Open Letter To Self

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

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.

"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

"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

"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

"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

"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.