Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Watch Out, There Goes a Spider Public Enemy #1

In Chinese culture, spiders are supposed to be good luck or so I've been told. This hasn't caught on in Western culture like feng shui, ginger for digestion, noodles, and that food that they serve you. You know, the kind that they try and pass off as actual Chinese cuisine? Barring serious starvation, there's no way in hell that they would eat that.

I've had allegedly "good" Chinese food in Queens, Long Island, Los Angeles, and Parma, Italy that was built up and praised all the way to those restaurants. Trust me, what they serve you is equivalent to the Chinese, as Taco Bell is to real homemade Mexican food and to Mexicans. If you don't see what's wrong with that, then I'll just speculate that you are inexperienced...or that you get what you deserve. Always if you can, eat where the people native to that particular cuisine eat.

So that spiders are good luck seems to be a well-kept secret as I've only heard this from a few, but it makes sense because they eat insects and thus, help get rid of disease. When a spider is spotted in our apartment, they get a first-class one-way trip to the landing out in front, where they are gently lowered. It's a compromise, the Missus is no fan of spiders, nor exactly is Procrastinator Jr.

Not only am I the designated lifter and mover of heavy objects, but the official spider relocator of the house. The Missus will summon me with a scream and immediately I will gather an envelope or a magazine, depending on the size of the spider as they love to run back towards the means of conveyance and up my arm. The arm part is not so much minded by me, as the fact that they will then drop off my arm (too hairy?) and underfoot, not of my volition.

I try to explain to the Missus that she is over a hundred times taller than the spiders and that her shrieks and jumps scare the spiders, far more than they scare her...

I was just minding my own business, walking down the street when that banshee titaness started an earthquake and hurled objects...this big. No, I'm not kidding! Then the next thing you know, this billboard ad for carpet cleaning...yeah, "carpet cleaning," can you imagine? How are you going to get all the good bugs if you clean the carpet? So, anyway, this billboard just sweeps me up and the next thing I know, I'm fifteen blocks back. It took me an hour to get there and the next thing I know, it's like I never left my front door.

...Yet, each time, she's not convinced and somehow she fears the spiders more. So spiders are already upset at me over that, then some poor spider is being deprived of both home and food for four days in a row. He, she, or they have put various webs up in the garage or on the stairway, and I've managed to walk into each and every one of them. A couple of them were more than a single strand, but the first strand is the hardest for a spider when they have to swing that distance to establish it.

Everywhere I go in the stairway, garage or laundry room, I manage to demolish their work and I swear I can hear a faint nyyyy-aaaah, grrrrr, whoop-whoop-whoop just like Curly of the Three Stooges...followed by four small legs slapping a forehead in exasperation. I am American Spider's Most Wanted.


Monday, May 29, 2006

He's A Healthy One-hundred And Twelve, Because He Is Eternal

Figures that I would forget the birthday of the Godfather of crime fiction and noir.

As pennance, I will walk around the block wearing nothing but that the hat that Hammett wore in the trailer for "The Thin Man" and I will flog my back with this

Special thanks to Bill Crider, author and blogger extrordinaire who is always on top of things.

Labels: ,

Here Kitty-Kitty?

Tap into my conscious stream and be amazed or amused or confused. You're forewarned, fivewarned even, Snagglepuss and to the cat people? This is all dialogue and no kitties were hurt in the posting of this blog or in the snatches of dialogue...

So, I was flipping through the channels this fine Memorial Day that isn't actually Memorial Day but the day we're all going to take it off (the holiday that is), only I had last night off as Memorial Day. Anyway I'm going through the channels and there's Paula Deen munching on spare ribs, and her son feeds some desert that has Snickers and something else in it, only I can't hear what it is because the Missus is calling it gross in a not-quite indoor voice.

So Paula does a voiceover as they show a collage of all the places that she has visited and the food that she has sampled in this particular episode. Dang, there's a shot of some good Texas beef brisket in the oven and I lament to the Missus that that is the one thing that we don't have in San Francisco, but you swing a cat in Texas and you will hit good brisket.

The Missus sez, "no, no swinging cats. No harming cats. S---- (her boss) is always talking about running around like a cat shot in the ass and I'm tired of it. L---- another boss, said to me the other day, 'where's S----?' I told him that according to S-----, he's running around like a cat that just got shot in the ass. L---- said, 'why would anybody say that? That's just like who came up with that expression that there's more than one way to skin a cat? Why would anyone in their right mind want to skin a cat?' I said, great, while your skinning cats, S---- is running around shooting them in the butt."


Friday, May 26, 2006

They Should Make People Take A Test Before They...

They should make people take a test before they fly. If you want to be a pilot, you have to spend several hours flying with an instructor and there are tests that you have to pass to prove that you can fly solo. Same with driving, you need a course in driver’s education and some time behind the wheel with an instructor, or at least prove your competency to a test giver at the DMV.

I know bungee jumping and a drinking buddy of mine, Giuseppe knows base jumping. He got these base jumpers from Sacramento loaded to the point to the point that they passed out, then he swiped their parachutes. It took the Sheriff three weeks to lay off of the most prime spot in the county, like he was going to catch whoever he thought took the ‘chutes when he couldn’t catch a cold, buck-naked in Alaska.

Giuseppe demonstrated how check the ‘chute, how to roll it up, and how to do the same with the backup ‘chute. I followed as best as I could, but he talks pretty damn fast when he’s cranked up. He said “safety first,” but we didn’t have real helmets like I’ve seen the real base jumpers use. We had to make do with some old ill-fitting skateboard helmets instead, Giuseppe said it wouldn’t make a difference because when you hit the ground wrong, no brain bucket in the world will save you.

The first time we jumped off the bridge…it was better than everything including sex because let’s face it, there isn’t an orgasm in the world that will last that long. The second time was a different sensation altogether, because that’s when I learned how to fly. My first chute failed and the precious seconds I had to open the second are as good as gone, for the backup is all fucked up.

It’s amazing how the speed of thought compares to terminal veloc-

Why do you bother with Reader’s (In)Digest(ion), when JJ’s is the best, mon?


The first clue wasn't the x-ray, but the fact that it sounded just like Gilbert Gottfried...

Actually, it was more like Jackie Mason.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Your Mission, Should You Choose To Accept It...

Bangkok shocks, Gizmo rocks!

Okay, nobody this side of Kerrang Magazine got that one. Gizmo has a "song of the day" at the bottom of each of her posts...

Here's my thing, I have a song on my iPod that I could literally listen to it the entire day. Not every day, but twenty-four hours straight and not get sick of it. Unfortunately I cannot tell you just what that song is, as I covet it just like Fisher Stevens did Michelle Pfeiffer when he was married to her.

I hope to use it in a soundtrack and the fact that I won't tell anybody this side of my wife what the song is ridiculous because:

A) I would have to become a successful screenwriter.
B) I would also have to become a successful director or producer to get the studio to take me halfway serious.
C) The studio would have to want to buy the rights to it and not be tempted to have some lesser new group remake it.
D) The record company that owns the rights would not have to charge a fortune, even though they knew that both the studio and I wanted the song.
E) The heirs to the songwriter's estate would not ask for a fortune and would let me use the song without being offended by the script.

So mathematically, I stand a better chance of being elected to the House of Representatives or winning five out of six in the Super Lotto. That doesn't mean that you don't wants the precious, so you cannot have the precious!

Ahem...anyway, your mission should you choose to accept it, is to tell me what song would you listen to over and over again on your iPod (for eight hours straight as opposed to twenty-four a.k.a. "The Hoochie Amendment").

Why is is that you can listen only to one song? I don't know, your hands are covered in tar or fish sauce and you don't want to get it dirty? The thing is broke or stuck? It's frozen in ice? Figure out your own scenario.

Good luck and this blog will cease to exist in the mind of a mercurial French existentialist in five seconds.

Monday, May 22, 2006


Three blind mice would’ve seen it before I did.
Two eyes that cannot see the forest, or the trees.
One mind that is complete denial. With the eyes, you have a matching set.

They say that the proof is in the pudding, who the hell are they anyway? Have you ever seen any pudding submitted as evidence in civil or criminal court? I doubt that it ever has and if it ever was, it would stink like my ledger. The ledger is the proof, my accountant’s faxes are the proof and my suppliers cutting me off, are my proof.

My former investors sending unusually gorgeous women to come on to me before serving me with papers, are my proof. Which is the second most humiliating part of all because in the last two weeks, I haven’t been able to tell if a woman is genuinely interested in me, or in serving me with a summons. Having over one-hundred and ten patrons a day for two years straight and not having a dime to my name, is the ultimate and only proof that I need.

My accountant tried to tell me over and over again. They came up with convenient excuses not to show their version of the books to her over the last five months, then they told her that simply couldn’t find the books. I have no idea where my ex-partners are, but from what my accountant said, they are probably in a country that doesn’t have extradition and ironically, where they can live there the rest of their lives if they spend wisely.

What can I say? I understand the people side of the business, the logistical side, the laundry side, the fresh ingredients side, and the keeping the employees happy side. Everything about the business but the business itself. Because I never had a head for figures, so I trusted my gut instincts and went in with two embezzlers that could’ve shown even the Enron executives a new thing or two.

So the sturdy fixtures, they're versatile. The ones that I specifically asked for...they will serve another purpose, they will hold this rope...and my weight. The mahogany bar that is not long in length, but sturdy enough to have stood up to the over five-thousand customers that have leaned upon it or used it for support, it will hold fast one last time. I’ve spent almost half the day trying to count to three, no avail, and just now it has occurred to me rather that I should count backwards like a rocket launch.

After that? Me, a once proud, but now ruined man? I will haunt this property for two years and five days. That's roughly the same amount of time that my dream existed because all that is left to it. Then, I will roam the earth like a cross between Tom Joad and a Flying Dutch Restaurateur.

Where ever establishments charge sixty dollars a person and then have the temerity to serve French fries unworthy of even McDonald’s, I will be there. Where ever eateries serve five courses and the sum of those courses amount to less than one apple’s worth of food, I will be there. Where ever partners conspire to swindle and drive a restaurant into the ground, I will be there and they will never know another night’s sleep until they drive their ostentatious and ill-gotten cars off of a cliff.


JJ’s always serves up generous servings of red gravy, simmered greens, Texas toast, and fine barbequed flash fiction
Though I’d stay away from the baked beans if I were you

Friday, May 19, 2006

Worker's Comp Only Covers So Much

In each lunch room at our company is a Cal/OSHA list of injuries for the year 2005. On the list you have seperate columns for:

A) The department name.
B) The date of the injury.
C) The type of injury.
D) The body part that was injured.
E) The days lost as a result of the injury.

The injuries for the most part are pretty mundane stuff when it comes to physical labor. Things like carpal tunnel syndrome, elbow strain, and "psyche" stress which can be spelled with an "e" according to the Merriam-Webster Online.
Though I can't recall having seen it spelled as such.

Some of the days lost do not seem proportional to the particular injury. I don't know the particulars of each on the list, but someone received over one-hundred days for a knee strain. That doesn't sound entirely excessive. But check this out, someone got only four days for a crushed finger and another had zero days off for heart angina. No Beavis and Butthead, I said an-gi-na.

That's like, stop grabbing your chest and turning red! Suck it up you wuss and get back to work! Will someone get defibrulator or prop this slacker up? I don't want to lose my bonus!

I scanned the list and conspicuously absent were listings for loss of sanity, and lost of soul. Which happen more often then they should at my company. I guess OSHA doesn't recognize these as valid workplace injuries or distress. Or Worker's Comp won't cover them.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

Write Angry Part III

In which our Write Protagonist braves the surly soldiers of Circuit City to return the villainous Nano for a real iPod Nano. Will he find true happiness? Will George Bush finally pull Dick Cheney's finger? Will Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie finally kiss and make up?

I'm not getting into the Circuit City thing too much other than to say I went into the store while they were opening, got passed around from department to department, and salesperson to salesperson like a case of Coors amongst junior lifeguards. So I wound a up a little curt and cranky, and the salesperson that I wound up with last, came back at me even crankier. Ah, San Francisco, we've become Manhattan West with half the traffic and three-quarters of the surliness.

You are probably asking what kind of job lets their employees wear iPods at work? Not mine, but note the surliness that I mentioned early, then imagine a rabid grizzly. Got that picture? Complete with foaming of the mouth? Well, I make that grizzly look like Snuggles the fabric softener bear. Nobody has said anything to me yet, preferring the mellower Procrastinator.

So the beauty of the iPod is that everyday before, during and after work, I get to become my own Kubrick. My own Scorsese, a Joel and Ethan Coen wrapped up into one package if you will. I step over panhandlers and prone homeless to the tune of "My Favorite Things" by John Coltrane. I get to watch to watch gay or native Chinese couples have verbal melees to "Hotel California" by The Gypsy Kings. Club hoppers and bar flies take on a quasi-ethereal quality to the tune of Georg Freidrich Handel's "Sarabande" from the "Soundtrack to Barry Lyndon."

The near mundane takes on surrealism of Fellini-proportions and the more obnoxious coworkers are vanquished to the tune of "Uptown Anthem" by Naughty By Nature.

Life is good at one gigabyte at a time.

Tuesday, May 16, 2006

Random Musings, Bruisings, & Aloe-scented Soothings #7

Looks like all I needed was a couple of days off to allow myself to actually have a random thought. Still, seven is not my lucky number, but hey. So without further ado...

Uhh, uh-huh, yeah

Uhh, uh-huh, yeah
It’s all about the Benjamins baby

No, actually Diddy, here it’s all about the Lincolns, baby.

How many of you have seen ads for auto mechanic schools on TV? No, you in the back, put your hand down because I know you don’t watch TV. I saw one the other day for Universal Technical Institute or, good old "U.T.I."

That’s right, all the ladies in the audience just shifted and winced simultaneously. Fellas, if you don’t know what I’m talking about, go ahead and tell a woman that you’re a graduate of “of good old U.T.I.” and see if that doesn’t earn you a beverage in the face and a couple of objects winged at your head.

I am the King of Take Out. The Tsar of Take Away, bow to my greatness.

There is a company that runs an infomercial with Tom Bosley and they sell tchotchkes or rather, you sell these items for them, “and you keep the profits.” In the short commercial version of the infomercial, one man testifies that he made a three-hundred percent profit. Excuse me, he just went on TV and said that he marked everything up three-hundred percent...if you see this guy, I don’t care if you bought anything from him or not, kick his ass from wherever you are, all the way to Australia.

Remember that idiot kid that used to scrape his fingernails on the chalkboard just to see that looks of agony on his classmates faces? Well, he grew up and he is literally around the corner from me, working on the road crew. I don’t know what the hell that they’re doing, but it is metal-on-metal-on-concrete and I am not exaggerating when I say there isn’t a bird within blocks of my neighborhood when he goes at it. To give you an idea, it is like those nails on chalkboard hooked up to a wall of Marshall amplifiers.

What do you give a graduate of “of good old U.T.I,” anyway? A case of cranberry juice? A box of Azo?

Do you want to know where the real money is? Replacing the sewers in San Francisco. I’m not kidding, the entire Inner Sunset district is under siege and the majority of the sewers go back to the 1920s. The entire City’s sewage system is due for an overhaul, there are logistical and weather problems to get in the way. Get yourself a smart legal team so that you can have the City foot for the overruns and delays. There’s room for millions to disappear.

It has come to my attention via early morning channel changing that there is a “Girls Gone Wild Island.” Why the White House has permitted this threat to democracy to exist in our hemisphere is beyond my comprehension and something must be done at once before our entire way of life is compromised and the entire country is turned into a San Fernando Valley video shoot.

We must pull all of our troops out of Iraq, launch a pre-emptive strike to defeat this impending menace before all is lost and we are overrun! I have volunteered to lead an expeditionary force as the need to gather logistical information grows with every freedom-threatening second, but the Missus said something about:

A) Launching a pre-emptive strike on me.
B) Her foot.
C) My posterior.
D) And that a team of doctors and specialists would be incapable of doing anything.


Monday, May 15, 2006

For A Certain Somebody, Every Day Is Her...

For a certain person, every day is Mother's Day...and every day is her birthday! I'm not going to mention any names...
but I will say Happy Birthday to my best friend in the world and the best wife in the world.


Mr. Subjective a.k.a "Mr. Earl."

Sunday, May 14, 2006

Happy Mother's Day!

A special thanks to those who really keep the country together and going!
We literally wouldn't be here without you and every day should be Mother's Day!

Saturday, May 13, 2006

A Cool Breeze Licked The Back Of Her Neck

A cool breeze licked the back of her neck. Or at least that is what it would seem like to the rest of us. To her, it was the hot, fetid and fiery breath of a monster. Where to run? Where to hide? No manner of weaponry at her disposal even fazed the "Beast."

None raised a hand to help her, they even watched in bemusement or amusement at her tribulations. Everything as far as she could see was ruined or on the verge of. Her whole world was near asunder from this indomitable juggernaut. The sun was departing like her spirit and the Beast's essence grew even stronger with the coming of darkness.

A plate fell in the kitchen, the Beast knew no fear, so it knew no reason to hide its presence. Yet it circled her, toyed with her, revealing just brief glimpses and flashes of itself to increase her fear. She knew that all of her life was building up to this, her final stand and that there could be a certain nobility in death.

The beast dipped its head, extended its claws. A shiver went through her as a growl rumbled from the very bowels of the Beast and the monster surged forward with the strength of a dozen tidal waves. She tensed and stood fast at the charging Beast, determined to live her last moments with valor.

"Honey, no! Don't you dare squirt the cat with your Super Soaker! You put that thing away and get ready for bed!"

Ain't no fiction like Friday Flash Fiction, cause JJ's Flash Friday Fiction don't stop

Special thanks to Rick
and Hoochie for loose inspiration

Friday, May 12, 2006

Procrastinator 1:2

When it's all over

When it's all done
Will you give me a high five?
Or will you give me the low one?


Thursday, May 11, 2006

"Part Of My Design" Lyrics

The lyrics to "Part of My Design" by Kid Creole. All parts sung by Kid Creole except the italicized, which are sung by Haitia Fuller


Part of my design was giving the world alternatives
Part of my design was spreading love
Part of my design was giving the world a sedative
Part of my design was tough

Not as tough as me Corazón, or the great Martin Luther King
My brother you should know
Not as tough as any Kennedy
So you keep on pushing, you don't stop pushing

Part of my design was giving the world some bonhomie
Part of my design was basic stuff
Part of my design was giving the world a part of me
Part of my design was tough

Not as tough as (?) or the great Mahatma Gandhi
My brother you should know
Not as tough as Man-dela
So you keep on pushing, you don't stop pushing

What am I going to do about the state of getting old?
What am I going to do, the fact is that I'm not as bold
as I used to be
Pity me


Part of my design was giving the world alternatives
Part of my design was rough (not rough enough)
Part of my design was giving the world some positives
Part of my design was tough (not tough enough)
Part of my design was tough (not tough enough)

My design
Part of my design
My design

(scat riff 3X)
My design
(scat riff and fade out)

Monday, May 08, 2006

Procrastinator 1:1

Nothing is harder than trying to explain dreams to those that have had their dreams leave them, or were bereft of dreams to begin with.


Saturday, May 06, 2006

"I Love The Smell Of Special Chicken In The Morning... smells

So like I said Wednesday, "C) Something major better have had happened to somebody that we mutually know.D) Any combination thereof.

I'd add something to "C," but I'll let you know on Saturday or next week."

Without grossing everybody out, what seemed like a cancerous lump, was just an impacted hair (so-to-speak). Nothing like a reprieve from the Grim Reaper (knock on the simulated wood that the computer sits on) and I was off for a victory meal.

After the 1989 Loma Prieta Earthquake, we had no gas or electricity in the apartment. So I went down to Bus Stop Pizza on Divisadero St. because they were one of the few restaurants open. They had enough residual heat in the pizza oven that they could serve melted sub sandwiches and I bought two roast beef delights on French bread for me and my gal (she wasn't to be the Missus for another two years).

Man, that sandwich was heavenly, literally. Some two hours before, I had absolutely no concept on how close to death the Missus and I were. I almost, and I mean almost, slept through the quake. The tremor didn't affect me much for the first five seconds other than to wake me from my slumber, but when it didn't stop?

Well, I guess the walls aren't supposed to be leaning like that. Okay, ground, I've had enough. Okay, that's good, we can go back to what makes us feel so superior to everyone else in America, our lack of fear concerning tremblors. Okay? Good.

So I figured that it was a special shaker, but not the big one and I tried to go back to sleep. There's a funky cloud in the window, oh, wait...that's smoke. A couple of houses in the Marina district over the hill, collapsed and caught fire. I could tell the fire was in the distance, so I tried to go back to sleep.

Now, note, if I seemed too nonchalant to be believed? I was that dumb and arrogant back in my twenties. I didn't think, wow, the whole City is going to burn down. Or, jeez, I better go shut off the gas. More like, how can I get twenty more minutes of sleep before the girlfriend gets home?

Last August, the apartment building's water heater was on the verge of blowing up and the Missus caught it in time to notify 911 and the power company so that they could shut it off. Did anyone in the building other Procrastinator Jr. and myself, thank her? Absolutely not, because everyone else in the building was chalk full of that arrogance and denial that makes being young so special. Call it "tool-itis," if you will.

So the Missus woke me up ten minutes later that early October evening with a phone call and informed me that indeed, that was a real earthquake. The bus she was on stopped and a building crane teetered over it. I called the woman who would become my mother-in-law to tell her that we were okay and that was the last phone call I got out until eleven that night. The Missus came home, we hugged and kissed, happy to be alive.

We listened to reports on the radio detailing the impact, then I went hunting for food, because then, as it is now, I am the designated hunter/gatherer. That sandwich was great. Three times better than any Quizno's, but even better because we were alive to eat it. Death kills the appetite and all but permanently. Quick, check (insert anorexic actress of your choice) for a pulse.

So today while I was waiting on prescription to be filled so I could get rid of this faux-cancer, I went looking for a little victory meal. There are two Irving Cafes. The Irving Street Cafe that I've been going to for some eighteen years where I get my breakfast and burger on...

and the Irving Cafe.

Where I get my bánh mì on.

Mind you, I'm not a Wikipedia critic, but nobody calls them "Vietmanese hoagies." That's like calling spaghetti, "Italian chow mein."

As good as bánh mì are, I wanted something more substantial. So I ordered curry chicken, and I got "Special Chicken." It's a great restaurant, so I didn't correct them after they put the dish on the counter. I knew whatever they served was going to be good and I didn't want them to go Soup Nazi and ban me for life, for being difficult, and don't think that they wouldn't have.

"Special Chicken" is just that and certainly not in the context to condescend. Light fluffy rice, jasmine, I guess. Broiled chicken, cucumbers, fresh cilantro, carrots marinated in rice vinegar, and a fine rice vinegar-dipping sauce to compliment the taste adventure. A good dish that tastes ten times better because you are alive to eat it.


Thursday, May 04, 2006

Part Of My Design...

Any man who afflicts the human race with ideas must be prepared to see them misunderstood.
-H.L. Mencken

Part of my design, was giving the world alternatives
Part of my design, was spreading love
Part of my design, was giving the world a sedative
Part of my design, was tough-
-Kid Creole "Part of My Design"

Not as tough as me, Corazón
Or the great Martin Luther King, my brother you should know
Not as tough as any Kennedy, but you don't stop pushin'
You keep on pushin'
-Haitia Fuller (same song)

It's just a screeplay contest, not the Pulitzer prize! You pretentious bastard!
-The Missus

No, The Missus didn't actually say that. So we might find out May 31st. Because as August Darnell, nee, Kid Creole once said, "part of my design, was giving the world a little bonhomie."


Wednesday, May 03, 2006

Post #100 Or Breathe, Stupid...

Technically this is the 101st Post because I posted one and then deleted it after an hour, because it was more inappropriate than usual. So, as long as I am on a the most inconvient times that insipid Anna Nayick song comes on while I'm driving. You know it, the one that starts out...

Two AM and she calls me 'cause I'm still awake, "Can you help me unravel my latest mistake?"

You call me up at my equivalent of two AM and you better be:

A) Stranded.
B) In jail and need bail.
C) Something major better have had happened to somebody that we mutally know.
D) Any combination thereof.

I'd add something to "C," but I'll let you know on Saturday or next week. But you better believe that you cannot call me up because you made the same relationship mistake, especially after I told you not to date the bastard. That sh*t can wait for when I wake up or you can cry on someone's shoulder who doesn't work the graveyard shift.

So the friend of the song's narrator prattles on and on, to which the song's narrator replies...

So cradle your head in your hands
And breathe... just breathe,Oh breathe, just breathe

Or so I think, because my brain typicall shuts off at this point and I can't change the station because of traffic or a similar nusiance. I cannot even read the lyrics right now without flinching. I usually respond in my head or outloud to the chorus with my imitaton of Louie the Parrot of the Looney Tune's cartoon "Dough Ray Me-ow"

Louie is the guardian so to speak, of Heathcliff the cat, who is no relation to the comic strip precursor of Garfield. In the cartoon, Heathcliff is a large cat who is literally dumb as a post and he runs up to Louie, gasping as his face turns different colors. Louie slaps him and says, "breathe, stupid, breathe! You forgot to breathe!"

So Anna Nayick goes Oh breathe, just breathe
And I go, "just breath, stupid, breathe!"

Endless auto-fun in more ways than one, don't you know?


Monday, May 01, 2006

Her Horizontal Life

So this article sold me on a book
by Chelsea Handler, "My Horizontal Life: A Collection of One-Night Stands." As you can guess by the title, she's not the most politically correct person in the world. As a matter of fact, there's nothing "correct" about her at all, she's as wrong as can be (excellent).

You've might have seen her on Oxygen's "Girls Behaving Badly" which is now syndicated if you don't have Oxygen as all of us San Franciscans who don't have digital cable and thus, we get twenty shopping channels and not much else. They kind of tone down her wit on the show, so you don't get the full-on Chelsea that you might've seen in comedy clubs or read about in magazine articles or her book.

But wait, if you act now, you can see her on E!

But act now! As they love to cancel everything that isn't fashion or plastic surgery-related.