bored to the point that masturbation wasn't even going to help anymore. So, in order to save myself some chaffing I decided to bomb up to Hollywood to visit my favorite record store, The Rock Shop. As fate would have it I found a meter parking spot on Hollywood Blvd about 50 yards from the musical nirvana that was my destination. As I looked down at the stars beneath my Chuck Taylor's, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a neon sign that changed my plans for the day. Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic, my skeptical bones perked at the pure rapture of hearing what lie in store for me from this low rent Sylvia Brown. I ponied up the greenbacks that I was going to purchase an Otis Redding Anthology with and sat in a straight back chair staring at my Nostradamus Whore with greedy, wanting eyes.

Stella wasn't the showwoman that I was hoping for. No Barnum nor Bailey was she. No chanting with eyes closed and hands raised to the ceiling. No speaking in tongues. No jittering table or other flabbergasting special effects. She just reached across the small round table, took hold of my hands, and asked if there was any specific things I wanted to know about. I shrugged. Half because I figured if she was such a great psychic she would know why I was there, and half because I had no idea what I wanted to be lied about. Love. Career. Money. I choose love. I wanted to know who and when I would get married. At the time I was probably 25 or so, and it didn't seem out of the loop that I should want to know about my bride.

After a few minutes of "deep concentration" or it might have been a quick nap, Stella informed me that I would find my bride in my 32nd year. For a bonus she threw in an interesting tid-bit. She said that 32 would be a "mystic age" for me in which job, family, and happiness would converge. Needless to say, I waited on pins and needles for my 32nd birthday. You know what happened that year? Nothing. 32 sucked just like the previous 31. No great love, no great job, certainly no great grins. My skepticism was renewed and that's when I knew that Dionne and I would never exchange Christmas cards.

Do you believe in psychics? ESP? Tarot Cards?

Dixie Cup of Love: Nostradamus for keeping it cryptic.