Since I can't think of anything right now, I'll just throw in this item that I wrote on Spring a while back (I'm so timely!):

I hate Spring.

Spring is the time for love and happiness and that romantic crap that makes me ill. Romance has passed me by like a broken down Yugo on the freeway during rush hour. Quite frankly, in case you have not noticed, I am pretty bitter about the whole thing.

This is the time of year that everyone gets together, happy relationships bloom, love fills the air and it disgusts me so much that I can barely breathe. I used to think it was pollen… Whenever I see a loving, happy couple I think the same thing: “I hate them. I hate them SO much. Where’s my gun, where’s my goddamned gun?” I am not sure if I want to shoot them, shoot myself or hunt down that little bastard cupid and put a cap in his ass, however, I am glad I do not actually own a gun, or someone would have been seriously hurt by now.

And I know I am not the only one who feels this way. Remember Columbine? It happened in the Spring. Oklahoma bombing? Spring. Anyone see a pattern here? I think all these things would have been fine if either of those guys had managed to find a real date. I am sure that is all they were looking for in the first place. Plan: Shoot up school. Result: chicks will think we are ‘bad boys’ and will love us.

People often tell me they I “have a wonderful personality.” Which is their polite way of saying I am a big fat oaf. How lovely for me, I have got “personality.” There is nothing worse to say to someone than “you’ve got personality.” No one wants to hear that. I don’t. I want to hear: “What do you mean you’re not dating anyone? You’re the hottest thing I’ve ever seen! If I weren’t married and straight, I’d do you right here… on second thought, take me! Take me now!” The only thing people with “personality” are asked to take is a friend to the airport.

The worst thing about spring is people feeling they need to boast about being together by holding hands and doing that smoochy stuff in public. Even worse, are the people who don not close their shades. So what if they are on the 5th floor and I need a ladder and surveillance cameras to look in?

Personally, I like summer. Summer is hot and a bit bothersome (much like my “personality”). By that time, the Spring’s love-bug has worn off and most of the relationships have sprung into either sex twice a week (if they are lucky) or they have broken up all together. Regardless, the gym fills up with people looking for someone better and people aren’t so damn joyful, which makes me very happy.

So if you are in an adoring relationship and love spring, go jump off a cliff. If you can’t stand spring and are so full of bitterness you can barely move, come sit by me, we have much to talk about.

For the last two months or so, I have been receiving an inordinate number of sexual dysfunction ads. Everything from herbal Viagra to erection stiffeners to penis enlargers. Lots and lots of penis enlarger ads. It’s to the point I am beginning to feel very self-conscious.

Has someone been ratting me out? Is there a sexual problem of which I am unaware? I’ve always thought that in the family jewels department that I’m a tad above average (I’m including girth in my assessment). I used to measure (a LOT) when I was in my teens, hoping for the elusive “nine inches” that every Penthouse Forum article writer was apparently gifted with. It wasn’t until I read a study on penis length that stated the average was around 6-7 inches that I relaxed (some even go as low as 5!).

Those vacuum pump ads scare the shit out of me. Who would want a dick that big? Okay, stupid question, because who wouldn’t? Seriously, if I saw some of those dicks in the ads coming for me, I’d get up off my knees and run… albeit slowly—hey, blow jobs are work (why do you think they call it a job?), but getting rammed just takes some patience (and a few muscle relaxants).

As for the need for Viagra substitutes, I’ve never had a problem with erections. Oh, sure, in high school the problem was that it was never down. Now, Skipper seems to be hard for only half the day, instead constantly—but that was 20 years ago! Is this why I’m getting stay-hard cream ads or herbal Viagra pop-up ads sent to me at the rate of about three an hour? Am I still supposed to be hard constantly at age 37, like I was at 17? Trust me, the thing can still wake me out of a dead sleep. “Now? You’re hard now? What about 4 hours ago when I was bored and couldn’t sleep?”

I have absolutely no need for the desensitizing creams to prevent premature ejaculation. (That’s like someone sending me an ad for “hot teen girls.” No use whatsoever.) Masturbation has always taken me FOREVER… I can’t do the quick toss off, even when I try. My “moments alone” tend to last at least an hour at the minimum. Granted, with a partner it is significantly less time with ‘active participation,’ but I’ve never had anyone express shock or surprise. In fact, I’m often surprised by others. The worse is when some guy says, “Are you close yet? My jaw is starting to cramp…” Gee, sorry to ruin your day, I’m just the one who HASN’T had an orgasm yet…

Now all this self-congratulatory patting on the back is just that: self-congratulatory. Maybe someone out there thinks I’m not all that great in the sack. Maybe they are saying I’ve got to get past some issues. Maybe I’m the world’s worst fuck and I don’t even know it! That would explain the occasional Be a Better Lover Video ads that flood my mailbox.

Today, I received two weight loss ads, which only served to fill me with self pity and send me off for a mocha and a muffin… and a bagel… and a donut. I also received an herbal Rogaine supplement ad for my “baldness.” One thing I know I have is tons of hair on my head. It’s VERY thick and there is a ton of it. However, I don’t have hair on my chest… Is this a hint to ‘bear up’?

Am I on some sort of list out there as a fat, premature ejaculating, non erect, hairless loser? These ads are not the same company sending me information over and over, they are different companies! To the world, I’m a sexually dysfunctional moron with a nub for a dick!

Perhaps, just perhaps, this could all just be a coincidence. Maybe by going to an adult website (purely by accident as I would never go to one of those places intentionally) I got sucked into some sort of database for sex ads. That would explain the occasional ads for “big buxom broads.”

I have decided not to let these ads bother me. I am going to delete them the second they arrive and move on with confidence. I am better than those ads (at least in my own mind) and I won’t let the bastards get me down.

However, every day this week I have received a coupon for a complimentary order of Bean-o, the anti-farting pill. That, for anyone who knows me, is not an error. I dropped a loud, smelly fart, deleted the ad and moved on.

It’s going to be a glorious day… smelly, but glorious.

Carol O'Connor and Johnny Lee Hooker have passed. Bob Hope is being carefully watched...

Mornings of S&T will be taking a little break (Issue #40 just came out today). We'll return on Tuesday, June 26.

Have a great weekend... get lucky!

My latest purchase in electronics experience is finally coming to a close. My life seems to have been upended just trying to get these things to arrive and to get them set up.

The TV finally arrived. I got a call from another building in our complex asking if I had ordered a TV. Becky said that there was no name on the invoice, but my phone number was listed. I also couldn’t figure out why they would send it the Career Management Center, because I have never had anything to do with them—why wouldn’t the package go directly to the mailroom?

When Manny, the deliver guy, handed me the delivery invoice, it did not have my name or any information related to me, except for my phone number. It wasn’t until later that I noticed the 800.com invoice (on the side, in a clear, easy to read pouch) noting my name, proper mailing address (both home and work), my phone (both home and work) and my e-mail address.

I guess I got what I paid for with the free shipping.

Now I’m waiting for UPS to deliver the DVD player. The DVD player has been resting comfortably at the UPS hub in San Bruno since yesterday morning. It has taken a week for my DVD player to crisscross the country in the most inefficient possible way. I guess the last 10 miles are the hardest.

And now, back to my new TV.

I got the unit home (not an easy task, it weighs a ton) and hooked up (again, not easy as not only does the TV weigh a ton, but it fills almost the entire space in the entertainment unit) and damn, if it didn’t look great. My sister and I sat staring in awe for about 30 minutes before we decided to turn on the TV. It was either awe or the fact that we were exhausted trying to install the behemoth.

The picture is amazing, and clear… who knew the world could look so big? The stereo sound is much improved from the old 22” TV. I know it may sound trite, but an extra five inches makes all the difference in the world. Man, if five does that much to a TV, imagine what I could do with an extra five… heck, I’d settle for an extra two.

I moved the 22” into my room—replacing the very small 12 inch-er that I’ve had for about 14 years. Originally, I wanted the new TV in my room, but my sister convinced me to put the new TV in the living room and the older one in my bedroom. When I say “convinced” I mean she nagged me to the point that I could either act childish and pout, or just capitulate. I’m French, so capitulation comes naturally. You should see me on a date, Me: I’ll top. Date: No, I will. Me: Let me just grab my ankles…

Speaking of grabbing ankles… my room is now much better suited for watching porn (a favorite pastime). Things sort of jump out at you, whereas before I spent a lot of time squinting and wondering what the heck was going on. In fact, I used to worry about plot and acting! Now I sit slack-jawed and have an even greater feeling of inadequacy. Ahhhh… Life is good.

Once the DVD player is installed I can call to have the digital cable box installed… I think that will start a whole other series of annoyances for me. But if my life weren’t thrown completely awry for something so insignificant, it wouldn’t be my life, now would it?

Once again, my credit card and computer have set out to bring about my downfall. Last week, I was surfing the net when I decided to stop by 800.com and see what was on sale. Lucky me, 27” TVs and VCRs were on sale and I “just had to have them.”

Years ago, when I was on Consumer Credit Counselor’s program, I learned the difference between need and want. It used to be if I wanted something I needed it. After not being able to spend so much as a dime in three years, I learned very easily what I could live without.

Now, thanks to several raises, a pretty high credit limit and a T-1 connection to the internet, I can shop at the speed of light. I also love 800.com because they offer free shipping and no sales tax. DVDEmpire.com is another favorite site that loves to add digits to my credit card. For gifts, I like Red Envelope and Hickory Farms (send someone a beef log and you’ve got a friend for life).

Amazon.com used to be a favorite, until they screwed up an order and didn’t bother to acknowledge any of my repeated e-mails to the “customer service” department. Martha Stewart.com offered “7-day shipping,” so two weeks before Christmas I ordered a gift for someone… then 4 days before Christmas I got a note from good old Martha stating my package had just been shipped. So that’s 7-day shipping from whenever you get off your lazy ass and send it?

Adult stuff I order from home… and Lord do order a lot of it from home. It seems like every other day something arrives from some sleazy place—usually Cleveland, OH. I’m not sure why, but they charge an awful lot for porn. The acting isn’t that good, the directing us usually awful, the production values border on the pathetic and yet they still have the nerve to charge sixty bucks for it! And I have the nerve to pay…

So last week I ordered a new 27” TV and a Sony DVD player for less than $500 (total, not each). Why? Because I needed it. Sure, I still have a working TV in my room, and a DVD player in my living room, but I wanted one in my room. And because I wanted it; I needed it. Apparently, I also need a lot of Simpson’s figures from eBay, because I keep purchasing those like they are going out of style (which they probably are…)

The TV arrived today via Pony Express. I guess with free shipping one shouldn’t expect them to use FedEx… but I did half expect to see UPS or Airborne Express. But it was some company called Ho-dunk X-Press. They couldn’t find my office… or my building, even though I gave them the exact address. I guess I’m lucky they found California. Hopefully the same can be said about UPS… “We’re to the left… LEFT… that’s right, bring the package over here… good… good… what are you doing?! NO!!! That’s Mexico!”

The DVD player is supposed to be arriving by UPS. Apparently, UPS does not subscribe to the idea that the shortest distance between two points is a straight line, because my DVD player is currently better traveled than I. It started off in Delaware, because that’s where DVD players are born and went to Pennsylvania (where most people go to die). (Fine. Logical.) Then it went to Texas and then to Ohio. (Interesting… not sure, but okay.) Next my DVD player was in Arizona… and then went to Seattle. (Okay… it’s getting closer, but I think that Phoenix is closer than Seattle.) Then yesterday, it went to Los Angeles (yippee! It’s in California!) and then to Denver (D’Oh!) Somebody needs to buy them a map…

This morning, my DVD player inched its way into San Bruno. My player is so close that I could touch it (and if I would actually set foot in San Bruno, I would). I’m curious if the package will make it’s way directly here, or if there will be more stops? Maybe a trip to Fisherman’s Wharf is in order, or a stop down at Disney’s California Adventure.

Either way, it better get here right quick, I’ve got a 27” TV and a LOT of DVD porn that needs some major watching. I have a feeling I will never again need to leave my room, or want to—which is the same thing, isn’t it?

Yesterday, I went to the world’s most boring seminar. I went to learn PowerPoint and came away wanting nothing more than a more comfortable place to nap.

I rarely use PowerPoint, so I thought it best if I got a better understanding of how it works and what I could do with it. After a six hour seminar, I learned that I didn’t need to take that stupid course to learn how to work with PowerPoint—basically, I already knew everything—I just didn’t know I knew it… you know?

The class was held by James a “Certified Life Coach.” I’m not exactly sure what a life coach is, but if it’s being way too excited about a dull subject and entirely too enthusiastic about telling people about your wife, your vacation and yourself, then James is the best coach ever.

Problem one was that the course was not hands on. James explained that adults learn better visually and aurally, but not by hands on. I have since forgotten every last thing James showed and explained to the class. So much for that bullshit theory. Face it, James, they were too cheap to provide computers. He also mentioned that people come to class with little or no experience with computers and the class is slowed by these morons because they keep crashing their computers. I guess James has never heard of having beginning, intermediate and advanced classes.

I’d say about a third of the class had never touched PowerPoint before, didn’t own a computer, and probably stayed with monosyllabic words. I dubbed those people “Computer Cro-Magnons.” They would prove me right throughout the day. Another third were at my level: had worked with it, felt we needed actual training and knew just what the fuck computers were. And the last third were people that were forced to take the class by their bosses so they could look proactive. Those people arrived late, came back late from lunch and both breaks and managed to sneak out early.

Given the group’s odd dynamic, James was still an amazingly positive person. I know this because he told us ad nauseam. He also mentioned his lovely wife what’s-her-butt to the point I began to hate her too. We got to see presentations of his tenth anniversary trip to the Cayman Islands, where playing in crystal blue waters and money laundering are a way of life.

As the session started, James stunned us all by noting that PowerPoint is about the power AND the point…

What the fuck…?

He tried explaining it but I just wanted to raise my hand and say, “that is by far the lamest thing anyone has ever said in a seminar… and I’ve been to Tony Robbins.” For something with a lot of power, James’ point was lost with his amateurish presentation. I wanted something to inspire me, not make me think that my 9 year-old nephew could do better.


We instantly learned that if you raised your hand, you were quickly called upon to come up and work on the lone computer. Naturally, everyone but the Computer Cro-Magnons stopped raising their hands altogether. “Who thinks this is great?” He’s shout happily. Six hands went up. “Who hates this?” The same six went up again…

People kept raising their hands and then would have the audacity to act shocked that they were called upon. This worked the first seven times it happened, but when it happened to the same woman twice, it sort of lost its magic. “Oh my God!” she uttered rising to her feet, “I’m so embarrassed,” she said while knocking aside a woman returning from the restroom, “I can’t” she blushed sitting down in front of the computer, “Oh… alright.” Interestingly, no one encouraged Emily. In fact, James was pointing to the woman behind her, but Emily was blushing and wincing so much on her way up to the computer that she didn’t notice. And let me just say Emily was not exactly a whiz on the computer—more likely she took one on it. It crashed twice at each of her attempts to “get this blasted thing to work.” And, yes, she did utter the words, “stupid computer” several times. The mark of a computer genius is blaming the computer for everything. “Why won’t it work?” she muttered. It was all I could do not to yell out, “Kill yourself!” I chickened out and quietly muttered, “why not try turning the computer back on?” As she had turned it off after she crashed the unit.

Towards the end, James finally got to the point that most of us were interested in, and after being held up by idiots questioning such difficult tasks as “saving files” and the equally complicated and mysterious “wav files” we were ready. After about 30 seconds of James showing us this, I realized that I could do this so easily… by myself. I could see the recognition going off in people’s faces… suddenly the attendance dropped in half. Had James provided computers, we would have been ahead of him in seconds and demanded our money back.

James decided to “put it all together” at the end and create a presentation “on the fly.” “Let’s think of a subject…” Well, before anyone could even raise their hand, James jumped in with the idea of Life Coaching (or whatever the fuck he called it). It’s like EST or Empower Your Ass, or some such nonsense. Whatever it was, it was perky and happy and that shit don’t fly with me.

He went along, telling us to dream big. The biggest dream I could come up with was to wish for the roof to collapse, killing us all. He blathered on and stuck in still more pictures of his trip to the Cayman Islands and of his wife. I’m almost positive his anniversary trip was simply a tax right off.

Finally, the agony was over and we were allowed to leave. Looking back, I learned so much from this seminar:
1) read the fine print
2) bring lots and lots of Red Bull
3) Dream Big (trust me, I dream of ‘big ones’ all the time
4) it’s about the power AND the point

I should be off to create great PowerPoint presentations now… but since I learned nothing, I think I’ll just go to lunch.

I have big weekend plans: I’m going to rearrange my bedroom! Wow, just saying it fills me with lethargy… is that the proper use of the word? I’m too lazy to look it up, so let’s just say it is.

I bought a 27” TV and a new DVD player for my bedroom and now, my furniture configuration will not allow me to properly set up all the equipment. Currently, I have a 12” TV (which I refused to replace until it was broken) two VCRs (dubbing? Who me?) and a laserdisc player (welcome to the 1980’s). They are all stacked on my dresser and it’s all precariously balanced. Thank God we haven’t had any earthquakes lately or there would be an electronics disaster in my bedroom.

In the next week or two, I’ll finally get the digital cable box installed in my room and I’ll never have to leave my room… ever. With my immense porn and general video collection, I will only need to leave for the occasional bathroom and food breaks. Other than that, I expect to never see the sun again.

Since I’m moving furniture, I’ve decided I need to clean my room. This is an undertaking that no mortal man should ever have to attempt. It is frightening how much shit I have in my room that needs dusting and cleaning. At this point, my room is divided into piles. Pile “A” consists of clean clothes. Pile “B” consists of dirty clothes. Pile “C” consists of thing I think are dirty, but should pile “A” become depleted, Pile “C” becomes the backup. Pile “D” consists of magazines for shredding (I save pictures for cards) and Pile “E” consists of magazines that are… well, porn that can no longer fit in the drawers because there is just too much of it (I can’t bear to tear them apart). Pile “F” consists of mail and stuff that I need to go through but I’m procrastinating. Pile “G” is uh… what the hell is that stuff? Pile “G” we’ll call the mystery/miscellaneous pile. Don’t turn on the light because it bothers it, and always back out of the room slowly.

Once the furniture is moved, the cleaning will take place. I clean by taking all of the piles and throwing them on my bed. Then I go through each item and put it away. Needless to say, by the end I’m just creating piles again… but they are neat piles.

Let’s talk for a moment about porn on the internet.

I spent an awful lot of time last night perusing the tens of thousands of porn sites. It seems the more I look the less I find. Sex advice columnist Dan Savage (“Savage Love”) wrote in his book “The Kid,” that paying for porn on the internet is a big waste of time. He noted that one can pretty much find the same stuff elsewhere for free, but must invest the time looking for it. Paying for it, in his opinion, is a huge waste of money.

Unfortunately, that hasn’t stopped me from trying to prove him wrong. However, I must agree, that for the most part, the pay sites suck. Their sole purpose seems to be to send visitors to other pay sites. Example, I used to go to a free site called Men On the Net (dot com) and write occasional filthy articles for posting (much like Blogger, but with more references to “schlongs” and “jizz”). Recently, I went back and MotN been swallowed up by a large site that I had to pay for. It offered naked pics, movies, and articles. In other words, the same stuff MotN had, but now I was expected to pay for. I paid my entrance fee and entered the site only to find that every time I click on something, I get sent off to a different site to pay more to view. Thank god I only signed up for the one week $7.95 trial offer. I won’t be back—a good porn site is thrilling—a bad porn site is boring. I’m not sure how these people managed to make sex boring, but they do.

One of the most irritating “inventions” of the internet are the multiple pop-up windows that literally pop-up when one opens a porn site. I spent five minutes last night doing nothing but closing the myriad of pop-up advertisements and links directing me to the “hottest site on the web.” As one closes a pop-up box, three more open. It was almost like a video game, trying to do battle with the evil pop-up windows. Usually, they are all leading to the same site… different title and graphic on the link, same ugly-ass destination.

I think what really annoys me is that these pop-up boxes tend to be sites offering women. If I’m at a hairy, butch, man-loving web page, why would I want to be checking out “barely legal teen girls”? And what’s the fascination with barely legal girls? That’s just creepy. (In all fairness, I think “barely legal boys” is just as creepy.)

So, I spent several hours clicking around, opening a site, closing 50 pop-ups, opening another, closing still more pop-ups until it was 1:00am. I decided to see what I’d collected: several hundred shots of naked men… few of which I felt like looking at again. It’s odd how they are hot on the web, but once onto a disk in my computer, they become rather boring. Maybe I’m projecting—my dullness is making hot porn dull.

Or maybe I’m just growing up. I’m maturing and I don’t need all this porn anymore. And maybe George W. Bush is a brilliant man. Regardless, I think I’m doing away with the hunt for porn on the internet. I’ll just have to settle for the hundreds of pornographic tapes, magazines, DVD’s and books that I own to see me through.

I spent the weekend at a screenwriting seminar. I’m trying to learn more about the creation of a story and proper storytelling. As you can tell by any of my previous Blogs, my storytelling ability is sorely lacking.

The sessions were 10 hours each for three days in a row. Let me just say that I dozed through a good portion of the program. It was a fascinating program, however, I am a total attention deficit disorder personality. I’m the MTV generation. I love quick fast edits. Bullet points are god-like to me. After an hour of facts, no matter how interesting or useful, my mind wants to be entertained.

I am the least mature and laziest person you’ll ever meet.

I am 36 years old, with little or no ambition, the maturity of a 16 year-old, the libido of a 14 year-old who just discovered masturbation (except I have no guilt), and would love nothing but to channel surf all freaking day long.

I spent half the time amusing myself with my two favorite pastimes, the first being “Is he gay?” where I look at some cute guy and wonder if he’s gay, what he does sexually, and imagine him giving head and either fucking or getting fucked. The second game is “Would I Fuck Him?” I usually play this game while waiting for friends in a public place, and I just check them off as they walk by: Yes. Yes. No. If I were drunk. Yes. Maybe. EWWW! Yes. Yes. Oh my fucking God YES! Yes. No. No. If he’s got a personality… etc.

As you can see, there are a lot of yeses in there. I’m not that picky. I can pretty much find any man out there attractive, or at least some part of them attractive. My policy is: If he’s a man and he’s alive, what’s not to like?

Basically, I’m a whore. Actually, if I had any sex, I’d be a whore. I’m a wanna-be whore. I’m working up to it. I study hard [insert pun here], but I don’t go out enough to get anything. Boo-hoo, poor Chris.

Currently, I’m in one of my extreme horny stages. I think about sex all the time. Constantly. I need a cold, cold shower.

And now to get some work done… and not to think of hot naked men. Sometimes I wonder why I ever took this job as a story editor at a porn magazine.

Palm Spings, CA—(S&T) Bob Hope, 98, star of stage, screen and USO shows throughout the world is still alive. Once again, Mr. Hope has dodged the “Celebrity Three” bullet and came out unscathed—although, no one is sure if he is aware… of anything.

Celebrity Three (CT) is a commonly held belief that celebrities die in threes. Within several days of the first celebrity passing, another will drop dead. And, generally, within a few more days, the third will kick the bucket, thus completing the CT cycle

Recently, singer Perry Como, 88, best known for… uh, singing in a VERY relaxed manner, passed away. Doctor’s were immediately dispatched to the Hope estate for a constant vigil over the ever increasingly disoriented “entertainer.” Shortly after, comedian Imogene Coca, best known for her work on Sid Seasar’s Your Show of Shows, passed away at the age of 92. Upon hearing of Ms. Coca’s passing, Mr. Hope was rushed to Palm Springs General Hospital’s Hope Wing to be hooked up to every monitor in site, while doctors began pumping Bob full of medication. His wife, Delores Hope, was rushed to his side—even though he wasn’t sure she was there.

The next day, cartoonist Hank Ketcham, 81, best known for creating Dennis the Menace passed away—completing the CT cycle. Having once again survived the CT cycle, Mr. Hope was set to be discharged. “We are grateful to have again helped Mr. Hope survive,” said Doctor Arnie Schwartzman of Palm Springs General. “We feel pretty confident that we can keep him alive—but just in case, we keep an eye out for the current location of Charles Nelson Reilly, so if things get real hairy, we send Delores out in her Cadillac to run him down. Although, we are still debating if Mr. Reilly should be considered a celebrity and not just an annoying has-been.”

However, shortly before Mr. Hope was to leave the hospital, word arrived through the Entertainment Tonight Deathwatch that celebrity Arlene Francis, 93, best known for her panel work on What’s My Line died. Schwartzman called out, “We have a Code Hope! I repeat, we have a Code Hope!” Doctors rushed Mr. Hope back up to his penthouse suite of the hospital, overlooking the golf course.

“All we can do now is wait,” said Dr. Schwartzman, “We can only pray for someone else to go quickly, or else Delores will be cruising the streets of LA within two hours,” he said solemnly shaking his head. “Wait a minute… has anyone seen Mrs. Hope?” Dr. Schwartzman’s nurse immediately called Mr. Reilly to inform him of a new crop of male prostitutes along Hollywood Boulevard. “It’s either that, or we tell him that a Match Game reunion is in the works, “ the nurse smiled, smoking a cigarette, “but, he usually doesn’t fall for the line, especially after Gene Rayburns died. Seriously though, who’s going to actually hire him for anything?”

The nurse also noted that special “standby” celebrities are also on Mrs. Hope’s “Listo de la Muerte,” including Joyce DeWitt, Ed Begely Jr., and Didi Conn. “Generally, people no one would ever miss.”

Mr. Reilly could not be reached for comment. His assistant, a “former” male prostitute, said that Mr. Reilly was in seclusion. To be more specific, the heroin addicted waif said, “He’s in the closet… like you couldn’t figure that out. Actually, he said he was going out to an ‘audition.’ Like that’s a reality...”

In the meantime, actor Anthony Quinn and actress Anne Haney have both passed. Mr. Hope continues to rest comfortably at Palm Springs General under tight security. Mrs. Hope was last seen driving on Hollywood Boulevard.

My hellacious week continues. It’s after 9:00pm and I’m still at work (however, now I’m goofing off). So much for “mornings of S&T…”

I’m working on a project for a professor, so I’m staying late (and getting overtime) to finish up. It’s data entry and it is mind numbing work.

I don’t feel funny tonight… I’ll try something tomorrow.

I’ve been trying to get this Blogger thing to work and it has finally started to function. About friggin’ time.

Things to discuss tomorrow:

1) The sad state of Century Theatres
2) My clean colon
3) My upcoming weekend
4) How much I hate George Bush
5) Do I masturbate too much?

Until tomorrow… (me so tired…)

--cml

It's Friday... first day of June.

It's been helacious this week

Good Morning!

Chapter 1, I am born.
Oh, forget that, you'll find out things on a need to know basis...

It’s Thursday and no Survivor on TV tonight. Second week without. I miss my beloved Colby! I love me some Colby. What a cutie. And he gave it away… just handed it to Tina! Ugh.

Last night I saw “Victor/Victoria” at the CPA in San Jose (hey, that rhymes!) Good show, but not great. Definitely a star-driven show. If Julie Andrews were in it, I would have liked it more—I would have liked it more if it were the old Julie that could sing versus the current one that croaks a lot. Don’t speak, Julie… just don’t speak. The rest of the cast was excellent. The guy who played Berstein (the bodyguard) was gorgeous.

Before the show, we ate at La Pastalia at the DeAnza Hotel. Nice restaurant, but the food is not that great. I ordered a mini pizza, and since it’s a fru-fru kind of place, they doll pizza up worse than a twenty-dollar whore. Lots of big chunks of vegetables on a thin (read: soggy) crust. I ate it, but I didn’t enjoy it—okay, I tolerated it.

After the show I zipped home and watched “Boot Camp.” Whitlow won. How could that be? I really thought Wolf had it sewn up. He won all the challenges, except one. Everyone gave their tags to Whitlow. They blamed Wolf for taking Yaney’s repelling equipment, and he didn’t do it. The poor guy lost $400,000, because of an implied mistake. OUCH. I wonder if they feel guilty about it?

Wolf was arrogant, but he was cute—and had a lovely body. Just lovely. He did a lot of posing in that show (they kept referring to it as his “Calvin Klein stance”). He had reason to pose: his body is toned, toned, toned. That boy is gonna get laid a lot.

Meyer, who got dismissed pretty early, had a nice bod, too. He was a bit slimy and had a serial-killeresque quality to his eyes… and that made him all the more attractive. Bad boys, bad boys, what you gonna do?

I bought some bad porn this week. Not that that is always a bad thing, some bad porn is wonderful entertainment—strictly in a non-sexual entertainment sense. I still have to put together my compilation tape of bad porn acting. Some of it is a riot. However, this recent purchase is a really far too fetish for my tastes. Doesn’t make sense? Good. You’re on a need to know basis.

I’ll have to watch the tape a few more times to make sure I really don’t like it. Seriously, porn is porn, so that even bad porn is still good.

Not to say that all porn is bad. Some porn is quite excellent, not just sexually. “Animus,” by director Wash West, is wonderful. There is an actual plot (that is very clever), solid acting, great sex and beautifully shot scenes. There are wonderful dissolves that make the sex scenes intensely erotic. Eroticism is something that is missing from most porn films.

Another film I adore is “The Dream Team.” Again, the acting and plot are excellent (as it actually contains both). Plus, it has something that most porn films don’t have: foreplay. Usually, porn films have two bad actors in a trumped up scene there only as a precursor to sex. In TDT, the sex scenes actually move the film along. But the foreplay is very erotic and very real. The situations are plausible.

The best bad porn films are pre-video. They usually didn’t have enough money for sound, so the film is shot without and the sound dubbed in later—usually by someone else besides the models. And sometimes by a guy who’s clearly older than the model in the film, but always by someone who has no idea what the actor was saying on the set, so they make up stuff. In regards to the dubbing, I love when actors speak when there mouth is… um, clearly busy with something else. Are these guys ventriloquists? Sometimes it’s embarrassingly bad… and that’s a good thing. Let’s face it, in films like that, you are only waiting for the sex. So the bad dubbing/acting is usually in the way. However, if it makes you laugh, at least it’s entertaining.

Tonight I try Colonblow. I bought this stuff online (so you know it’s either really cool, or a phone call away from atrip to the hospital). It’s supposed to completely clean out my system. Apparently, there is anywhere from 3-8 days worth of food in your system at any given time. This stuff cleans it all out. And with a name like Colonblow, it’s got to be good—or at least a good rant on my part.

Here’s to cleaner colons…
--cml