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Dean and Sandy to the Rescue

Officially, I want the record to reflect that I am deeply sorry for those affected by Hurricane Katrina and in no way do I take their situation lightly nor do I think what's happened is funny. I was merely being a wiseass, and more often than not, it's misconstrued. Basically, I am a total shit w/ a heart of gold. And I'm working on the total shit part.

Anyway, I got an email this morning from my old pal, Howard Dean, who I will love forever. As far as I'm concerned, he can "Yeeeehaw!" anytime he wants. (PS - Do the American ppl think that G.W. never Yeeehaw'd? He just didn't get caught. I envision him in the early 80s, reverse sneezing rails of blow, one after another, til he actually inhales the straw, or the rolled up hundred dollar bill and cries, "Yeeehaw!" as though he'd meant for his coke-sucking-device to get lodged in his nose.) Anyhow, Howard writes:

America is at its best when we realize that we are one community -- that we're all in this together. That means that each one of us has the responsibility to do what we can to help the relief effort.
The Red Cross is a great place to start: http://www.redcross.org
They are already moving people and resources into the region to help. Donations will provide clean water, food, and shelter for disaster victims. The Red Cross web site also has important information for victims and their relatives across the country.

I'm reminding Sandra Bullock to send her usual million. We each sign the card.

Hurricanes Seriously Blow

I don’t mean to be cruel or heartless, but Hurricane blah, blah, blah. Sure, my heart goes out to those immediately affected by Katrina, those who are injured, even more poor or faithless as a direct result of her indiscreet strike. What a bitch move! But forgive me or don't when I point out that it's all the same story whether we’re talking about Katrina, Ivan, Hugo, Andrew or Snuffalupagus.

First, why are all hurricanes given non-threatening names? What a sucky concept. Katrina isn't foreboding. Katrina does scare shit out of me. It’s suggests cute weather, like light winds and mist, watered grass and children playing in puddles. Hurricane Courtney Love or Hurricane Dennis Rodman, now those are effective hurricane names. The badness may be unpredictable but you know something bad is coming. Courtney or Dennis may not directly hit you, but you're goonna go ahead and steer clear b/c if you get in it's motha fucking way, you'll be washed up, drug addicted and inexplicably crazy by association. Appropriately named hurricanes carry the following warning: consistently careless, ominous, destructive, wild as untamed horses or the new Tara Reid show on E!. (Side note: There is a Hurricane Tara Reid. It’s primarily comprised of silicone. Her reputation at the National Hurricane Center has spread like herpes. She’s reportedly the whore of natural disasters. Hurricane Tara will fuck up any town any time.) Consider if you will Hurricane Whitney and Bobby. It's embarrassing by any standard of measure. When the storm duo first rolls in, the forecast looks promising, a real talented storm, maybe a record-breaker. But then it arrives and all expectations are shot to shit. Pathetic and sloppy, circus comes town, Jerry Springer shit. You feel dirty, but you have to watch as it destroys your every hope for a better life. Imagine if, fifty years ago, Hurricane Liz Taylor hit the Gulf scene. Her signature? She'd fill entire counties with majestic, deep blue skies sprinkled with stars on her path of destruction. These days, when Liz revisits, her beautiy of oblivion has vanished. She's completely out of control and it's sad to witness the last gasps of a legendary hurricane. Not a star in sight, only wailing winds. Her victims want to feel bad for her, they really do. But they can’t because she's still a fucking hurricane. She spins round and round and ruins everything, Gladiator! style. I’m sending these ideas to HBO's Real Time w/ Bill Mahr. Look for my “No More Hurricanes With Pussy Names” during this week’s ‘New Rules’ segment.

The television news coverage sucks, too. It’s so predictable. Been there, blew that. Ninety pound anchors do remote reports attempting to stand still in the wind with no success. Then they cut to stock footage of people in boats paddling by the roofs of their mobile homes. The video is from the previous hurricane or maybe the one before that. Why shoot new tape if the old stuff’ll do? Same tragedy, different day. Inevitably, the mic held by the blowing reporter short circuits, and their sound fades in and out. The commentary is unintelligible, so awful in fact, that the talking heads in the studio swiftly interrupt and say, “OK, well it seems like we’re having some sound difficulties. Sure is a powerful storm. We’ll return to Benita Yakimoto Jackson-Bergenberg as soon as we can. We sure hope she doesn’t blow to Oz in the meantime!”

Newspapers aren’t any better. They print the same tired old crap, but they’re responsible journalists, so they have to change the state, city and town names keep it authentic. The typical sotry goes a little something like this:

HURRICANE RIPS THROUGH ________ (RED STATE)

(BACKWARD STATE) recorded a storm surge of more than 20 feet in , where windows of a major hospital were blown out, utility poles dangled in the wind, and billboards were ripped to shreds. In some areas, authorities pulled stranded homeowners from roofs or rescued them from attics. In (BACKWARD TOWN), exploding transformers lit up the early morning sky as power outages spread. Some mistakenly celebrated, thinking that the storm was over and the fireworks were a sign of relief. “Well, shucks,” Marty Lee Dixon remarked, “I’d a wished it was fireworks. Maybe I wouldn’t feel so bad about leaving 5 of my kids in the basement while I went to git help. I wonder if they're treading water, wondering if I'm comin' back for 'em.”

"Let me tell you something folks. I've been out there. It's complete devastation. Folks are devastated. Their houses and cars and live bait shops are devastated. I’m devastated talking about the devastation," said Gulfport, Miss., Fire Chief Pat ‘Fire Man’ Sullivan, who ventured into the hurricane to check threatened areas. “God all-fuckin-mighty! In my whole entire life up to now, I’ve never seen such devastating devastruction.”

There were no immediate reports of deaths or serious injuries as of midday, but emergency officials had not been able to reach some of the hardest-hit areas. Gov. Haley Barbour of (BACKWARD RED STATE) said he feared deaths among those who chose to ignore evacuation orders.

Those are my favorite hurricane characters, the anti-evacuationers, the ones who stay to protect their shit. The news media portrays them as stubborn heroes, unwilling to give up on keeping their stuff. It’s the American dream played out with a trailer home and a guy lugging sandbags, wearing fly fishing pants while his wife stands expressionless in the background. All the devoted background wives, the Brenda’s or Tammy’s or Jo-Lyene’s, always stick by their man and tough it out till they’re separated from their jelly shoes in a tidal wave. And it’s the dumbest choice they made since they married the loser. Haven’t the evacuationers seen the evacuationers before them on TV? What part of “Get out of Dodge” is so hard to grasp? There isn’t enough plastic on anyone’s couch to withstand Hurricane (PUSSY NAME).

It wouldn’t be a catastrophe without the government’s involvement, all those feeble emergency service teams and ‘disaster area’ designations. On occasion, a spokesperson for the Red Cross has a grip on the situation, but that’s it. The recon tours are my favorite. Traveling down to the (BACKWARD RED STATE) the governor and President exploit the electorate to take advantage of an opportunity to shake the hands and pretend to empathize with all the soggy red staters who’ll love them no matter what. After all, high ranking political officials can totally relate to a family of 9 sleeping on the floor in the high school’s gym. Like when a fuse breaks in the Oval Office, G.W. has to hide under his Presidential desk until the lights come on again. Once a tree fell on the ranch in Crawford, TX and caused a leak. The pot catching the water filled up twice! For more than 3 minutes, Laura and the girls thought all was lost until a Secret Service dude stuck his finger in the hole until help arrived. They were one much bigger and heavier tree away from getting really, really, really wet.

Next, I’ll concede that I haven’t got a solid monetary figure for this, but I would put the cost of refurbishing the ravaged lands in the ballpark of 20-30 million dollars. The manpower, the materials, the planning and the time that it takes to rebuild is extraordinary. And the process isn’t easy. But I think it’s a real sign of fortitude to put the new shit on the same exact flood-lines as the old shit. That’s resiliency for ya. No matter how many times your life drowns under flood water, don’t ever give up. If at sixth you don’t succeed, try, try again. My only advice to the great people of (BACKWARD RED STATE) is to keep asking God and Mother Nature not to piss on you ever again. Sooner or later, they’ll get the message.

'Til Death Does She Toke

Let's hope the joint isn't as old as she is. Metaphorically speaking, methinks that the length of the joint is congruent to the span of her short-term memory. Grandma may always forget your birthday, but you can go over to her house and smoke a bowl to celebrate anytime!

IT'S A GIRL!

Three weeks after entry into this crazy world, San Diego Zoo veterinarians have determined that the panda cub is a girl. Why they didn't just turn her over and find out, I'll never understand. She weighs 22 ounces or just in excess of a pound (me, too!) and is 29.5 centimetres from the tip of her nose to the base of her tail. Her favorite band is the Red Hot Chili Peppers and she talks out loud when she's dreaming. B/c of some Chinese tradition, she won't get a name until she is 100 days old. For now I am calling her Almost-Has-Eyes.

Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez's New Custom-Made Dart Board

Pat Robertson Kills Me

Religious broadcaster Pat Robertson has suggested that American agents assassinate Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez to stop his country from becoming "a launching pad for communist infiltration and Muslim extremism."

Pat, we haven't been 'spooked' about communism in 50 years, ya senile old shit. Venezuelans only care about soccer. They call it football. Not like our football, Pat. What they call football we call soccer. I'll give you a couple minutes to digest that.

An official of a theological watchdog group on Tuesday criticized Robertson's statement as "chilling." If you're a theological watchdog group's spokesperson, chilling really means fuckin' fucked up even by Pat fucking Robertson standards.

"We have the ability to take him out, and I think the time has come that we exercise that ability," Robertson said Monday on the Christian Broadcast Network's "The 700 Club."
"We don't need another $200 billion war to get rid of one, you know, strong-arm dictator," he continued. "It's a whole lot easier to have some of the covert operatives do the job and then get it over with."

Watch yer back, Pat-hole, covert operatives (the Queer Eye Fab 5) are coming to your house to take you out. First they'll place an aesthetically stunning burning cross in your front yard. Then Carson Kressley will have his way with you while your children and grandchildren watch via teleconference. Expect to don a flattering bodice. He likes his boys tight. Once Carson's finished, which will be a while, because as I understand it, Sting has taught him some serious tantric techniques, the boys will attach you to your dining room table with loads (pun intended) of glitter glue. Following activities shall prompt an aneurism or heart-attack. That is, if the massive blood loss doesn't get you first.

"You know, I don't know about this doctrine of assassination, but if he thinks we're trying to assassinate him, I think that we really ought to go ahead and do it," Robertson said. Ah, yes, the doctrine of assasintation, written on the heels of the Monroe doctrine during the "You Betta Doctrine Up Imperialism and Assasinationism" era, begun in 1823. Damn, Pat, you knows your history, I'll give you that.

Robertson then let it all hang out. "It's a whole lot cheaper than starting a war ... and I don't think any oil shipments will stop." Hahaha! Pat, you kill me! We can totally afford another war if we give our big-ass tax breaks back to the G-O-V-E...sorry, forgot you can't spell. You know, the Feds. Dude, before you forget, put that oil shipment joke on paper. Leno will snap that up and take credit for it. Trust me. Remember that one joke he told about Tom Cruise being crazy lately? That was mine.

Robertson has made controversial statements in the past. In October 2003, he suggested that the State Department be blown up with a nuclear device. However, to his credit, he did pronounce 'nuclear' correctly. He has also said that feminism encourages women to "kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians." Hence Gloria Steinem's reknown rug-munching, socialist leanings and broom riding prowess. Call Gloria if you'd like the conformist cast out of you. Also, her yearly reading of Mothers Who Kill Their Children: Understanding the Acts of Susan Smith to the "Prom Mom" has been moved from Oct. 14 to the 28th. Gloria insists that her power grows as Halloween draws closer. Bluestockings, a radical bookstore, fair trade cafe, and activist center in the Lower East Side of Manhattan has proudly played host to this event for 11 consecutive years. Thank you, bitches!

Secretary of Defense Donald H. Rumsfeld, appearing at a Pentagon news conference, said when asked: "Our department doesn't do that kind of thing. It's against the law. He's a private citizen. Private citizens say all kinds of things all the time." If you're the Secretary of Defense, you mean that Pat Robertson is a bigger facist asshole than you are and you pray he never shuts his hole because he makes you look like the Pilsbury Dough Boy when you say 'private citizens say all kinds of things all the time.'

State Department spokesman Sean McCormack called Robertson's remarks "inappropriate." "This is not the policy of the United States government. We do not share his views," McCormack said. After an in-depth investigation, it was determined that the State Department doesn't share anything. One time the FBI wanted to borrow coffee filters and the State Departement was like, "Why don't you exercise your covert abilities and find some of your own. Better yet, go ask Agent Mulder to send a message to his alien sister. She'll have extraterrestrial coffee filters."

As evidenced by recent events, U.S. policy is to employ neo-Conservatism domestically. This strategy, designed to alienate and frustrate thoughtful Americans with a net worth that's less that a bagillion dollars, seems destined for remarkable success. With any luck, those fucking boarder jumpers will speak regular English as good as the President does. U.S. foreiregn policy has returned to the old method of gunboat diplomacy. Since Bush is unable to conceptualize a long-term global strategy, he has assembled a wacky B-boy reactionary gang of oil industry bitches including a well-connected who's who of past Republican administrations and prominent businessmen and women. Everyone thinks they're the Executive in Chief. In a shocking turn of events, White House leaks indicate the impending outsing of Condi Rice. Her successor, yet to be named, is widely speculated to be Pat Robertson. Robertson wisely eliminationed his competition when he had Colin Powell assasinated at a recent meeting of the Rainbow Coalition.

Love Me Cub

I completely identify with this tiger cub. Were I able to turn back the clock to when my days were filled with nothing but belly rubbin' and breast feeding, I'd do it in a heartbeat. And how sweet is kiddo there, stretching his heart out? I have to stand on my tippy toes to hug, too. But look closely. Do you see what I do? That is a desperate hug. I know the desperate hug very well. Baby is holding on for dear life, oh so needy, begging for a little love and attention. Or a lot. Now notice though the look on Mommy's face. She couldn't give two shits. The cub's arms might as well be a candy necklace. In my paranoid waking life, let's say 9 1/2 out of every 12 hours I'm conscious, I imagine hers to be the exact expression on the faces of everyone I've ever hugged. It's so Woody Allen of me. No wait, it's so Sylvia Plath. No wait, it's so Earnest Hemingway. Nah, it's more like Anne Sexton. Or maybe Virginia Woolf. Oh, Jesus! I have to stop there, because if I get into Irish poets, the list of names'll look like James Joyce's first draft of Ulysses.

Gimp, It's Not a Tumor!

About 2 months ago, maybe a bit longer, I was having trouble with my left knee. It was shirking its knee duties, i.e. not fucking bending. Reluctantly I went to visit the orthopedist. I don’t like going to the doctor unless I absolutely have to. There’s a part in the ‘info intake’ routine when the physician’s assistant or medicinal elf asks, “How long have you been feeling like this?” My answer usually embarrasses both of us. I’m always ashamed and (s)he’s horrified that I’d wait a fortnight before I acquiesced and sought professional assistance. What would happen to this girl in the event of a vivisection? How long would she stew in blood and guts before asking a professional to sew her torso back together?

The knee dude's diagnosis sucked ass. He said that the knee cap was moving around, and I would need physical therapy to strengthen it. But before he disclosed the dealio, my x-rays surprisingly excited his inner surgeon. He popped into the exam room grinning like a frat boy would at a double-jointed virgin . “You have a tumor!” he proudly proclaimed. “I know,” trying to bring the zen, “osteochondroma.” (It’s a bone spur that grew out of my knee cap, toward my hoo-ha. On the x-ray, it looks like cauliflower grew inside my leg.) “Oh,” he pulled back, dejectedly, “So you know. How long have you had this?” I go all matter-of-fact, “Since 8th grade, so like, 13, maybe 14.” “And what did they say?” He studied my face, waiting to examine the rest of my bone spur story. I felt like Elvis at his own autopsy. “Um, they said that it could be prohibitive and they’d like to remove it. So I asked them a bunch of questions, and since I hadn’t yet experienced any discomfort, I’d prefered not to operate unless I really had to. My Mom agreed.” And that was the end of our date, Chuck. He returned to Objective Doc.

When I thought about it later, I gave him a break. He is a bone cutter. He loves what he does, and that means that he wants to cut my bones. I worried that he'd come off as a chase you down the hallway Patrick Bateman kind of cut your bones guy. I figure ff I had a bone shaver, I'd want to use it, too. So when the good doctor gracefully dropped the bone tumor subject and moved on to my real complaint, I admired his enthusiasm.

I served my time in PT, 4 weeks, Tuesday and Thursday mornings, an hour each. Not to pat myself on the kneecap but I was an outstanding student. The rest of those ‘I got my hip replaced’ cry babies were jealous of my spryness, my subtle strength and natural athleticism. Meanwhile, they were creaking and in need of some WD-40, dropping weights and moaning in pain. I felt their envious energy but I decided to forgive them their trespasses. Retaliation was unnecessary. They were already fucked. What more could I do? O.K. I would impersonate the old ladies. “My mail comes through the door, and I have to bend down to pick it up.” “I forget which doctor I’m seeing Thursday. I got another one, too, on Monday. Is this the right brace?”

I graduated Magna Cum Self-Appointed PT. I stopped cold turkey and didn’t schedule any more sessions. Why wait for dismissal when I felt good as new? No more knee sleeve, no more locking. I emancipated myself. For the first time in 2 months I got to ride my bike, go dancin’ and act as if the knee was as good as new. I thought nothing of it…until last night.

In the middle of the night I got up from bed b/c the high maintenance knee was all fucked up again. It woke me out of my sleep, which, as many friends and family and Gypsies know, never happens. One time, during a tornado, my house was swept away a la Wizard of Oz, and I ended up on Jupiter still asleep with my head resting on Shirley MacLaine’s shoulder while she played Crazy Eights with E.T.

As I’m wincing and limping around my room, I noticed that it didn’t hurt in the same way as last time. This wasn’t my knee at all. It’s the God damn chondroma! The cauliflower, once harmless and benign, was shredding the myriad fibers around it! The gall! After 15 years? That little shit came out of a coma to destroy blood vessels, muscles, ligaments, joints and all the almost, well not really, ‘hard’ work I did in physical therapy.

Today I am limping like a pussy again. It's not in my nature to endure taking stairs one step at a time, using the better part of an hour to sit down, peeing with my left leg straightened as though I’m F.D.R. for chrissake! On top of that the Advil’s not working. (I am sorry I made fun of the cute old ladies! I am sooooo sorry. Make me whole again, please!!) If the seething pain persists, I’m going to have to go back to that Saw Bones and tell him that the osteochondroma turned to the Dark Side and is trying to kill me. Thankfully, if my usual heal thyself attitude holds out, that could be as early as November.

Take It, Fellas!

Tired today. Will let others speak for me.

"I'm a professional. I've had three performances."
--Fozzie, The Muppet Movie

"We grow copious amounts of ganja here, and you're carrying a wasted girl and a bag of fertilizer. You don't look like your average horti-fucking-culturalist."
--Winston, Lock Stock and Two Smoking Barrels

"Yes, that's right, I saw the Terrance and Phillip movie. Now who wants to touch me? [pause] I SAID WHO WANTS TO GODDAMN TOUCH ME?"
--Cartman, South Park: Bigger, Longer, Uncut

"I was a "pharmaceutical distributor."
--Tasty Taste, Fear of A Black Hat

Amber Atkins: My mom never hid the fact that my dad chose his career over us. What was it she always said?
Loretta: Once a carnie, always a carnie.
Amber Atkins: Mom still cries every time she sees a tilt-a-whirl or a fat lady in a tube top.
--Drop Dead Gorgeous

Everyone Loves Dead Lucille Ball

This was an actual headline in today's AP Entertaiment News. The story follows. Then there's another headline. That's my story.

LUCILLE BALL TOPS LIST OF DEAD CELEBS

Lucille Ball is America's most beloved dead star. The company that developed the "Q score" that broadcasters and advertisers quietly consult to measure a personality's popularity has done a survey that tests the reputation of performers who have gone on to that big soundstage in the sky.
The redheaded sitcom star of the 1950s and '60s, who died in 1989, has topped past "Dead Q" lists as her comedies seemingly live forever on television, said Steve Levitt, president of Marketing Evaluations, Inc., which conducts the tests.

"What is there not to like about Lucy?" he said.

Um, the Shan wonders, in the physical realm, what’s left of Lucy to like? She passed in ’89 and it’s 2005. Yikes!

LUCILLE BALL THRILLED TO TOP LIST OF DEAD CELEBS

Besting beloved male entertainers such as Dead Bob Hope, Dead John Wayne, Dead Jimmy Stewart and Dead Red Skelton, Dead Lucy said that she was delighted to have the number one spot on the “Dead Q” list.

“I’m not exactly shocked. I beat those pompous pricks for years. I invented the modern sitcom, God damn it! And I broke more than a few barriers doing it, almost more than all the balls I busted to get there,” Dead Lucy recalled at a press conference held on Cloud Nine. “Desi and I drank, smoked and celebrated our superiority when we were alive. In the long run, it’s probably what killed us. But victory tastes better in heaven, I gotta tell ya.”

Congratulations to “Dead Q” list newcomers Dead Johnny Carson and Dead John Ritter. Lucky for them, Dead Jackie Gleason and Dead Fred Astaire ("Dead Fred" to friends) show every dead celebrity the ropes. Their favorite newbies include Dead River Phoenix, Dead Anne Miller, Dead Lawrence Welk, Dead J.T. Walsh and, of course, Dead Elvis. Dead Jackie and Dead Fred have no jealousy issues. They welcome sublebrities with open arms. As they say, "In the afterlife a star is a star." But Dead Michael Landon is a different story. Don’t fuck with Dead Michael Landon.

Before leaving Heavenly La La Land, I asked one more question. "Who's the funniest dead celebrity? To my surprise there was no debate. Heartily and without pause, all the famous dead shouted in unison, "Dead John Houseman!"

Sore Sights for My Eyes

Why is it considered rude to stare at the retarded or disabled? Why am I guilt-ridden when I look curiously at the now-missing limbs of an amputee? Ever seen someone with an awesome scar and yearn to ask them how their marking came to be? They're certainly unique, no doubt, and the only other people NOT doing a double take are freakin blind. And I gawk at the blind, too, if they have that icy blind thing over their eyes. The iris is slicked over and there's no color left. It's as creepy as the dudes with voice boxes. Yes, Mr. Hawking, we can hear you.

Though the subjects of my visual inspection are no strangers to stares, I'm convinced that mine is one of those faces you can read like a traffic sign. Stop and the next red light and you're going to see a sign on your right. Can't miss it. It's got this cherubic face with no cheekbones whatsoever and it reads, "Now that's something you don't see every day."

Pardon me for noticing! But the time honored tradition of folklore is dying. Our culture praises the instant google'd information. I'm all for a quick elephantitis search. However, running around the office telling coworkers what I've just seen is how stories get passed from one generation to the next. It's how we learn about each other.

Political correctness goes against human nature. Don't stare at the ______challenged. But I can't help it! I'm an animal, a bitch, a homo erectus (hahahahaha). If, out in the wild, I saw one of my fellow homos with an abnormal or highly irregular appearance, I'd be drawn to it. I'd scop it out tand then I would sniff the butt. Fascinating features are like shiny objects. I am drawn to them and so would the cro-magnon man. In fact, proportionally speaking, considering changes and natural progression of the human form, I'd say that staring at people who've got neat stuff to stare at is exactly where I should be in my evolutionary journey. Damn, I wish I had a reason to sniff butt, though.

May The Paraphernalia Be With You

I do not believe in coincidence. Don't believe the devil. I don't believe his book. But the truth is not the same without the lies he made up. I don't believe in excess success is to give. I don't believe in riches, but you should see where I live. I believe in love.** Everything happens for a reason. At the very least, any occurrence possesses some meaning. This isn't to say that my world is altered if I drop my ice cream cone. What I'm getting at is profound. When I see Chicago sports teams' paraphernalia in New York City, God is talking to me. Giggle. Laugh. Guffaw if you will. You're just jealous that G-O-D and I are likethis.

It started when I began to take certain notice of a Cubs hat here or a Bear jersey there. Those sightings delighted me because Chicago is my home. No matter how long I live in New York City or anywhere else, I am a Chicagoan. So, I felt connected somehow to total strangers on the basis of their wardrobe. Until they would notice me staring and ask me to, "Fuck off, bitch!" For a fellow Bulls fan? Sure!

Soon I went from spotting the Chi-gear on ocassion to seeing it frequently. With the frequency came a great sense of timing. Freaky but cool, too. Recently, I was on the phone with my cousin Mary Rose, and as she was telling me that Bill was out of surgery and doing alright, this guy with a home made 'I Love the Chicago Cubs' tee walks right in front of my relieved little face.

You may be thinking, for fuck's sake, Shannon! Kids wear the Jordan Nike shit everywhere, all the time. Getting the new Jordans is a rite of passage, it's like getting laid. How does that have anything to do with your sign from God crap? Ahem, I don't count ANY of the Jordan stuff, not so much as a logo. That would be asinine. Suck my balls.

Some Sundays in the fall when I'm feeling sorry for myself because I can neither watch every Bears game (they're not broadcast in the Tri-sate area/armpit of the East) nor can I toss back a few beers while I watch ANY game. (Technically, nothing's stopping me. If I want, happy hour starts if I fart. I'm just not willing to risk losing everything in my life for a flat Bud Light.) All is not lost! Out pop the Brian Urlacher #54 jerseys and with them, my pissyness disappears. Incidentally, his jersey was the top selling jersey amongst any other in the entire NFL. Two years ago, but still...

This morning's sighting kicked total ass. I was walking from the subway to my place of work (where I blog and pee every hour because I drink gallons of water) and my internal dialogue chattered as usual, off and running, "I should get more Bears' stuff. I already have the sidelines baseball hat, but that's soooooo dykey. I've got the jersey. That's some serious shit right there. Oh, and I've got the t-shirt from training camp. Sucks that orange makes me look like I need a kidney transplant. But I need more, more, I dunno..." At that precise moment a wicked fierce chick wearing an old, beat up to perfection Chicago Bears t-shirt strolls right past me. I looked up right away and said, "OK, that was hysterical," to God.

Dear Higher Power of my Understanding,

Thanks for all the 'signs.' But can I start getting actual stuff? Like, may I have a free White Sox throw rug one of these days? Or new Bears flights for my darts (totally lesbian, I know!). I could go with some Cubs ones, too. Whatever you deem appropriate.

Faithfully Yours, As Long as It Works For Me,
Shannon

These clever communicaes could keep me stocked for years.

**name that tune

The Fountain of Juan

"I ask her if she wants to go to Hawaii or Mexico."
--on his nefarious method of asking his wife if she'd like to screw in an extremely uncomfortable place, like the back of a Volkswagen.

MONSTERS OF THE MIDWAY

CHICAGO BEARS

PRESEASON FOOTBALL!

TONIGHT!

HALL OF FAME GAME vs.

THE SUCKY MIAMI DOLPHINS

ABC TV 8pm, 7pm CENTRAL.

WOOOOOOOOOO HOOOOOOOOOOO!

I am currently crapping my shorts.

Snooze Abuse

I am in an abusive relationship with my Snooze alarm, and it's gotten out of control. We've been together since I was in High School. It's always been a love/hate kind of thing. At first, I resented her. But soon I began to depend on her, and since then, I've always been grateful to have her. I lover her, I really do. Without her, I'd sleepwalk through life. But there's just something about her whining first thing in the morning. Bitch, bitch, bitch! I can't stand it. So, I hit her. She knows it's coming, too. I can't tell you how many times I warn her, "Shut the fuck up!" "Shut up!" But on she goes, like clockwork.

Mostly, I hit her on weekdays. Lately, though, I've been going at her on weekends, too. Weekend sessions last much longer than the weekday ones. Monday - Friday I'll usually get to a point where I can stop. God forgive me, though, because on the weekends I can't control myself. I give it to her good, for hours on end. Snooze! Snooze! Snooze! Every 10 minutes. Snooze! 9 minutes. Snooze! It's like exhausting love-making. I catch myself making the same faces, the same noises, only they're slightly more begrudging. And I'll confess that my motivation isn't about performing a loving act. It's a sick crutch.

I am an animal.

The majority of Snooze couples have appropriate, respectful relationships. Sure, every now and again, the Snooze receives a tap or two. I guess I just have a more violent consitution. I don't know how to love.

Ain't Too Proud to Beg

Saturday evening, I have an oppty to perform in front of a rep from HBO's Aspen Comedy Festival. However, I am required to bring a minimum of 10 people to the show. Many, many, many of my fans (friends who've continually supported me despite witnessing countless hacks--Evil Baby, anyone?) are out of town.

It's August. Most New Yorker's take vacations in August, especially doctors. Therefore, I don't recommend taking part in any dangerous activities because the only M.D.s available to save your ass aren't worth their weight in stethoscopes. There's a reason they're stuck here. American Indians came up with a brilliant adage to describe these docs. It goes, 'Low man on totem pole.' I figure, what with the pending malpractice suit and 3rd divorce, they can't afford a vacation. I wouldn't let 'em lay a tongue depresser on me.

I do recommend coming to see me do 10 extraordinary minutes of mind-blowingly spectacular stand up. That's a lie. It's not a recommendation. It's a plea. If I don't put at least 10 peeps in the seats, I'll suffer the indignity of getting a late spot in the line-up and I guarantee my set will get cut to, like, 4-5 minutes. That's not gonna get me to Aspen.

HELP!

DATE: This Saturday, August 6th

PLACE: New York Improv Comedy Club 318 W. 53rd Street (Between 8th and 9th Ave.)

SHOWTIME: 7:00 p.m. Doors Open at 6:30

COVER: $15. Only $12 if advance reservation is made on VIP line: 212-465-3108

New Juanism

"That's when my potatoes start to burn."
-Juan on the excitement of the NBA

Why I Need a Girlfriend

Reason # 917:
In the middle of my back, right where the bra hooks, there is a serious zit (backne, if you will) in the works. It's under the skin right now, an innocuous pink bump. But in 48 hours or so, it'll be ready, ripe to rock. Sadly, I'll have to go at it alone. I need a girlfriend.

Reason # 46:
I can go see any movie I want whenever I want. I can listen to any music I want whenever I want. I can eat whatever I want whenever I want. I can wear what I want whenever I want. No one's will interferes with mine. No one tells me NO. And it sucks. The real joy lies in winning the arguement, defying the old ball and chain and earning the freedom to do as I please. No pain, no gain. I need a girlfriend.

Carole King Nightmares

There's a great Whit Stillman quote at the end of "Barcelona." A guy's friend is visiting him in the hospital, and he says something about the human respone to tragedy being inherently narcissitic. Just something to suck on...

My weekend was spent praying and waiting, shaking in terror and generally freaking out. I couldn't focus on anything, and when I tried to talk, my lips curled around my teeth and snapped together like the legs of a virgin. Thankfully I was able to lean on my old pal, the nap. When I slept, I could stop shaking. See, I have a darling little tremor that's normally undetectable, save for when I'm exceptionally nervous, hurried or excited. But from Saturday morning until late afternoon yesterday, the darling tremor morphed into a fugitive Tilt A' Whirl, jerking my arms and legs and head. It felt like I had been struck by lightening. The tired and over-used deer in the headlights metaphor certainly applies in this instance. However, I am the deer and it's all happening in SLOW MOTION. Ah, I haven't explained the oncoming car or its blinding headlights.

Last week was a busy and rough week. And I'll leave it at that. Well, I should also mention that I'm not easily overwhelmed or upset. I cry maybe 5 times a year. I'm impervious to Kleenex commercials, the part of "My Girl" when Macaulay Culkin dies, anything like that. I laugh in the face of the trite and saccharin. You have to seriously fuck with my shit to fuck with my shit. Clear enough? I had a point here. Oh, yes, I completely lost my shit on Friday night, cried like a wuss, couldn't catch my breath, and the aforementioned 'shakes' made a guest appearance on the curb of Elizabeth St. between Houston and Bleecker. Someone must have seriously fucked with my shit. I knew it was coming, too, kind of like when you know you're gonna hork. But I was sure I could get to the subway and make it home without offering random passers-by Orchestra seats to my breakdown. But noooooooo. Weepy, weepy show for everyone to see.

When I finally got home, I shut my phone off, put on my softies (PJs/loungewear) and limped into bed. I'd been beaten to a pulp, ridden hard and put away wet. Breakdowns are exhausting. I blew all adrenaline stored in my tiny frame. There was no reserve, nothing. The Shan went out like a light. That was my Friday night.

Saturday morning, I turn the ol' phone back on and I've got 7 voice mails. I thought that maybe my cell phone is a stinking, dirty liar, trying to screw with me, so he/she/it can go live somewhere else. I never have more than 2 voice mails. I am not that cool, don't have that many friends, and almost everyone knows that I hate the phone. What the hell? My worry was warming up and I had regained a bit of adrenaline over night. If I had elf ears, they'd have been raised nano-inches, sensing danger ahead. Anything out of the ordinary, in my experience, is bound to be BAD, disaster in the mist. I dial and enter my stupid password: corn muffin or baby dingo. I change it a lot. The first message is from my friend Laren, who probably thinks I'm a flake. And he's right. Delete. Next…it's Mom. Here it comes. Prepare. I am a keen, danger-sensing elf. "Hello, Shannon. This is your mother. I need you to call me." Beep. Oh, shit! I know that that message. It’s familiar and isn’t good. Based on her brevity, someone has died. I've asked her to humor me with a smattering of chit chat before she goes full-on Bad News Joan on me. 'Oh, Shannon, I don't want to upset you, but _________ passed away.' I've earned the small talk. How's the weather, Shanie? Fake it, for Chrissake. Next message is also Mom. Shit. Shit. Two in a row. Fuck. This is definitely bad. At this point, I perform a time-honored ritual, and I run through the Death Watch list. Not to be cruel, but there are relatives ranked higher on that list than others. So I am ready, if necessary, to hear Death Watch names 1 thru 5. "Shannon, this is your mother. I'm on my way to 8 o’clock mass. I'll try you again when I get back." Beep. Definitely Death Watch action. Has to be. She’s already at church. Please, God, open your loving God Arms to the Death Lister on his/her way to life everlasting. May their souls be welcomed into heaven. I love them, I really do. But they are on their way out. Take that to the bank. There's nothing I can do but accept the harsh reality. Hmm. Maybe DL#2 was driving with DL#5? BOOM! Car wreck. That’s a two-in-one combo. Never done that before. Dual funerals. Does that mean there’s only one luncheon, because I say one luncheon per stiff. It’s insulting to do a joint thing. See this neurosis? It takes is 2 voice mails for me to be willing to accept that 5 pre-selected relatives get knocked off. In less than 5 minutes, I've lined up two funeral luncheons. I don’t even get to drink for free at those anymore. I suffer family sober. What do I care if there’s just one luncheon? OK, on to Mom's voice mail, Episode III: "Shannon, this is Mom. I hate to tell you this over the phone...Little Billy is in West Suburban hospital. Call me as soon as you can." Shock hits. It's really bad. Her voice was soft, nurturing and quivering. I could practically feel her rubbing my back to console and calm me. Little Billy? She called him Little Billy. He’s been ‘Just Bill’ for years. She’s flashing back. Unspeakably horrific. Shit. Oh, shit! Fuck. Fuck! Billy, my cousin, a perfectly healthy 32 year old dude is in the hospital. I proceed directly to dire thoughts. He's been vicious pile up on the Eisenhower. One of his students shot him! Kids shoot people all the time. (If you're ever looking for someone to asses a situation then give you the worst possible scenario, keep me in mind. I'm good, fast and cheap.)

Frantic, I dial Mom. No answer. You know when you're trying to reach someone during a crisis and you get their regular message? I hate that message. I loathe it. The sound of their everyday 'normal situation' voice goes searing through my ears. She’s also refused to get a cell phone so there is no other way to snag her. I could kill her. Dogs have cell phones, but not my Mom. Next up: M.J. (the brother). His voice mail message is worse. Ugh. It's so Guy. "You know the drill. Leave a message." No mention of his name, no have a nice day, no warmth whatsoever. I mutter 'dick' under my breath as I hang up. I surmise that I have to venture outside of my inner circle to get information. At this point I’m restless and agitated in a “I’ll never get to the bathroom in time” kind of way. My head is throbbing. Apparently someone planted a Sequoia at the base of my vertebrae. It grew all the way up to my ears. Who's in my phone contacts list? Paydirt! Bingo! Bill's sister and my cousin, Kathy. Kathy is cool. This is good. I love her. I can take hearing whatever it is from her. It'll be fine. No answer, machine picks up. Aw, c'mon! Give a kid a break! Another outgoing message! My last resort, is Mary Rose, Bill's sister and my cousin, too. She’ll know what’s up. In fact, she’ll be in the thick of it, telling who to sit where in the waiting room. Calling her when I know she’s in shit stew reminds me of opening credit card statements. I hate, hate, hate to do it, but I've got to know what's in there, for my own good. I call Mary. I get Mary. She coolly and calmly gives me the details. (Mary Rose has become my new hero. She deserves a damn parade for being so solid, for trying to keep this whacked family together and for walking through her fear time and again so that others can have an easier time walking through theirs. Mary gets it done.)

A shortened series of events follows: Bill walked into the ER Friday afternoon. He'd had weird symptoms, of what he didn't know. But it was getting worse fast. Bill’s wife Andrea is a nurse and thank God for her, b/c if it was up to Bill, his arm would fall off and he'd take an aspirin. This is a guy who won't even get himself new socks, and he can wear a pair of shoes down to the insole. Not that he's this totally self-sacrificing martyr, but he's unaware of stuff, basic things he needs. Anyhow, by Friday night the doctors at West Suburban diagnosed an infection in a valve in his heart. Again, Bill is a perfectly healthy, 32 year-old man. Mother. Fucker. (From this point forward I will NOT be using accurate medical terminology. I could have been a Doctor, it's just the science part I had a problem with.) Overnight, they tried to fight the infection, or at least contain it, with antibiotics, but no dice. His fever went up. There was no choice. They'd have to operate as soon as possible. When I hung up, I kept hearing Mary tell me, "He's so sick, Shan. He's just so sick. You wouldn’t believe it if you saw him now."

I'm going to skip over the whole Operation part. It’s gross. But I must say that it was a fuck of a lot harder than they thought it would be. Complications, anyone? And it took a long ass time. How can a surgeon cut and paste for 8+ hours? How? Maybe it's all animation and special effects.

We assembled a family phone tree, kept in touch, and gave each other updates whenever they were available. I prayed a lot. I had nothing else to do. God must have been sick of all of us begging for Billy's life. Here's my impression of God listening to my umpteenth round of prayers, "Yeah. Uh-huh. OK. Yeah. Got it. Cousin Bill. Heart something. Cracked him open. Newly married, great teacher, blah, blah. I got it already!" He did. Nothing short of a miracle occurred when Bill was off the ventilator and sitting up late Sunday afternoon. He's totally doped up and when he tries to talk, all he spits out is, "Good? We good?" Yes, Bill, we’re very good. For now.

THE CAROLE KING PART
The night before they went to the ER, Andrea said that he had a helluva time trying to get to sleep. Staying asleep was even harder. And when he'd wake, he was restless and alarmed. So, Andrea asked him what was going on. He said, "I keep having these Carole King nightmares. I'm at Carole King's parties and there are all these people there and it keeps getting out of hand and she doesn't care." The funny thing is that Bill would have a Carole King dream even if his ticker wasn't jacked up. But I'll bet if he felt better, the parties would be fabulous and he'd enjoy himself immensely. Carole and company would be lucky to have him.

Mine is a ginormous family. But the 4 of us cousins, Mary, Billy, M.J. and I, are an extremely tight group. We're all close in age and we've all got compatible, undiagnosed ADD. I feel sorry for any outsider who tries to keep up with us. Entry into our club is a bitch. It’s been said that twins often develop their own language. Sometimes they speak in a vernacular only they know. We’re like that, but funny. When we were kids, we’d hang out and play games we'd invent. Our games were nothing like Connect Four or Hide and Go Seek. Left to our devices, we'd collaborate and come up with some inspired activities. I liked Spa where Bill and I lay down on towels, with unplugged phones in front of us. Mary and M.J. walked on our backs while we pretended to be movie agents, putting deals together during a professional massage. We played Band a lot, too. Naturally, Bill and I cast ourselves as lead vocals (depending on the gender of the person singing on the radio. There was a huge ruckus over who’d be Boy George. ) M.J. and Mary were always the supporting players. “Mary, I need you to really sell the air guitar. I want to feel it. Have fun!” Every time Bill sensed an uprising was in the works, he and I sat the down and gave our “We couldn’t do what we do without you. We need you. You’re the heart and soul of this band,” speech. We also performed several plays for friends of my aunt and uncle, who had agreed to a New Year's Eve party invite. If they only know that they'd be trapped in the house with no other choice than to attend The McGlynn 'New Year’s Rockin’ Eve' Theater. Then there's the legendary ‘Fame’ show, performed during Kathy's graduation party. We choreographed a tumbling routine to the first side of the Fame Soundtrack. But every time one of us landed too hard, the needle would skip and we'd have to "take it" from "the top." 'Hot Lunch' on repeat. I think we even asked people to pay to see us, which is cool because, technically, I've been a working actor since I was 7. The guests at the party lit their lighters hoping we’d do an encore, but we had to retire. It was bedtime.

I can't remember willingly leaving their house after our parents determined that the visit was over and vice versa. One time we hid in our crawl space for an hour hoping they wouldn't find us. Praying for a snowstorm to strike, our cover was blown. No sleep-over! My personal favorite ridiculous method of passing time was when we'd pose ourselves in various positions, with various expressions—sexy, confused, angry, lost—in front of the huge mirrors on my Mom's double walk-in closet. For hours, we'd summon the spirit of Meneudo, Duran Duran, Huey Lewis and the News and Corey Heart. We were working on our album cover. Really focused and commited to getting the best shot. I mean, practice makes perfect. And in the 80s, nothing could make an aspiring supergroup of future drug addicts look cooler than a spray bottle. Wet = hot. That spray bottle worked harder those afternoons than the entire Reagan administration did in 8 years. Pssshhhht, Pssssshht! Pssshhhhht! "OK, Shannon you're on top of the pyramid this time. Don't touch your hair!"

Without Bill's influence, I'd never have set foot on a stage. He also give me the last bit of convincing I needed about where I'd spend my college years. Bill encouraged me, said I belonged at Boston University with him. Incidientally, if you’re ever in Boston and you need a tour guide to point out key spots on the the Freedom Trail walk, call Bill! Nary a Revolutionary War bullet hole is skipped. He throws in some Catholic history factoids, too. I proudly know precisely where Rose Kennedy was born.

Bill works like a dog. He runs the theater program at Julian Jr. High, called C.A.S.T. Every year, Bill exposes his kids to the awe inspiring magic of live theater. (And he loses some more hair in the process.) He and his wife, by example, have the kind of marriage that I aspire to have one day, when hell is frozen over, and monkeys fly out of G.W.’s ass.

Billy got me to listen to James Taylor, to seriously listen to James Taylor, over and over. As a result, JT reminds me of love and peace and wisdom when I feel like I’ll never have them again. JT's voice is kind and soothing. If ever there was a man who could put me in a trance, it's Sweet Baby James.

When you're with Bill, you'll be struck by his intensity. He looks right at you, but with a marked absence of intimidation. You never sense boredom on his part. He can engage others by virtue of being engaged himself. Bill's got this Rodin’s 'The Thinker' habit of sitting a particular way when he's really into something. He'll lean forward, rest his chin in his palm and squint. I'm not sure if he thinks he can hear or see better when he does this. It's a joy to watch him do it.

Lastly, Bill's approval of my comedic endeavors is more important to me than any booker, agent, friend or potential stalker. He's always called me Shan, which I hate, but not when he says it. When I'm writing a joke or a new bit, I keep him in mind because he insists that I am as smart as I am funny. Some jokes are cheap, the best ones are clever. And onstage, I practice the economy of movement which he taught me. "Every motion is intentional. No wild gesturing. Don't distract the audience. Your presence is enough. Slow down. You know what you're doing." No, I really don't, but thanks for saying so.

I trust Bill implicitly. I love him even more.

SHOW THIS WEEKEND

DATE: This Saturday, August 6th

PLACE: New York Improv Comedy Club 318 W. 53rd Street (Between 8th and 9th Ave.)

SHOWTIME: 7:00 p.m. Doors Open at 6:30 Cover: $15. Only $12 if advance reservation is made on VIP line: 212-465-3108

The producer has assured me that there will be "industry people" there, whoever they are. They say that all the time, and usually some down-on-his-luck manager/agent dips himself in Aqua Velva and comes to the club to drink for free. But it's also been said that some HBO folk will be there, too, hunting for new talent for the Aspen Comedy Festival.