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Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Four

...spent last night with E. at Foundation. Discussed menu options for our 8th annual "Pre-Thanksgiving Food 'n Booze" extravaganza. Spent six dollars on four drinks.

I suppose I should just come out and admit it: I've been having a series of vivid, vaguely sexual dreams involving future Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi. Nothing outrageous, mind you (those dreams are reserved solely for Velma from Scooby-Doo), but intimate and disconcerting nonetheless. Sure, she'll soon become one of the most powerful women in the country (sorry Bea Arthur), but she's what…80 goddamn years old? I've been with older women before, but to crib a line from Blazing Saddles, "Thirty-three's my limit on schnitzengruben."

Interestingly, my friend Z. recently confessed to having fevered Pelosi dreams as well. Is there something going on here that I should know about? Dear readers (not you, mom), I implore you: if you've had similar experiences as of late, please don't hesitate to open up and share. Only together can we make sense of this strangely erotic yet increasingly disturbing mess.

Also: Dear God, do we really have to endure all this Tenacious D shit again?

Furthermore: I've been surviving on a never-ending series of close calls and dumb luck. How about you?

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Sunday, November 12, 2006

three

Against all good sense and reason, "Gwyneth" by Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin is turning me into a complete wreck. See also: "One Time Too Many" by Phoenix, and "Caravan of Love" by The Housemartins.

(Watched today's Packer game on a hi-def projection screen in the basement of J.'s house. Boxes and boxes of obsolete laserdiscs littering the floor - bought in bulk and sold on ebay - making me feel like I was finally getting a second chance.)

And the weekly award for the "Best Email Line From A Pissed-Off Girl" goes to:

"...please don't bother telling me to leave you alone because I have every intention of doing so."

This casual disregard I seem to have acquired was never what I had in mind.

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Saturday, November 11, 2006

For E.

“I have something to confess,” she says. “I read your column every month wondering when you’ll mention the story of the time we were together and I started crying.”

(trying to read her new tattoo, please understand)

“Look for it next month,” I reply. “I’ll even include your full name and cell number.”

(procuring free drink tickets, no apologies necessary)

Like the song says, she was golden with barlight and beer.

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Monday, October 30, 2006

According to our new arrival

Since web logs (or as the kids these days would have it, "blogs") first appeared in the mid to late-70s, I’ve come to realize they’re only good for two things: pictures of funny cats or semi-literate musings on television’s favorite English housekeeper, Mr. Belvedere. Since I’m currently cat-less (R.I.P. Special Agent Dale Cooper), let’s dish some Belvedere, shall we?

My initial interest in the show was minimal. I mean, it was 1985 for Christ’s sake, and I had a shitty haircut and Back to the Future to worry about. But my blissful ignorance of all things Mr. B. changed one fateful, impossibly long and nostalgia-stained summer day when I received a thoroughly baffling and wholly unsolicited Mr. Belvedere Fan Club kit in the mail.

Yup, a freaking Mr. Belvedere Fan Club. Even then, in an improbable era of calculator watches and Huey Lewis, it seemed like a completely fucked-up idea: a mail order fan club – ostensibly aimed at children – devoted solely to a middlebrow television series about a wayward English butler (full name: Lynn Aloysius Belvedere) who somehow sets up shop with a boorish American family headed by patriarch Bob Uecker. Dear God, how? How could an idea so wrongheaded and bizarre have materialized in my parents’ mailbox in Mayville, Wisconsin? How could an entire fan club be built around such a middling TV show? How coked-up was the ABC exec who thought this would be an even remotely good idea?

The Fan Club packet itself was simple enough: a sheet of Mr. Belvedere stickers, a few pictures of foxy Tracy Wells and a list of “Wesley’s Top Ten Practical Jokes,” all of which were apparently meant to be sprung on your very own British housekeeper. Christopher Hewett’s mustachioed mug was well-represented throughout the more-than-generous mailing, as was future Touched by an Angel guest star Ilene Graf’s. Have I mentioned Bob Uecker? Needless to say, I instantly became a Mr. Belvedere convert, and my life has been filled with rainbows and ponies ever since.

I bring this all up because I recently finished serving as Associate Producer for an original Sci-Fi Channel film, and during the course of filming it was discovered that both the 1st Assistant Director and myself were unofficial “members” of the Mr. Belvedere Fan Club all those many years ago. This strange revelation caused the cast and crew no small amount of joy, and on the last day of work I found a picture of the entire Belvedere cast, along with the words “Mr. Belvedere 4-Eva,” taped to my script. Soon after, I ate a Twinkie Weiner Sandwich (cold hot dog covered with Cheez Whiz on a Twinkie bun) with the lead actress, a white-knuckle story I’ll save for all you “Weird” Al buffs out there.

Until then, stay cool, stay in school and heed the wise-beyond-his-years-Tavis Smiley’s advice by “keep[ing] the faith.”

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