Friday, May 30, 2003
I guess this round goes to Ford:
Harrison Ford honored with star on Hollywood Walk of Fame
...for attempting the euthanasia of Bob Hope.
Take that, Indy.
Thursday, May 29, 2003
The Road to Zanzibar, Bali, Morocco, and Gehenna Dept.
It's been a birthday kind of week. This blog turned one, someone who may or may not be involved in the production of this blog turned a year older, and today Bob Hope turns 100. Overflowing with pre-summertime birthday spirit, I gave Bob Hope a call at his Malibu compound.
Bunsen: Bobby! First off, I'd like to wish you a happy one-zero-zero.
Bob Hope: Who the hell is this?
Hope: Bing? Bing, is that you?
Bunsen: Oh...of course it is, you old cooter!
Hope: Hold on, I have to turn down this huge machine that's keeping me somewhat alive. [A loud, clanking noise followed by the sound of air rushing out of a balloon.]
My throat might fill with loose clots, so bear with me.
Bunsen: That's OK. So how does it feel to be a year older?
Hope: Binger, I gotta tell ya -- I'm so old my blood type is a hieroglyphic. [A wet, rattling cough] I still got it.
Bunsen: That's funny. You do "still got it."
Hope: Take my wife, please!
Bunsen: That's Henny Youngman's joke.
Hope: Fuck fucking Henny Youngman. I'll kick his fiddle-playing keister if I ever see him again.
Bunsen: Henny died five years ago, Bobby.
Hope. Oh. Am I dead?
Hope: Wow, I've been getting calls from dead guys all day. Frank, Sammy, Farley, Andy Dick. What about you, Bing, you dead?
Bunsen: Yeah, I left over creative differences in 1977.
Hope: Wow, this call must be costing you a fortune. Let me call you back.
Bunsen: No, it's OK. We've got flat-rate calling in hell.
Hope: Oh, that sounds like a good deal.
Bunsen: It's not bad, but the rate is two million souls a month.
Hope: You still got it, Binger.
Bunsen: Thanks. [my cell phone rings] Hold on, I gotta take this.
Harrison Ford [via cell phone]: Bunsen.
Ford: This isn't funny. He thinks you're the ghost of Bing Crosby.
Bunsen: I don't know if he necessarily thinks I'm a ghost.
Ford: Don't split hairs with me.
Bunsen: Listen, he turned down his iron lung thing to talk to me. I can't dilly dally with you right now.
Ford: Leave the geezer alone.
Bunsen: Hold on. [back on phone] Bobby?
Hope: Still here.
Bunsen: It's Harrison Ford on the other line.
Hope: Oh! I love Indiana Jones. And that one where he he humps the bear.
Bunsen: Star Wars?
Hope: That's the one.
Bunsen: He says Happy Birthday. He also says your time on earth is up, it's time to come home.
Ford: I didn't fucking say that!
Hope: Oh, does Indy think I should turn off the machine?
Bunsen: I think that's what he might be getting at.
Hope: I can't reach the plug from here.
Ford: What the hell is he doing? Stop that!
Bunsen: What's that, Harrison, he should try harder?
Hope: I'm too tired. Maybe after lunch. I gotta tell ya, is there anything they can't mash up into a paste? I still--
Bunsen: He says to take your time, Bobby.
Ford: Cut it out! I've got to get over there and stop this!
Bunsen [to Ford]: Just hop in your helicopter, Indy. [to Hope] Bobby, I gotta run. I hope you got the flowers I sent.
Hope: I always thought you were a gay.
Bunsen: It doesn't matter so much in the afterlife, Bobby.
Hope: OK. [another rattling sound] Machine's back at full blast, I gotta go.
Bunsen: Don't pull the plug, Bobby. That Ford's a major league asshole.
Hope: OK. Bye, Bingers. See you when I see you. [hangs up]
Ford: Now he thinks I'm an asshole.
Bunsen: He's already forgotten you. Like everyone else will after "Hollywood Homicide" comes out.
Ford: But it's got It Boy Josh Hartnett in it with me.
Bunsen: Was Ashton Kutcher not available? Hartnett's so over.
Ford: You know, people go to the movies to watch me.
Bunsen: Not this time, Doctor Jones. Not this time.
Ford: You should probably disclose to your readers that you're being paid for mentioning "Hollywood Homicide."
Bunsen: I will admit no such thing! When's that out, June 13th?
Bunsen: I have to go.
Ford: You probably should. I have to go call Hope and tell him to pull the plug.
Bunsen: Until next time, Indy.
New Bob Thursday
I know that you are curious to know what this carrot is all about. Click on it (or here) to find out.
Tuesday, May 27, 2003
I don't have the foggiest notion as to why, but the Memorial Day Weekend had me thinking about rejection.
This may be hard for some of you to believe, but every word I've submitted for publication was not immediately preserved in the relative immortality of print.
Yes, yes, I know this is hard to believe. You think I'm a genius, etc etc, every word that's pounded out on my keyboard is gold and should be carefully examined and properly revered etc etc. Even the double etc etc's probably deserve to be placed in a glass case next to the Guttenberg Bible.
But I am no stranger to rejection.
I still remember the first time I had my words sent back to me, unpublished and disrespected. I was on assignment for the Akron Coupon Clipper after an editor there (whom at the time I'd thought to be a visionary but has since proven to be some sort of mongoloid with an MLA style guide) solicited some work from me upon seeing a piece I'd done for TV Guide excoriating NBC for canceling "Circus of the Stars." He desperately wanted my words in the Coupon Clipper, which was then a publication quickly losing market share to the Northern Ohio Value Page. Something edgy from the mind of Bunsen would help him put the Clipper back on top.
I spent the better half of an afternoon crafting a postmodern detective story fashioned completely from the text of car wash and frozen dinner coupons.
The editor wanted a review of the best jarred spaghetti sauces, albeit one incorporating the blow-by-blow of one of my trademark trysts with insert-name-of-nymphomaniac-upcoming-actress here.
We clashed. A hastily scribbled rejection notice arrived by registered mail a couple of days later. This letter has since been framed and placed above the headboard of my four-poster waterbed, where it serves as a reminder of misunderstood genius and is a fine substitute for "thinking about baseball" when the action turns hot.
In the end, my detective yarn ran in serial form in the pages of Oui magazine, alongside some of the most avant-garde erotica of its day.
The moral of this story is: fuck that guy from the Coupon Clipper.
He's probably a junkie begging for loose dimes in front of an Akron Jack in the Box, mumbling about the time he blew the opportunity to put his paper back on the map, if only, if only.
And if I were to see him there, I might scribble an impropmtu haiku on a ketchup-streaked napkin:
Your suffering makes
this here* bacon cheeseburger
taste like victory
Or maybe I'd just toss him a dime and kick him in the ass when he bent over to pick it up. Either one would do the job, really.
[*ed. note--this post updated due to helpful reader suggestion on missing syllable.]
Thursday, May 22, 2003
Given the runaway success of the second American Idol and the huge ratings numbers the finale pulled last night, I've been working feverishly on the screenplay for Clay and Ruben's big-screen debut. A nondisclosure agreement with a seven-figure penalty clause prohibits me from giving you too many details about the project. But picture this -- Clay Aiken and Ruben Studdard in:
"Pipes: The Closeted Gay and the Big, Fat, Black Guy"
It's a working title. But think "Trading Places" meets "Beverly Hills Cop" meets "Bad Boys II" colliding with "Soul Man" and thrown in a Juice Tiger with "Looks Who's Coming to Dinner" with just a scoach of "Thelma and Louise." You likey the new Matrix movie? Well, you ain't seen nothing til you see a Luther Vandross clone suspended in midair as the camera spins around him as he holding a note for fifteen seconds. Yeah, it's got some of that.
Got it yet? You do if you like a side of sizzle with your flapjacks of hotness.
I can't remember which one was crowned American Idol just now, but that's unimportant to the movie. It will merely determine which character will get to call the other "my bitch" during the various scenes of witty repartee at high speeds in the new Cadillac CTS.
And I probably shouldn't tell you that the dynamic duo play UN weapons inspectors lost in the Iraqi desert, where they open the hottest nightclub since that one with all the drugged-out queers in angel wings in New York. That last sentence could cost me my absurd per diem, so let's pretend I didn't write it.
Just keep your eyes peeled for "Pipes" just in time for the holiday season.
Unfortunately, I can't tell you which holiday.
Wednesday, May 21, 2003
I think that I'm going to grow a beard.
I know what you're thinking: why would you want to cover up that exquisitely chiseled face with cheekbones that Clint Eastwood would strangle Angelina Jolie over?
I don't know, it's just time. I see the Brad Pitts, the Sean Connerys, the Grizzly Adamses covering classic visages in soft fur. The Joe Pescis and the Bob DeNiros playing slightly unhinged drifters. Those weird Mexican kids with that genetic werewolf malfunction. And I want in.
It's nearly summertime in L.A. While most of the beard-eligible men in this town are opting for the clean-shaven look appropriate for long naps on the Malibu beach, I'm going to set myself apart. I'll hide my menthol Barbisol and Mach 3 razor underneath that stack of Black Inches magazines that Lara Flynn Boyle left in the corner of my apartment three months ago, which I've been terrified to disturb, which just sit there, daring me to take a quick peek and forever doom myself in the knowledge that it's slightly possible I'm not as endowed as the average Black Inches centerfold.
But the beard will grow.
In a few weeks, I'll be getting the "did you lose your razor?" comments. Well, not exactly. I know precisely where the razor is.
Within two months, I won't even flinch at the horribly out of date Unabomber jokes. I may even court them by wearing a hooded sweatshirt and a huge pair of sunglasses and a comically exaggerated fear of technological advance.
And then, once it's possible for me to balance a hard-boiled egg in my facial thicket, I will shave. There will be no warning.
Lara Flynn will get a phone call. Pick up those damn magazines, and I better not see those eyes wander below my beltline.
Tuesday, May 20, 2003
The New York Yankees defeated the Boston Red Sox by a score of 7-3 on Monday evening. This is the correct result, the result that I Willed into existence a continent away from the action at Fenway Park.
If this has not already been painfully apparent to Bostonians across the greater Boston area, it is obvious that my Will exerts control over earthly events. My Will is not limited to the outcome of baseball games in late May.
Some of you may wish to prevail upon me to use the power of my Will to settle this nonsense in the Middle East. I prefer things the way they are. The Middle East is in serious need of some growing pains before a modern, non-extremist democracy steeped in the careful evolution of the free market can take hold in the sands of Mesopotamia. Also, I foolishly promised Rummy that I wouldn't Will things into total peace so that he and Dickie Cheney can ride their Haliburton and Grumman stock into a palace in Coral Gables once GWB decides to abdicate the throne in 2013. I shouldn't promise Rummy such things, but he occasionally lets me ogle his secretary while plying me with a Belvedere and tonic.
Why didn't I Will the New York Times into discovering the myriad deceptions perpetrated by Jayson Blair, thus saving the storied daily scads of embarassments and recriminations of scandal? Once I bought a copy of the Sunday edition at my local coffee shop and the Sunday Style section was missing. I vowed the hubris of the Sulzbergers would not go unpunished.
Still others might wonder why I didn't Will myself to the front of the line for the Matrix Reloaded premiere at the legendary Grauman's Chinese Theater when it opened last week. I'm not going to waste good Will power on some dimestore metaphysical chopsocky frou-fraw unless Carrie Ann Moss decides to trade in that horribly opaque leather jumpsuit for something in the Saran Wrap family. Come now.
There may even be those of you that speculate aloud as to why I wouldn't Will a dividing wall into my studio apartment so that I would have to see the "living room" couch from my bed. Or the kitchen.
And I assure you: once you start using your Will to surround yourself with material trappings, your Will loses its edge. I think I read that Keanu Reeves says that in the new Matrix movie, but I didn't waste my Will on seeing it yet, and I don't like to wait in long lines.
What can I say? The Will wants what it wants. Sorry, Boston.
And right now the Will would like a pint of Chunky Monkey, and then perhaps a sex dream involving that Australian chick from "24."
Monday, May 19, 2003
Why God Hates the Red Sox: a FAQ
Excuse me for a moment while I turn my attention to baseball, the greatest game in the land unless you count dating a stripper.
Today begins a stretch in which the New York Yankees will play the Boston Red Sox six times in ten days.
In other words, baseball Armageddon.
Some of you may be be unfamiliar with the Greatest Rivalry in All of Sport.
In in the interest of serving you, here is a primer to better help you understand what's going on:
As of this writing, the Yankees and Red Sox are tied for first place in the American League East. The American League is the part of major league baseball where we don't have to watch pitchers try and hit a splitter. Pitchers are the ones who throw the ball at the guys who hold the bats, large wooden sticks used for depositing baseballs onto the field of play. Pitchers hit a baseball about as well as you, the layman with the spare tire brought about by multiple cans of domestic beer, can date a stripper.
As for the teams involved, the Yankees are the most successful franchise in the history of professional sport, unless you count the lions against the Christians in the Ballpark at the Coliseum.
The Red Sox, by comparison, have not won the World Series in roughly six thousand years. They did come close in 1986, but mistakenly thought it was a good idea to let David Hasselhoff play a little first base in Game Six just because his talking car said he'd look as good in a Boston uniform as he did in a cheap leather jacket and a pair of Vidal Sassoons. I do not personally think he looked that good. The 1986 Nielsen ratings bear out the talking car's viewpoint, and the New York Mets' victory in that series illustrated Hasselhoff's glovework.
The Yankees are caviar and filet mignon.
The Red Sox are cigarette butts in the bottom of a day-old glass of lemonade.
The Yankees are the cure for cancer.
The Red Sox are the whooping cough.
The Yankees are a shoulder massage from your stripper girlfriend's best girlfriend from work, whom she brought home to spice things up, which turns into a foot massage, which turns into three days of sexual exploration that good taste dictates are not repeated in a primer on baseball rivalries.
The Red Sox are a swift kick in the balls from your ex that still has your favorite T-shirt.
It is said that God is a Yankees fan.
It is further said that God puts up with the Red Sox only because Judeo-Christian dogma says He has to.
There's this thing called the Curse of the Bambino, wherein the owner of the Red Sox sold Babe Ruth, the greatest baseball player that ever lived, to the Yankees for a barrel of pickled herring and a twirl with a harlot with a wooden leg. This supposedly explains the disparity in the successes of the two baseball teams.
I say, see the God thing above and get back to me.
Two hours until the first pitch. You know where I'll be.
I Fear Calvin Klein's Stopped Calling
A blackjack table, Las Vegas, NV
"Marky" Mark Wahlberg sits down next to me after I bust my second hand in a row.
Bunsen: Oh. You.
"Marky" Mark: Whatup. Mind if I sit here?
"Marky" Mark: Thanks.
[He puts down a grand in chips. I'm playing twenty bucks.]
"Marky" Mark: High roller, huh.
Bunsen: Not all of us can be in Planet of the Apes, "Marky."
[I push the rest of my chips into the bet circle. I won't tell you exactly how much I bet, but it's somewhere between forty-six and forty-four dollars.
The dealer deals. I'm showing 19. "Marky" Mark has a 20. The dealer shows 10.]
Bunsen: Stay. Nice.
"Marky" Mark: Hit me.
Bunsen: Are you kidding?
["Marky" Mark gestures a hit to the dealer. An ace. 21. The dealer hits, a five. 21.]
Bunsen: Hit me, too.
[The dealer raises an eyebrow.]
Bunsen: Just do it.
[The dealer hits me. A ten. I bust. She turns over her hole card. A seven, 17.]
"Marky" Mark: That's right.
[He pulls his big stack of chips off the table.]
Bunsen: Quitting already?
"Marky" Mark: I just thought it would be funny if you lost all your money.
Bunsen: You just know you're going to win, don't you?
"Marky" Mark: Look at my life, Of course I know.
Bunsen: I know a little something about my life. Sit-up contest. Right now.
"Marky" Mark: Not again.
[I strip off my shirt. I have not been working out lately.]
Dealer: Sir, please put your shirt back on...unless he's joining you.
Bunsen: There are muscles underneath here, trust me.
[I lay down on the casino floor. A crowd starts to gather.]
"Marky" Mark: I can't believe this.
["Marky" Mark takes his shirt off. You know what that looks like. Tourist flashbulbs pop all around us, perhaps more of them in the direction of a certain underwear model's abdominal area.]
[The dealer counts off the sit-ups as we begin. I won't bore you with the events occurring between numbers one and five hundred, other than to assure you that it is totally within the rules to periodically vomit as long as you continue.]
Dealer: Five hundred and one...five hundred and two...
["Marky" Mark reaches over to receive his third gin and tonic from a cute cocktail waitress in a pirate wench outfit.]
"Marky" Mark: You want one? They're easy to keep down.
Bunsen: [incomprehensible groan, roughly translated as "Fuck you, underwear model. The buzz on your new movie is shit"]
Dealer: Five hundred and ten...maybe you should stop, sir...five hundred and eleven...isn't your stomach empty by now?
"Marky" Mark: Really, dude, I think it's time you stop.
Bunsen: [incomprehensible groan, roughly translated as "I'll stop once I throw up the memory of what I did to your mother last night."]
"Marky" Mark: [to cocktail waitress] If I stop, will you bring four of your best friends up to my suite so I can celebrate second place in this sit-up contest?
Waitress: I'll call them right now.
[He reaches into his pocket and tosses her a room key.]
"Marky" Mark: [stands up] I'm out.
Dealer: Five hundred twenty-five...five hundred twenty-six. [To me] Looks like you win.
"Mark" Mark: Same as last time?
Bunsen: [incomprehensible groan, roughly translated as "yes"]
[He flips me a ten dollar chip. It lands on my heaving chest.]
"Marky" Mark: Give me a chance to win it back. Flip for it?
[He flips a quarter and slaps it onto the back of his hand.]
[He shows the quarter to the dealer.]
Dealer: Sorry. Tails.
[He leans over and picks the chip off my chest.]
"Marky" Mark: Better luck next time, Good job on the sit-ups, though.
[He leaves with the cocktail waitress.]
[A pit boss walks over to where I lay on the casino floor.]
Pit boss: Here's a coupon for 1/2 off our $3.99 steak and eggs breakfast. But we ask that you clean yourself up before redeeming it.
Bunsen: Thank you, I will.
[He helps me to my feet.]
Pit boss: You realize you still have to tip the waitress when you use that.
Bunsen: Of course.
[He helps me to my feet.
On the way back to my room, I trade the coupon for two quarters, which I instantly lose in one pull on a gigantic slot machine. I go back to my room and fall asleep, dreaming of half a steak, five cocktail waitresses, and the bad reviews and box office disappointment that was "Rock Star," and, for some reason, a washboard.]
Friday, May 16, 2003
Let it Ride Dept.
Las Vegas beckons.
They call it Sin City, but what happens there aren't sins.
Is it a sin to let three hundy roll on black 28 at 35-to1?
Is it a sin to double down on 12?
Is it a sin to haggle your way into a free foot massage at the Moonlight Bunny Ranch?
Is it a sin to have a Prince impersonator marry you to the chick that blew on your dice just before you rolled boxcars, and said chick turns out to be Jennifer Garner, the impossibly stunning star of "Alias"?
Is it a sin to discuss the role of religion in The Brothers Karamazov with Cinammon, who's providing the finest of lap dances at the Olympic Gardens?
Is it a sin to walk out of a casino into the unexpected sunlight of the early morning and decide some eggs would really make you feel better about being down five large?
I guess we'll find out.
Thursday, May 15, 2003
Dept. of Redundancy Dept. Section
In case you haven't gotten enough of all the screw-talk here, click here to run this page through the Pornolizer.
I haven't done anything in list form in a while. Mostly this is due to the fact that I have brief, acute episodes of disorganized schizophrenia in which I think that Rue McClanahan is dictating plans for the perfect provisional government for Iraq, and she hardly ever talks in list form. Then the roughly dozen Day-Quil gelcaps that I take with my daily mescaline allowance start to wear off, and I'm back to writing about which celebrities I've zapped lately. I know that this is getting tiresome. So here is a list of notable individuals and groups of people, both Americans and full-blooded foreigners, that I have yet to explore carnally:
Drew Barrymore (E.T. only)
Hall of Fame Footballer Rosie Grier
Samoan Methodist Missionaries
Geddy Lee, Rush bassist
The plain sister from the second "Charles in Charge," who is now impossibly hot
Men who could not advance my career
Broomstick #5 from Disney's "Fantasia"
That guy on Venice Beach with the guitar and the rollerskates
Celine Dion (not even to shut her up)
The Manx Bisexual, Lesbian, and Transgender Ultimate Frisbee Team
Due to the lengthy amount of time it took to compile this list, edits were made before publication.
I am still a relatively young man. Don't worry, there is time to cross off a few more.
Wednesday, May 14, 2003
Another Trip to the Feminine Hygeine Aisle
Why not take a stroll down the aisle to Bob from Accounting and check out my new, slightly improved romp with the O.B. girls?
Like most things, it's better the second time around.
By the time you read these words, France will already be crippled by a massive strike of public sector workers in Paris, due to a proposed pension reform.
I am an American, so I care little about what piddling events transpire an ocean away. And it's a big ocean, not one of those fake oceans that seventh graders always name last on their geography quizzes, like the Indian or the Meditterranean.
So as a citizen of the world's lone hyperpower and proud owner of a sizable piece of prime Mesopotamian, petroleum-rich real estate, I must worry about how this French strike is going to affect my life. And I'm coming up short.
There are all of the obvious jokes: there will be a severe shortage in white flags exports, it's going to be really difficult to find a decent wheel of brie, and, of course, nary a mime will darken the streets of my town. I haven't really had an occasion to surrender and I'm not all that hot on brie to begin with. The mime thing will hit me where it hurts, but I may be able to weather the storm until this Gallic ugliness subsides. And I suppose that Marie, a French waitress in my favorite brassiere, may return home to Paris to join her countrymen in protest. But there's an Italian pastry shop right around the corner with a counterperson who's been giving me the dirty eyeball while fingering the cannoli. Italians are just as hot-blooded as the French, without all the annoying political opinions.
So strike away, Jacqueline and Monique. Emmanuelle and Amélie, don your sandwich boards and raise your signs.
I've developed a taste for espresso.
Tuesday, May 13, 2003
Don't Know What You've Got ('Til It's Gone) Dept.
Tonight, my 80's metal cover band, The Velvet Curtain, rocked so hard that I am tender in the midsection. And I suspect that the standing-room-only crowd at an undisclosed celebrity-owned location on Hollywood's infamous Sunset Strip will be in need of immediate medical attention following the third-degree rocking they received this evening. I can't be sure, because I was buried neck deep in jailbait groupies with a fetish for music being made when they were drooling to Barney tapes, nearly suffocating in a cloud of Aquanet. But I heard that ambulances had to take away at least three fans that fainted dead away during our rendition of Cinderella's "Shake Me," and two others had to be treated for hysterical nymphomania after my solo acoustic version of Extreme's "More Than Words." All of the above is to be expected, or at the very least, encouraged at the average Curtain gig. And this was a decidedly above-average offering.
Despite the overall rocking fucking success of the entire evening, the show did not proceed entirely without incident. My flamethrowing, spiked karaoke-enabled codpiece malfunctioned during the ear-shredding guitar solo of Winger's "Seventeen," the show's finale. The runaway crotch inferno quickly engulfed the left arm of our bass player, sloughing off the epidermal layer of his skin and severely blistering the layer below, the name of which escapes me in the wake of this unfortunate incident. I finished the solo, and managed a three-way with a nameless female fan and an above-the-title actress in a cramped janitorial closet before joining my bandmate in UCLA Hospital's burn ward.
You will all be glad to know that they saved the arm, but he'll be wearing long-sleeve turtleneck shirts to all future gigs. And everywhere else for that matter. In the meantime, the bandages give him a very goth-mummy vibe, something The Curtain's been heretofore lacking.
I think the look really works for him.
Monday, May 12, 2003
They've beguiled me before.
But the O.B. girls are back. When they're little, boys are taught to fear the intricate, mysterious workings of the female reproductive system (the mammary parts notwithstanding). Whereas once I would be afraid of a commercial explaining the improvements of recent tampon technology, now I'm fascinated. I want to put on a labcoat and take the those two enchanting TV pitchwomen and hang out in the feminine hygiene section in the local drugstore. We would peruse the aisle and they could enlighten me on the relative merits and deficiencies of the various products (of course O.B'.s offerings would triumph in a head-to-head absorb-off), nearly all of which come in boxes with baby-blue and pink scenes of flowers, gardens, or introspective strolls along a twilight beach. We'd buy napkins, tampons, maxi's, mini's by the armload and then go find a beach of our own.
I'd spread down my labcoat gallantly so that the ladies had a place to sit without winding up crusted with the cool, white sand. We'd open all the boxes as eagerly as street urchins when the Christmastime Toys for Tots van pulls up to the shelter. They'd tell me about the bumps in the road on their journeys into womanhood, with each O.B. product providing a jumping-off point for each red-faced episode. We'd laugh and sip some wine. I'd have nothing to offer myself, considering I've never used any of the products in question in the correct health context and due to the fact that I was fully-formed as a slayer of the fairer sex by the age of eleven.
I'd light some candles, out would come the acoustic guitar, and they'd sing songs of burgeoning womanhood.
I wouldn't know where the pillows came from, but I'd take part in the most tender pillow fight possible.
We'd fall asleep on our makeshift blanket, hands clasped, limbs intertwined, open boxes of delicate, feminine mystery all around us.
It wouldn't go any further than that because, you know, it would be that time, and my companions are in sync with the power of the moon above us.
I'd finally understand sisterhood.
The sun would come up and we'd be covered in sand and we wouldn't care.
Friday, May 09, 2003
It Was Either This or a Treatise on Hollywood Blvd. Stripper Shoe Emporiums
When you're up this late at night, and you don't find yourself wrapped around the business end of an exotic dancer who wants to give you a free table dance because you've got a cute smile and you were willing to shell out for the entire B-side of Appetite for Destruction, it's just you and the Girls Gone Wild commercials. In case you've fallen woefully behind in your GGW collection, They promise that they've gotten progressively wilder with each installment (although at this point, what's left besides topless riot footage?), so now Snoop Dogg's gotten behind the camera to exercise his considerable pimpin' skills to cajole the er, wild co-eds in his path into doffing their halter tops and exposing their undergrad (possibly JuCo) goodies in exchange for their signature on a release form and a drag on his finest blunt. Of course, there is the faceless, ephemeral-yet-eternal flashing-your-headlights-with-your-tank-top-obscuring-your-face moment of truth, where ones's nipples are immortalized by the miracle handheld digital video recorder work of a hip-hop impresario.
Digital video. That just isn't sexy. DV is family vacations to Branson or the Grand Canyon or a Chuck E. Cheese birthday party with a depressed, moonlighting accountant invisibly frowning through a encephalitic mouse head. It's not Old Hollywood Glory. Your flashed assets don't even get to live forever on film anymore. It makes me long for the days of grainy 8mm, when a GGW video moment involved the complicated disassembly of a well-engineered foundation garment, or if the old crank cameras hit the beach in the hands of a dreamboat swinger like Frankie Avalon, an awkward jig to release the girls from a modest one-piece, perhaps catching a bracelet in a bathing cap. A pause for mystery. There was effort involved. Frankie (possibly with Annette in tow) really earned those booby shots and maybe even a little extracurricular beach blanket bingo. And no release forms to dilute the moment. Just sand in naughty places and the surf's up and hey, why don't you just lift up your top for a quick second, don't worry, this camera's not on.
Thursday, May 08, 2003
I heard that Josh got voted off the Idol tonight. Maybe this is a bit reactionary of me, but I blame the Dixie Chicks.
Remember the good ol' days, when I'd be staying in and watching some American Idol like the rest of America, who have suddenly made that a Top-5 show? I've fallen almost completely out of touch with The World's Biggest Karaoke Tournament. There was an amusing conversation tonight about the possibilities of confusing the words "karaoke" and "bukkake," both words with Asian etymologies, both words that can induce snickers in an unknowing 5 year old.. Think of the hilarious possibilities of that Marine guy who can't sing all that well and who's hung up on light country music and the kid with the huge ears they keep trying to cover up with ever-more-impossibly-shaggy haircuts getting those words switched. There are don't-ask-don't-tell jokes, there are show tunes jokes, there's at least one joke involving someone's rifle going off prematurely. But because the very nature of this World Wide Web is inextricably linked to interactivity, I will merely coyly suggest the comedic possibilities of mixing up "karaoke," "bukkake," a singing Marine and a Broadway geek that's just waiting to shock America with a little secret that everyone's known since the very first minute electrons representing his Wonderbread visage and questionable fashion sense hit a cathode ray tube and sent teenage girls to pin Teen Beat pictures to their walls praying to God each night please, please let him like girls more than the original cast recording of Rent.
Or, failing that, let the chubby guy who's like a little Luther Vandross, Jr. get some love because he can really sing his ample hindquarters off.
But like I said, I'm a little out of touch with the American Idol stuff these days. I could really use a TiVo.
Wednesday, May 07, 2003
Mime Misty For Me
Every once in a while, I dream about mimes.
I don't sleep all that much these days. I blame a clinical trial of a new, superpotent version of Red Bull containing trace amounts of ephedrine and scads of metamphetamines, but that is neither here nor there. I don't like mimes, I can't recall ever meeting anyone who likes mimes, so wasting precious dreamtime that could otherwise be more productively spent on say, a TJ Hooker/Fall Guy-era Heather Locklear/Thomas and a nocturnal emission, makes me a little resentful.
If these mimes resembled a delectably talcum-powdered Gisele silently acting out all of the poses of the unabridged Kama Sutra, then maybe I would be able to look the other way. Alas, the mimes that haunt my repose like Freddy Krueger in the early career of Johnny Depp are all the of the classical, beret wearing, pulling-mock-ropes-and-groping-unseen-walls ilk. This does not please me.
When I finally managed to get some much-needed sleep after a particularly spicy bender this weekend with the help of a bottle of Glenfiddich and some elephant-grade barbituates, there were mimes.
This would not stand. I needed to exorcise the reverse-minstrel demons from my REM cycles once and for all.
I headed to the Southern California hotbed of mime "culture," Venice Beach. A wrong turn taken years ago in search of a legendary falafel stand/tattoo parlor had instead placed me smack-dab in the middle of Invisible Box, a mime bar (and, strangely, also the name of a Latino tranny bar on the East Side of LA). I returned there with a chip on my shoulder the size of a Ten Commandment tablet and a boombox loaded with the cast recording of Motown B-sides by the runners-up of the first American Idol.
It was quiet.
I blared the boombox. It took only the first four bars of that Justin kid with the fucked-up hair yelping "I Feel the Earth Move" for the bleached street performers to know that I meant business. The next four bars sent most of them clutching their ears and scattering out onto the sun-scarred promenade.
Three remained. One picked up an imaginary drink from the bar, gestured a huge swig, and dramatically wiped his lips with the back of a white-gloved hand before slamming the glass silently against the wall.
"Ride a unicycle in a hail storm," I spit. "With no umbrella and an armload of groceries."
He began something that involved a pedaling motion with his feet, but after five seconds of teetering, collapsed in a heap. He retired to a back room with his head exaggeratedly low-hung.
The second stepped up, swinging his hips like a gun fighter at thirty seconds to high noon.
"A parapalegic in a straightjacket slowly picking one thousand padlocks with a twisty straw."
A glimmer of dread twitched across the small, black tears stenciled under each of his eyes. He dutifully laid on the floor and got to the business of freeing himself of his pantomime shackles. He was going to be busy for a while.
There was but one mime left. His back was to me, never even attempting to watch his compatriots flail away at my challenges.
"You're next," I said.
Without turning to meet my dare, he reached slowly, deliberately for his beret, peeling it from his head like the skin from an orange. Waves of curly brown hair tumbled around surprisingly delicate shoulders. The mime spun around and faced me.
A she-mime. A gorgeous one. I hadn't counted on this. I put the boombox down on the floor beside me and swallowed hard.
She stared at me until I could feel my stomach burning, arching a penciled-on eyebrow when I blinked first.
She smirked and started to turn back to the bar.
I had it.
"Not so fast."
She turned back to me.
Her upper lip quivered almost unnoticably.
Was it excitement, apprehension, defeat, triumph in the lip-quiver that immediately followed?
I don't know. Maybe she wasn't that accomplished a mime.
I do know that "Love" entailed the use of a barstool, the top of the bar, the side of a jukebox that hadn't scraped needle against vinyl for years, the felt surface of a pool table with no cues and no balls, black clothes with zippers and buttons lost to passion, whiteface makeup streaked from sweat, and a truly horrible rendition of "The Locomotion."
I do know that at the moment of truth, even a mime will scream your name.
I didn't get her name.
I can't read lips.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
[This piece is being simulcast at Bob from Accounting]
Monday, May 05, 2003
Whatever, Next Dept.
As the Official Internet Columnist to the Stars, I have to have my fingers pressed firmly to the skillet of what's hot. And those fingers will burn before I let you get sneered at by the gatekeepers of cool, people that will smile through picket-fence forced smiles as they look for the exit while you try and make small talk about something quickly sliding off the pop culture radar.
Here's my latest chart (to appear in the May 11th issue of Vanity Fair) of what's starting to stink up the back porch, what you can stick a fork in, and what you will soon be screening out on the Caller ID. Of course, by next week this list is going to reek like last night's leftover tuna, but let's not tell the folks at Condé Nast just yet.
SO DONE: O.J.
OVER IT: Robert Blake
WHATEVER, NEXT: Tom Cruise
SO DONE: sushi
OVER IT: tapas
WHATEVER, NEXT: human pancreas
SO DONE: Iraq
OVER IT: Syria
WHATEVER, NEXT: Japan
SO DONE: Britney & Xtina
OVER IT: Avril & Michelle
WHATEVER, NEXT: Bathroom tapes of Hilton sisters urinating and doing blow
SO DONE: The Bachelor
OVER IT: Mr. Personality
WHATEVER, NEXT: The Castrato Donkey-Man
SO DONE: Al Qaeda link
OVER IT: Weapons of Mass Destruction
WHATEVER, NEXT: Saddam defeats GWB in 1986 game of Stratego
SO DONE: West Nile
OVER IT: SARS
WHATEVER, NEXT: Bleeding out through the urethra accompanied by high-pitched whistling sound
SO DONE: thongs
OVER IT: low-rider jeans
WHATEVER, NEXT: designer butt-plugs
SO DONE: WFOoBH?
OVER IT: bunsen[DOT]tv
WHATEVER, NEXT: suicidenote.bunsen.tv
SO DONE: Winona
OVER IT: Rose
WHATEVER, NEXT: Winona, Rose, Winona, Very Brief Refractory Period, Rose, Rose, Unexpected Visit from Maid Service, Feather Duster, Rose
Sunday, May 04, 2003
I Always Knew I Had a Little Emily Dickinson Inside Me
Three poems assembled from the words on this site by Rob's Amazing Poem Generator:
German engineering. had Manson pulled
this onto the counterclockwise roar
of state. Fair TURDUCKEN Madness
A true test of
television screens.It seems that
I assure you missed Mr. Personality alone.
Add a dancing
I must go now that
will be fucked up to talk
to be coalition
or Matrix or you can do,
you Can Say To Watch the
dotted line.I missed Good times, no? further
be in a
break in clothes and
Add a plate of my
cell even a part
of capitalism by a whore
in fact, got enough extras to post their
cyberspace tombstones. They still here is king, declares
all along: gonna tell the Old
Timey Yankee Religion like
dangerous. intoxicating weekend in masks.
they eventually shuffle off from the sun
if it been easy being simulcast
she demurely refuses,
there is a comment whether
or whatever that soldiers
sure paid it.
Make your own, special, limited edition poem from the front page of The Greatest Blog in the World.
Saturday, May 03, 2003
GWB: Dude? Go up on the roof!
Bunsen: Who is this?
GWB: Doooood. It's Dubya! I'm flying this jet. Check me out! Go up on the roof, I'm gonna buzz your building!
Bunsen: Why are you flying?
GWB: I'm the President, last time I checked. Who's gonna tell me no! Check me out!
Bunsen: That sounds a little dangerous. You haven't flown since your tour in the National Guard...
GWB: Nunsense, boy. I've got the stick, I'm flying straight and level. Should I bomb this Target parking lot and blame Tariq Aziz?
Bunsen: Probably not. Listen, I was taking a nap.
GWB: It's the middle of the day.
Bunsen: Don't get on my case. You like a nap as much as anybody. I gotta go.
GWB: Whatever. Wheeeeeee! Dude, I just did a an S-turn. How do ya like me now?
Bunsen: I'll talk to you later.
GWB: What. Ever.
Friday, May 02, 2003
Back in the Saddle Special
If you read this space, subscribe to the newsletter, or hang around Hollywood Boulevard, you may have heard that I was having some technical difficulties regarding the publication of this site. It all seems to be better now, but there is a staffer who will find that he can only count 90 percent of the way to ten on his fingers. Such is the price of incompetence in WFOoBH's corporate headquarters.
It hasn't been easy being cut off from the world. I needed some way to reach my readers, to communicate with the world. I angrily scratched this onto a piece of posterboard and duct-taped it to my window:
Why does everything fucking suck so much? I fucking hate all this shit that sucks. Jesus, I hate this fucking sucking shit. I am going to put out the sun if my God-given right of Internet polemicism is not instantly restored. You hear that, God? Make it work right now or there's going to be hell to pay. I am going to stick my big ole Timberland up the ass of infinity if things don't change and change quickly!
At that point, my Sharpie ran out of ink and the final words were scrunched illegibly on the corner of the posterboard. I faxed a copy to all the usual news outlets, but MSNBC was the only place that gave me any love. The message ran once on the news crawl, but tragically, it was unattributed and yanked after one run across the bottom of America's television screens.
It will probably be showing up in your inboxes tomorrow. It was not a Nostradamus prophecy, nor is it an excerpt from a recent Dr. Phil show. It is not a piece of verse by Persian mystic/poet Rumi. It's all mine, and remember that when you are forwarding it to everyone in your address book, promising a free trip to Disneyland if it reaches ten more people.
The good news, of course, is that I'm back, baby.
Thursday, May 01, 2003
Secretary of I Love You Baghdad Dept.
Rummy's in the 'Dad. In case you're wondering, he's not conducting a victory tour.
He's on the Total Fucking Victory Tour.
I provided him with enough T-shirts for each of our troops still in harm's way--they won't stop an anarchist's bullet, but they just might remind him of the stomping their mustachioed, beret-clad dictator and many of the nicer-looking ancient buildings just got.
In fact, Rummy's got enough extras to clothe the street urchins crawling the newly-liberated boulevards, exploring the giddy, doe-legged limits of capitalism by selling dirty playing cards, bootleg Lisa Marie Presley CDs, and vouchers for all the Baghdad beauty queens who've figured out that soldiers sure do get lonely after a day sitting on top of an Abrams.
He called and assured me that the Total Fucking Victory Tour was going to be a respectful affair...shaking hands, kissing Iraqi babies, slipping the kids handfuls of fun-size Nestle Crunch bars when their parents aren't looking. He really loves the kids. There's going to be a Ferris wheel, a petting zoo, and three bounce castles in the lot where the Information Ministry used to be. Maybe even a guy whom everyone thinks is a mime, but in actuality was bleached and had his tongue yanked out by the fedayeen. The kids can't tell the difference -- they just like the bit where he pretends he's pushing against the walls of an invisible tiger cage.
It's not all going to be good times and rainbows for him, though. Rummy's also on the lookout for all those weapons of mass destruction that are MIA in the wake of said stomping. I've said it all along: he's gonna find them even if he has to smuggle anthrax in his GI Joe lunchbox and spent fuel rods in his anal cavity. Rummy's hardcore and he gets the job done.
He's taping it all for me, of course. He always sends me videos. I can't wait to see it. When he gets excited he tends to get salty with the language, so the video's going to be a tad too hot for TV. My favorite parts are when he cajoles a devout Muslim woman into showing him her delicate underthings, swearing up and down the little red light on the camera mean's that it's off.
Copies will be available on eBay shortly, and I swear, Rummy, I had nothing to do with it.