Every Day Life & Other Fascinations

The Standup Experience

2010-04-16T23:52:00.003-04:00

Well, it was a great night! The audience was primo -just golden! -and I had a dead-on set. I want to do this again simply because I enjoy it - so mission accomplished. When standup comedy works - when the audience is with you - there's nothing like it - it's the best high ever - it's like riding a wave of love.

This night made me realize how much I missed the approval and applause of complete strangers.

Ah, comedy. You really are funny.

Back to Standup

2010-04-15T21:12:00.005-04:00

Well I'm back doin' standup again. Tomorrow night it officially starts. . . April 16, 2010.

Who's Sweating Now? James Arthur Ray and Three Dead Followers

2010-02-04T21:00:00.013-05:00

Today I learned that James Arthur Ray - one of the "stars" of the Secret and the charismatic life-changer extraorindaire is a homicide suspect. It seems the illustrious Mr. Ray conducted a sweat lodge get-together last October, where three people ended up dead and about twenty others were hospitalized. Ah, greed. It'll bite you in the ass every time. That's what I attribute all this to. That and the universal "moronic mind."

Here's what I know about James Ray...oh and BTW there was another notorious James Ray in trouble for murder. Quick! Who was he? (Answer at bottom of this post.)

About two years ago, I went to see James Ray in a "free" seminar at an upscale hotel in Fort Lauderdale. (I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.) The place was packed. I went with a friend, another woman, and we sat in a ballroom with about 300 other people. After we all took our first come, first serve seats and the crowd settled down, sheets of paper were passed out by Ray's minions. We were instructed - before ANYTHING got started - to pull out our credit cards and jot the numbers down on the paper next to where it said "credit card number."

Ray hit the stage full throttle and explained this way we have the pesky business of "money" out of the way. Don't let that pricey seminar they were going to try to sell you after the show (in another city that would require a plane ticket and hotel) get in your way of enlightenment and success. (Ooo, I could hear PT Barnum turning in his grave.) I didn't pull out my credit card and neither did my friend, but plenty of people did. Plenty. And they tried to make you feel like a total worthless loser if you didn't.

Did we want more money? Ray asked. Yes! More love? Yes! More wealth ("And that can mean a lot of things," he said, but I was pretty sure that credit card number fit the bill) Well, then let's get to it! Whaddaya ya waitin' for? On and on he went - practically verbatim - reciting a monologue I had heard on the Secret DVD and Oprah. The man had a formula and he wasn't straying. And BTW why do people think just because someone is on Oprah it gives them credibility? Get a mind of your own for crissakes! She's just a person.

That said, James Ray is handsome man. Charismatic, and definitely, without a doubt, an expert button pusher. He knows what people want, what they crave - but just can't seem to grasp - and so, he gives them HOPE for it. Hope that they too can become success magnets - of whatever it is they want - recipients of his "harmonic wealth." (You need a catch phrase to be a successful self-help guru and this is his, which is also the title of one of his books.)

See here's the thing: Ray makes money being successful off of other people's un-success. Whatever that may be - relationships, spirituality, money. His job is selling. He's a great salesman. An extraordinary salesman. He sells hope. There's no greater product. Hope is never out of style. It's always in good taste and everyone loves it. The best part about hope is - people will pay dearly for it. They don't look to buy it at a bargain price. Try $9,000 to sweat your ass off and maybe die in Ray's sweat lodge in hopes you'll gain ... I don't even know what you'd gain short of dehydration! Nine-thousand dollars to sweat in a "lodge" that looks like you went to the thrift store an threw some rags over sticks. Not a huge overhead. Nine-thousand! For $500 a night I could get a room at the Ritz, turn up the heat and still have money left over for room service. Hell, a week of room service.

People are always wanting to believe in what doesn't exist. Some sort of panacea or utopia that will solve all their problems. A get-rich-quick scheme or a get-enlightened-for-$9,000 scheme what's the difference? Someone is always willing to pay and someone is always willing to take the money and James Ray's hands are always open.

Yes, I know these people are responsible for their actions but still, Ray's a conman. A good goddamn one, too. If he was truly spiritual, he could be exonerated for charging to cover the rental of a property - maybe a few hundred bucks -but nine grand for sweating in what looks like a homeless person's condo? He's not spiritual. He's a smart, manipulating capitalist that knows peoples' weaknesses and I'll bet - I'll just bet - there are nights when he's giggling over how dumb and gullible people can be and jeez, now that you mention it - he can afford a 4-million dollar mansion! In Beverly Hills no less. Sah-weet. Beverly Hills! Pah-leese James, at least get something somewhere that's no so cliche and gauche. Such a typical, unimaginative place to buy an ill-gotten abode. That alone makes me hate you. All the conmen, deceivers, crooks, miscreants and scourge of the earth always think Beverly Hills is the promised land that will give them legitimacy. It's beyond predictible.

So now, because people subjected themselves to his purging of the soul/body sweat lodge - three people are dead. The question remains: Who's the bigger asshole? James Ray for exploiting these people? Or these supposedly "stable" adults who willingly let themselves be exploited?

Here's what's what. It's a slippery slope putting people in a high heat sweat lodge. Most people are not in the greatest of shape, and even more lie about the shape they're in. They can't even take walking up stairs - never mind being depleted of bodily fluids in a grueling sweat lodge. So why in the world would you take the risk of them getting hurt or sick? This is fertile lawyer heaven. Oh, right. Nine grand. You got blinded. Oh right, you run the thing. Oh right, low overhead. Big profit. Oh right, maybe you really are God. Oh right, these people are fucking stupid and you can do anything I want to them without consequence. Oh right, you're not really getting arrested and some bogus "White Papers" can save you.

Christ! What an inconvenience! Getting arrested for murder? Hey these idiots had it coming. I'm innocent! Don't you people have any compassion? How do you expect me to pay for my 4-million dollar house in Beverly Hills. I mean, the taxes alone'll kill you.

Think people, think.

answer to pop quiz:
(James Earl Ray shot Dr. Martin Luther King)

A Hard Night at the Hard Rock: Talk is NOT Cheap

2010-02-03T11:41:00.012-05:00

Last night I went to see the incredible Buddy Guy and the iconic BB King at the Hard Rock Live in Hollywood, Florida.

Being on a perpetual budget, my friend Ramona and I had the cheap seats. The very last upper level row. But because this venue isn't ginormous (a semi-intimate space boasting "5,500 acoustically superior seats") no seat is really bad. Plus we had binoculars. What was bad, were a few things. Let's start with the ticket price.

Like I said, cheap seats - $45.00. That's not exactly cheap really - $10 or $12 is cheap. Forty-five bucks is respectable. Yes! If only they were really 45 bucks. Add on the facility charge: $2, convenience charge: $7.75, order processing charge: $4.10, and fast delivery charge: (read: print out your ticket): $2.50, and now you've added a whopping (I love that word) $16.35 to the cost. So now a $45 ticket is $61.35! My favorite is the convenience fee - I'd say $7.75 is pretty damn convenient for somebody. For Ticketmaster, that's who. Yeah. They're the master and we're the slave.

So we get to our seats, binocs in hand, dabbing our nostrils with Kleenex (checking for bleeds) and find ourselves seated next to the noisiest bunch of assholes on the planet, who hereby will be referred to as the Noisy Assholes. These assholes were in their 40s and 50s - people who should know how to behave at an adult concert. But all they did was yak. The woman sitting next to me wouldn't shut up - she kept gabbing with her friend through Buddy's whole act. I wanted to ask her, "Why are you here? Why are you paying to not listen?" I picture this same woman and her friends going to the movies and reading a book. Thank God, there were two empty seats in front of us - so Ramona and I scooted down.

Buddy Guy just wailed. It couldn't have been better. Superb, professional, energetic, charismatic - excellent. I could have watched him all night. After his set - a short intermission. I decided to visit the restroom while I had the chance. The line for the the girls moved nicely, but the men's room line looked like they were giving away free weed. (I have no idea why it was so crowded...) Of course, there was the one ultra-hammered "I need attention" guy - he's at every concert - a redneck this time - what a surprise - really, what a surprise - at a BB King concert - he was more the remedial banjo type. He kept screaming at the other guys in line, "Go Colts!" And then something unintelligible about monster trucks . Did he even know where he was? I turned to the women in line behind me, put my index finger to my chin and asked: Gee, I wonder if he's single?

A few minutes later, back at my seat, one of the members of the Noisy Assholes - a large woman with a huge booty - decided she was going to climb over the seat to go get more snacks or whatever, and a couple of the asshole men stood by to assist her. This was going to be good. From watching her "groove" earlier to the music (while still yakking to her neighbor) I saw she had no rhythm. I mean none. It looked more like an epileptic fit gone awry. Hence, climbing over a tiered seat, for someone with no physical agility and most likely no balance would probably end in disaster. And so it was. She ended up with the back of the seat wedged between her legs. As she squealed for help - her male companions, grunting and heaving, tried to to lift her free. In the process, her Spanx, which were electric blue and looked like they were made from trampoline material, revealed themselves as the back of her pants slid down. Christ.

Finally, the lights went back down and BB's band hit the stage. An incredible array of musicians - the horn section was outstanding. Finally BB himself came out. The crowd went wild. I mean the man is 84, is not in the best of health and still performs. Plus, he's an icon.

BB did a few numbers and then ... well, he started talking. And talking...and talking. And talking. A long rambling story about Viagra and Cialis that was supposed to be humorous but after about 2 minutes, lost its luster. Because he is such an icon, the audience was tolerant - to a point. Finally, after over 15 minutes of the same rambling story - shouts of "Sing, BB, sing!" and "Play!" were heard from the crowd. Not that it mattered. BB kept on talking - sometimes mumbling. It was starting to become painful. An 84-year-old man talking for nearly 15 minutes about Viagra is painful to listen to - no matter who's telling it. Finally, mercifully, BB ended his story though I'm not exactly sure what he said. He finished the show with "The Thrill is Gone." And by that time, it really was.

Maybe BB got tired after a few numbers, after all he is 84, and perhaps he physically couldn't continue but wanted to keep the audience captive for a certain amount of time - you know, to get our money's worth. But I had had enough talking for one evening. Behind me and on stage. I guess when they say "Live Concert" they need to be more specific.

It was still worth going to though - but now I'm skeptical. Next month I plan to see a favorite author speak - I wonder...will he instead break out in song?

Till next Thyme, Rosemary.

College Girl in the Fifties - Not the Era - My Age

2010-01-26T20:24:00.013-05:00

I'm an anomaly of sorts. I'm in my 50s, never been married, no kids. Not gay (not that there's anything wrong with that - unless you're like Pat Robertson - then you're on another planet anyway and the underlying issues go way further than this paltry blog entry.)

I've been in a few committed relationships - but basically I don't like to be told what to do or answer to anybody, so I'm single. And quite frankly, a lot of my friends are too. But society places so much importance on marriage and "couples" that it's still not a popular stance to advocate "freedom of person" as I call it. But that's a horse of another blog entry and today we're discussing college. So onward!

I've always been bothered that I don't have a college degree. I have had all kinds of certificates or licenses: electrolysis, real estate, yoga, driver's - but no college degree. (I've even published two books.)

Hence, I decided the time's going to pass anyway, I'm a getting a college degree. I've done everything else - except have a kid - no thanks (although I enjoy others' kids and too late for my womb anyway) - so I've enrolled in school. It's a community college (I have some credits towards a degree because I was enrolled there several years ago but the algebra did me in, so I quit). Well screw the algebra - I'm going to conquer it this time! How can I let a concept that has the word "bra" in it get the best of me? What kind of woman would I be? (Bra-less?)

Tonight I went to Barnes & Noble and instead of perusing the short stories, humor, or magazine racks - or staring longingly at the pastries - I went to the "study aids" section and got me a book called Pre-Algebra DeMystified. If that's not a compelling title, then I don't know what is. The book has a picture of an insane guy with two heads and bulging eyes on the front cover. He appears to be screaming. (There's a hook right there 'cause basically that's what I feel like when I even think of algebra.) The book promises to have you "gain a working knowledge of all types of math and concepts" and is the "perfect study resource for pre-college and college entrance exams." It is written by Allan Bluman. I mention this because being an author myself - I think of Allan Bluman. Was this always his dream? To write an algebra book? Did he stay awake nights - excited and giddy over the fact that yes! he would write a book that would once and for all - demystify algebra! Hell' s a poppin' who wouldn't be excited! I know I am.

I wonder: What does Allan look like? There's no author picture on the back of the book like on a Sue Grafton mystery or a Steven King thriller. How come? What kind of man writes a pre-algebra book and doesn't want his picture on the jacket? After all, it's a monumental undertaking (that would make some people acutally consider an undertaker). I mean, how many people can even figure out a 20% off coupon - let alone write an algebra book? Is Allan afraid people will stop him on the street and ask him for his autograph or that the paparazzi may sneak around his house, perhaps snapping illicit pictures of him sharpening pencils in his skivvies? Does he have a really big forehead and carry a calculator everywhere he goes - even the men's room? Or does he do everything in his head? Alas, I'll never know.

I need to take a CPT (college placement test) for algebra before I can sign up for any more classes. So I bought the book because I suck at algebra. At least I did the last time I tried it. I have a 3.50 GPA for the credits I do have. Other subjects are not an issue. But algebra is like that two-headed dog in the Harry Potter movie. I have to slay my two-headed beast - disinterest and intimidation - before I get the treasure - and honestly, I think I'd rather take on a drooling, two-headed canine with ass-breath than ponder exponential notations. But really, I don't feel that intimidated - I'm doing this because I want to - not because I have to - and that makes all the difference. Like oral sex. If you have to do it - you absolutely hate it - but if you want to .... you still hate it. Ha, ha, ha. Right.

So that's it. I'll keep you posted. Exponentially, of course.

Get Rich Quick is Egg-agerated

2010-01-24T16:20:00.009-05:00

Before I get into this new post let me just say, I was so excited to see there was "a comment that needed to be moderated" on my blog. In other words, somebody was following me and made a comment. Alas! My elation was short-lived. It turned out to be a Viagra ad. Again. I am SO SICK of seeing Viagra and other limp dick remedy ads everywhere I turn. Jesus! Is there a pandemic of flacidity (my word) going on? I've been dying to use the word "pandemic" ever since I heard it in reference to the swine flu - I'm so happy I got my big chance - and then to couple it with a made-up derivative of the word "flacid" - well it just doesn't get any better. When you write - these things matter. Okay, shriveled pee-pees aside, here's what's new.

So yesterday I go to the thrifty (which is what I call any thrift shop) with my Mummy. (Not the mummy I have in storage in the sarcophagus - but the one that gave birth to me). So we're shoppin' around and pickin' up more shit we don't need and some we do - when Mummy holds up this psuedo-cloisonné egg. Now, cloisonné, in case you're not familiar, is basically enamel with gold or silver metal soldered or glued on it. You'd know it if you saw it. It's ok - not one of my favorite artistic techniques. Anyway - so my Mum holds up this cheaply made cloisonné-looking egg and announces, with a sly wink and a grin, that's she's found a Fabergé egg. Imagine that! Then she looks quickly around to make sure nobody heard her and may suddenly point out this costly mistake to the owner of the store. I zoom in on the thing. It has a small piece of masking tape around it that says "$3.00." The egg has a metal hole at the bottom (possibly where it once was on a stand at the Dollar Store?) and poorly administered enamel with equally inferior gold wiring running over it. I mean, it wasn't the worst workmanship of cloisonné I ever saw, but - no it was the worst.

"It's not a Fabergé egg," I tell her.
"How do you know? Lots of things are found at flea markets and thrift stores that people don't know their worth. I think it's real."
"It's not a Fabergé egg," I tell her.
"It could be - you don't know."
"It's not a Fabergé egg," I tell her.
"You don't know that!"
"It's not a Fabergé egg," I tell her.

Still, she's insistent. I know she's thinking: I'll show her! I'll pay three dollars for this - get it appraised at Lloyd's of London or the Antiques Road Show - find out it's worth hundreds of thousands or millions of dollars and my smart aleck daughter will be eating her words.

"I know what you're thinking," I tell her. "You're going to prove me wrong."
"Hmph! We'll see who has the last laugh."
"It's not a Fabergé egg," I tell her.

There is a thread that runs through my family. Although we all work hard, and none of us are lazy, we all have the "get rich quick scheme" gene. Myself included. I've tried all sorts of stuff to get rich: electrolysis, a men's hair growth product, eBay. And I'm sure I'm not done. So I understand where my mother's coming from. She can't help it. She believes that it COULD be possible that the owners of the thrift store somehow let a genuine Fabergé egg slip through their fingers and subsequently affixed a $3 price tag on it and then, somehow, through the grace of God, my mother was the ONLY person of all the people who saw this egg -the only person who realized the faux pas and was now to capitalize on it!

The whole way home in the car, she kept giving me a smug, we'll see who's right! look.

Well, of course it wasn't a Fabergé egg. But really, who cares? If it gives you joy - does it matter if it's "real"? Yeah, of course it does! No corny ending here. I'd kill to find a real Fabergé egg in a thrift store. I'd take the next few years off! But this wasn't it.

Who knows - maybe one day my Mum or I will get lucky and find an undetected treasure - a forgotton Renoir in the back of a ugly watercolor painting - or a real diamond ring in the costume jewelry bin - but until then - can you really make $100 an hour working from home answering surveys on the Internet? It could be possible ... right?

A Voice from the Void

2010-01-10T08:21:00.007-05:00

Well, get this: I got a comment from somebody that is reading this blog! I don't know if it's from that ONE person (yes, I'm very popular, I know) that is following the blog - or not. And quite frankly, I don't care! It's heartening to know someone is reading this and took time out of their busy schedule to comment. I'm assuming they have a busy schedule and are not drooling in a mental ward somewhere waiting for pudding. (Not that that matters! You're still my fan and I love ya!) I'm not much of a diarist - I need an audience - even an audience of one. So whoever the hell you are - thank you. (Do I hear one hand clapping?)

OK -what's up for today? The "a" on my keyboard is sticking baaadly and I really must get a new keyboard. I go through keyboards like a Republican congressman goes through excuses for adultery. Probably because I eat at the computer and drop half the meaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaal between the keys - the "a" getting most of the shrapnel for some reaason.

Occasionally, I'll glance down and see all the crumbs and hair and dirt on the keys - then I'll turn the keyboard upside down and violently hit it on the desk, fascinated by aall the crap that falls from between the letters. (A pork chop? It can't be! Look! Enough tortilla chip crumbs to top a casserole! And there's my lost temporary crown!) But now this sticky aaa thing is making me crazy. Well, let's not get carried away - that's not what's really making me crazy this 10th of January, 2010. Want to know what is? (1) Trying to figure out an ending to my screenplay; (2) Wondering why I'm watching the entire last seaason of Boston Legal on dvd instead of trying to figure out an ending of said screenplay, and (3) Figuring out the rest of my life in 5 minutes... Because thaat's the kind of anxiety riddled neurotic I am todaay. These are the things that prevent me from getting a full eight hours every night. You know how that goes: It's 11:00 PM, you go to bed, fairly sane, pretty tired, you fall asleep... then, at 3:00 AM...BING! Hellloooo bay-beh! It's Mr. Anxiety comin' to jerk yer ass awake and bring every problem, dilemma and bad relationship choice right to the forefront of your wacky brain. Oh, I'm sorry! Can you not fall back asleep now? Tsk, tsk. I hate Mr. Anxiety. What a fucking asshole.

But...at leaast for now...the rats are gone. And I have a reader. Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaank you.

Anna

The New Year Has Old Problems or: Of Mice and Women

2010-01-03T12:46:00.008-05:00

Like everyone else at the start of a New Year, I am trying to feel optimism. Projecting good things. I really am. Even though ... I'm upside down on my mortgage, practically every penny I have goes to bills and last year I got a stock tip (and I'm no Martha Stewart) that ended up costing me mucho $$$ from my hard earned savings account. And ...the rats are back.

I have lived in my condo for almost 5 years without a problem with rodents. Let me preface by saying, I never intended to live here that long - 5 years - but the real estate market shit the bed and that put the brakes on my Jeffersonian "movin' on up" plans. (Not that this a slum by any means - I live in a respectable condo complex less than a mile and a half from Fort Lauderdale Beach.) So now, because of whatever reason, after extermination attempts and traps and a brief reprise - the rats are back. As I write this, I am waiting for my contractor to arrive, who will then tear out the shelf under my sink and together we will fill any hole, crevice or opening in the wall one of those disgusting vermin can slither through. As I write this - there is one stuck in a glue trap under the sink. I'm not touching it - I'm waiting for Steve to do it. I would have to be wearing a space suit with those big kryptonite gloves and a full helmet - with oxygen hoses -to even touch the glue trap one of those creepy rodents are stuck in. God I HATE mice and rats. I LOATHE them. Despise them. Dee-spizzzzze them. Snakes and spiders don't bother me - odd. Never did. But those disgusting little vermin with those gag-me tails, completely gross me out. Beyond the beyond.

I will never feel the same about this place now. It's been tainted by mouse turds. All the Lysol in the world won't bring back my feeling of homey comfort. I feel like I'm living in a Motel 8. Make that 7 1/2. I will herein be a visitor in my own home until I sell this place. Which is a day I look forward to - for more reasons than the rodents.

Several hours later ...

I'm back home after crying, drama-ing, then finally going out with my friend Nancy to see the Norman Rockwell exhibit at the Museum and then afterwards getting a few brewskis and a pulled pork platter at a BBQ restaurant. Now I'm back home.

Earlier: Steve got rid of the trapped rats - there were TWO stuck on the glue trap - not one -and we patched up a hole behind my stove where we feel they were gaining access. I'd take roaches any day over those disgusting, evil creatures. Yecccccccccccccccccccccch.

So now, it's back to business as usual. I'm too tired to Pine Sol the whole condo right now - so tomorrow - joy of joys - I can do it.

Happy Fucking New Year.

No really.

Happy New Year.

My Evening with Flanigoons

2009-08-11T12:52:00.013-04:00

So yesterday I go out with my friend Jo Beth for one of our girly days. We have fun just bouncing around; it usually involves food, spending money on chatchkes from Home Goods - stuff which I always return the next day - it's like do I really need a fake cockatoo perched on a wood book that doesn't open? Yes! For a day anyway.

But that's not what this is all about. We went to see Julie & Julia the new movie about Julie Powell and Julia Child and her famous book Mastering the Art of French Cooking. After the movie, which was excellent (I grew up in the suburbs of Boston watching Julia on TV) we were both enormously hungry. Then I remembered I had gotten a $10 coupon in the mail for Flanigans's, so that's where we went. But first I had to drive home from the theater to get it (10 minutes away).

As we're driving back to my house, I tell Jo Beth, "I want to do something really great - really meaningful - but I don't know what. I want to write about something really good." Let it be known, that I have no less than four writing projects I'm working on and I can simultaneoulsy procrastinate on all of them.

Jo Beth says: "Collins, why don't you write about all the men you dated?"

I ponder this. There's been a few. All right - many. But we're going to eat and I really don't want to think about it while I'm eating. I trust the Universe will send me the answer for my special mission. Or at least a clue.

Now we're at Flanigan's; early evening - 7-ish and the place is fairly full of diners; locals and bar flies. Which is the same really. And one or two literal flies because someone left the door open. It's dark in here. Which is good if you're drinking at 11 AM - a dim interior always gives the illusion that it's an acceptable time to get hammered - even if you're on the surface of the sun. But enough of my Zen inebriation awareness - I'm starving. We each order half a rack of ribs.

Halfway through the half rack, we hear a full commotion behind us. I turn to see a dark-haired, good-looking man in his mid-thirties, accompanied by a young girl, about 3 years old. The man is pointing and shouting at the booth in front of him. He's quite angry. Livid, actually.

In the booth in front of him sits a family fresh out of Darwin's waiting room. On one side sits, what seems to be the father; a portly man in his forties, wearing a dirty t-shirt and a dingy baseball cap, sitting next to his equally expansive wife, who looks like she hasn't washed her hair since the Clinton Administration. And what lovely stretch pants. Across from them, sits the rotten fruit of their loins; a tattooed, pierced, bolted, bleached, made up like a Kabuki mask daughter, of about 13 or 14. Ans sitting next to her, is the son; the Urban Dictionary definition of "wigger."

Wigger-son, about 15 or 16 years old, was wearing the Mr. T starter kit of several heavy, cheap silver chains, a black t-shirt with the face of some rapper, and a baseball hat twirled to the side. The side. That is one of my pet peeves. Every time I see that baseball hat worn to the side, I want to go up to the punk and spin that fucker around! Unless you're 5 or under - the bill goes in the front, dillweed.

Anyway, the wigger is saying something unintelligible to the dark-haired man, who is shouting at him. I hear the dark-haired man has an Aussie accent. He's now half way out of his seat and he's bellowing. "Next time be prepared to have it crammed up your ass!" He says to the wigger. Actually he said arse. He was threatening an arse-cramming; right there, on the spot, at Flanigan's. Shielded by his family, the kid said something mumbly back.

Oh! I was so curious! What were they fighting about? Without even knowing what the beef or the boeuf (a word from Julia) was, I immediately sided with the Aussie.

The greasy-haired, beach-ball-with-arms-and-legs looking mother whispered (loudly) to her son not answer the man and be quiet. To which the wigger said something like: "Yo-yo, yo, yo, don't mess with me - I'm a yo-yo." or something like that.

After a few more minutes, the shouting subsided. Which probably had something to do with a manager coming by.

Finally, the family finished their meal and lumbered out (the wig sandwiched between his Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum parents) and the daughter, as she passed by, stuck her skanky butt at the Aussie and gave him a wink. I thought I'd lose my dinner. The little girl, put her mouth in the "O" shape and rolled her eyes. I swear to God.

We finished our meal without further incident and asked for the check. As I was adding my tip to my bill - I realized - I hadn't used the coupon! I swear, I have no memory. I went all the way home to get it for crissakes - and there it sat - right next to my pocketbook - mocking me. I asked the bartender if it was too late to void the first check and get a new one, adding the coupon. He gave me that pained look - like someone had just asked him if it was OK if they gave him a colonoscopy, right there behind the bar. "Never mind," I said, "I'll use it another time."

"Great!" he says, "I'm here every day. Wait! No, Wednesdays I have off. Every day but Wednesday." Yeah, thanks Captain Important. Let me just jot that right down on my Critical Things to Remember list.

On the way out, we had to pass the Aussie's table. "I gotta know - what was that all about?" I asked him.

"I couldn't believe it!" said the Aussie, grateful to talk to someone about his trauma. "I sat here with my ldaughter and that fat hog turned around in her seat and says, 'Mind your child, or don't bring her out.' I told her to turn around, my child wasn't bothering anyone!" (To be honest, I never even heard the kid make a peep. I believed him.)

"So," the Aussie continues, "That little punk picks up the knife from the table and holds it at me and says he'll cut me for talking to his fat fucking mother like that. Pardon my French..."

(Again..French is the theme of the day.)

"If my daughter hadn't been here - he'd a been right through the window!" His little daughter, who looked like a vintage Armand Marseilles doll (another French reference) looked at me with huge blue eyes and grimaced at his words, in apparent agreement, but still - not a peep.

"How much is your bill?" I asked him.

"Twenty-three dollars," he said. I produced my $10 coupon.

"Here," I said, handing it to him. "At least enjoy the rest of your evening."

"Thank you! That is so nice! he said. He pronounced it noice.

"That guy was an arse-hole," I said.

"Tank yew," said his little girl. The first words I had heard her utter all night. Then she held out her little hand - and I shook it.

And that's my Flanigoon's story.

Cutting Down & Cutting Loose

2009-08-05T11:33:00.020-04:00

Ever since the economy shit the bed, I've been steadily and increasingly cutting back on just about everything. It started with eating out, and at last count, the axe fell on my premium cable TV channels. (How will I fill my need for a lovable serial killer now that I can't watch Dexter any more?)

I was, for a brief and lucrative time, a real estate agent. I could afford (although certainly not in a Bill Gates kind of way) to buy whatever I fancied and eat out wherever I wanted. I was making stupid money. It was great. And prior to being a real estate agent, I was a standup comic for a longer time, also making stupid money, albeit with a slight change in definition (e.g.: "Fifty bucks a gig? That is friggin' stupid!)

During the real estate ya-ya years, I used to eat out two or three times a week at one of my favorite steak houses, The Capital Grille. Now I'm eating grilled cheese. But I have a job (which is neither of the aforementioned) and I am just grateful to be paying my bills. That's what everyone keeps telling me too - "Be grateful you're paying your bills!" It's become more a life of survival now than a life of perks. But let's face it, once you've had the perks of money, you miss them. Terribly.

The high road, the Spiritual Road, is to go within Grasshopper; find solace within your soul and appreciate and find joy in the little, simple things in life. Yup.

And it all sounds good on paper - but in reality, it sorta sucks.

No, it really sucks.

I've been poor and I've been well-off and I'll take well-off any day. People that tell you, you can't buy happiness? I think they're not paying attention. I was never happier than when I had thousands of dollars in the bank. Maybe it's just me - but knowing I could book a flight to the Bahamas, buy a new pair of shoes, or simply order the filet mignon with a bottle of Chateau Neuf du Pape and not think twice about any of it - were all highly instrumental in turning up the corners of my mouth. Probably much more so than contemplating the Zen of staring at an empty checkbook while sweating about an electric bill. But maybe that's just me.

I have long since bid the Chateau a fond adieu. In fact, no more restaurant drinking at all - too pricey. I only drink at home now (often) and when I do, it's sake. That's right, rice wine. I went from around $38 a bottle to around $6 a bottle. Nice. I drinky long time for $6 and it's from those midget sake cups, so I feel less like an alcoholic.

And since I now only have basic cable (it comes with my condo maintenance) if I'm really jonesing for HBO or Showtime, I go to my friend Jo Beth's house and shnorr off her (she doesn't drink so it doesn't even cost me an extra $6 for gift sake!) Sah-weet.

Lifestyle is relative. And thank God I haven't had to move in with any of them.

As a wise old yoga teacher once said to me: Be One with the Universe - and carry a big coupon book.

Cheers,
and tables.

code: 562

Chocolates of Distinction

2009-07-16T11:58:00.019-04:00

If after you read this title and you think this is one of those currently popular food/memoir blogs. Believe me, it isn't.

Yesterday my employer brought some sugar-free chocolates to the job. Chocolates he purchased in the airport while experiencing a flight delay for his return to Miami from Charlotte, NC. He was so elated to show them: "Look they're sugar free! Low calorie. Isn't that great?" This from a man who relishes large, meaty burgers with lots of cheese and a jumbo order of fries on the side.

I ate some of those sugar-free, low-calorie chocolates and about an hour later, I experienced the terrifying, sweaty feeling of needing to explode. The Laxative Chocolates as I call them, contained some sort of ingredient that after a time, my body absolutely would not tolerate. It was as if the Intestinal Police finally saw the perp after he'd been hanging out a while:

"Hey there buddy, you're not from these parts are you?"
"Nope."
"Well, we're accustomed to having Sugar accompanying these here chocolates - you look like a foreigner."
"I am, Officer. I'm a chemical. I taste like sugar, I'm used like sugar - but I ain't sugar."
"Well, we don't like your kind around here. You best be getting on your way - NOW."
"Fine with me. In fact, I think I'll take everything in the intestinal tract with me. Have a nice day."

I was mortified, just making it to the bathroom in the nick of time. And yet, I saw the positive side: the chocolates never got absorbed into my body - into my fat cells. I had eaten three large chocolates without absorbing a single calorie! Not to mention my breakfast of some ghastly whole wheat cereal in soy milk, was also exempted. The chocolates were a confectionary high-colonic.

I took a few of the remaining ones home with me to freeze. I'm saving them for Thanksgiving.

The Start of Something

2009-07-15T15:32:00.001-04:00

Let's get started here. This is officially the first day of Every Day Life & Other Fascinations. Thinking up that title was exhausting enough, so that will serve as a post in and of itself. See you later on.