So I’m busy yesterday working on some music, when I hear a loud pounding on my front door. My dog Rage goes ballistic, and the knocking quickly becomes much more insistent, almost panicked. Something is obviously WRONG! Heart beating, I race to the front of my house, Rage running circles and screaming bloody murder at my feet, struggle with the lock for a moment, then finally manage to unhinge the old wooden beast. Imagine my utter shock and dismay when the door swings open to reveal my mailman, who immediately exclaims…

“I CAN’T BELIEVE ANNA NICOLE IS DEAD!”

Dead, kids… She’s no longer with us.

Now I’m not making fun of the fact the someone’s light as been prematurely snuffed out, I’m simply observing the fact that this news ROCKED my mailman’s world. In our day and age, I suppose that this kind of event does constitute SOME kind of newsworthiness, but my postal carrier has never gone nuts on my front door with exclamations of “I can’t believe a truck blast in Baghdad killed more than 120!” or “I can’t believe suicide amongst Australian farmers is at an all-time high!” or even “I can’t believe O.J. didn’t do it!” But we lost Anna Nicole yesterday, and he NEEDED to talk about it. (Read the Rest…)

I’d like to believe that this blue and white Stormtrooper getup is concealing a lonely Victoria’s Secret model whose one wish in life is to make me breakfast in bed every day — in the nude. I mean, there HAS to be a world-famous lingerie model SOMEWHERE out there who loves Star Wars and the Indianapolis Colts as much as she’ll one day love me. And yet, here I am thirty-three years into this thing called life, life, life… and I’ve yet to encounter that elusive trifecta.

In the meantime, the Colts won the Superbowl, Prince kicked purple butt at halftime, and I’ve been nominated for a Nobel Prize. More to come…

I auditioned for a McDonald’s spot today, and couldn’t help but feel a little torn about the whole thing. It all started back when I was a little kid listening to interviews with celebrities like Weird Al Yankovic and Mean Joe Green (who incidentally, are touring together under the moniker “Weird Al Green”) where they talked about making a conscious decision not to hawk alcohol or tobacco products. It wasn’t that they didn’t drink or smoke, they just didn’t want to sell that image to the impressionable youth of America. And for some reason, I thought that was commendable.

Now I could care less about America’s youth, but I always held on to the sage-like wisdom of Mean Joe and Weird Al, and when I got my first commercial agent so many moons ago, I made it very clear that I did NOT want to go out for alcohol or tobacco spots. If you know anything about commercial agentry, you know that booze is where the big money’s at, so this ridiculous stance of mine has never really gone over well with anyone who’s ever been duped into representing me. Still, I assert that a man’s gotta have his convictions, even if they’re borne in the impressionable mind of an American youth. And here’s where I start feeling torn… (Read the Rest…)

The New Year is a time when we must look ahead in anticipation as we reflect on days gone by. In reminiscing I find it sometimes difficult to remember what it was I was forgetting to recall. As always this is somewhat nostalgic, and more often than not, as I drift away into rose-colored dreamscapes of days long past, my voice trails off, unable to finish the sentence I worked so hard to…

When Donald Trump was a little dude, I’m sure he would have enjoyed the infantile antics of Rosie O’Donnell. But nowadays the Donald isn’t so little, and neither is Rosie for that matter. And that, my friends, is January in a nutshell. Time waits for no man — or lesbian. Looking back, I realize that it’s kind of sad how when you grow up, there comes a point when you stop growing, and then you know you’re gonna be that way the rest of your life. Luckily, we’re not giant redwoods. If we were, we might NEVER stop growing. We might stop growing up, but we’d always be growing out — ring after ring after mind-numbing ring.

This is all relatively meaningless of course, and is in fact, just an excuse to try out my new blogging software. You see, while most folk ring in the new year with empty resolutions and drunken jibes at the very sad creature we call Dick Clark, I’m allowing the opening refrain of 2007 to herald my lemming-like tendencies. Like a sheep to slaughter, I’m jumping on the proverbial blogwagon. And since I now have the conch, I want to encourage everyone who ever reads this to get a life, and stop spending so much time on the damn computer.