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Monday, April 28, 2003


Weekend Update Dept.

Starting with the first black eye is as good a place as any.

Friday I rescued My Man D from the clutches of a furry convention where he was quickly went native in the presence of people who get off on wearing cheap mascot costumes with easy access panels in the genital area. Sustained a black eye when sucker-punched by a guy in a fox suit who didn't like the way I threw My Man D over my shoulder to save him from a handsy high school physics teacher carrying a gigantic stuffed panda bear.

Saturday, sustained second black eye after loudly refusing to be a part of Kelly Osbourne's backstage man-harem at the Coachella Music Festival, further rubbing dirt in the situation by remarking that her blonde mohawk looks fucking ridiculous, which it does. Fortunately MTV no longer documents her every move, so no TV camera captured her well-executed right hook. We did wind up making out, but I'm saving that story for the DVD special features blooper reel.

Sunday drove back from the desert to punch this guy in the gut at the otherwise violence-free Los Angeles Times Festival of Books. Scrawled EHDTSMBMF ("Ernest Hemingway Did This Shit Much Better Motherfucker") on his forehead in red Sharpie while he was doubled over, then RIFP--BWH ("Rehab Is For Pussies -- Bunsen Was Here") on a copy of his new soon-to-be-bestselling addiction memoir. I also left a my curriculum vitae in the book. He will probably need someone to write a sequel for him while he is busy counting his money. Aggravated first black eye when Amy Tan threw her poodle at me for failing to respond to several morning-after phone calls.

Rushed down to Anaheim to take in the Angels -- Red Sox game with J.Lo and Ben. In case you missed "Good Will Hunting," Ben is from Massachusetts and therefore Red Sox fan trash. Jenny from the Block and I have both done time in the Boogie-Down, though she hasn't got a bad case of the Old Timey Yankee Religion like I do. Throwing popcorn at Ben, chanting "1917" and calling Nomah a pansy really never gets old. That is until Nomah stopped by for a quick Jen and Ben starfucking session between innings and overhears me talking about how his girlfriend Mia Hamm probably services him with some auxiliary equipment generally affixed to the pelvic area by straps. It should be noted that Miss Hamm was seated no further than a row away above the visitor's dugout and was enjoying a hearty, knowing laugh at my creative New York invective. It should further be noted that Nomah showed admirable restraint in using the butt-end instead of the barrel of his 33-ounce Louisville Slugger to re-aggravate both of my black eyes.

I helpfully pointed out that the team that signs his paychecks will languish in second place as long as organized baseball survives in America. The Red Sox wound up winning the game and Ben cutely thought this has made even the slightest chink in the baseball space-time continuum. Nomah and Ben doused each other in Moët to celebrate the extra-inning win against a team that needs an hysterical macaque to get the motivation to overcome a three-run deficit. In the clubhouse janitorial closet, Jen and I shared a giggle about this and the relatively weak box office of "Daredevil" over a flask of Johnny Walker Black. She mumbled something relating The Curse of the Bambino to an Affleckian performance problem and we laughed so hard I almost forgot about the two black eyes. Almost.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
If You Like Bunsen, Then You'll Love Bunsen