Helloooooo, Nurse!

My life has been changed.

No, my friends. I haven't found Jesus. I wasn't even aware he's gone missing.

I'm talking something greater.

Um, no. No, I still don't have a job. But that's not what I meant, either.

What's that? FUCK YOU, I do NOT need a nose job!

No, no, something has happened this week that I've been waiting YEARS for. Ever since the advent of the DVD, there have been precious few items I absolutely need. The Simpsons was one of those, but that came out rather quickly. Monty Python, Nightmare Before Christmas, Christopher Guest movies. I own them all. There is so much on DVD now, you almost have to go out of your way to name a show that's not on disc. You can get McMillan and Wife on DVD fer Chrissakes!

But for what seems like ages, Warner Brothers has dragged their feet putting on DVD what truly contends for best animated show of all time.

I'm talking about Animaniacs.

I was in middle school when Animaniacs came out, and I really liked to think (at the time) that it was aimed at a bit younger audience. I, however, counted myself among a sophisticated elite class that not only could laugh at fart jokes, but also at highbrow literary humor. In a house where TV time was severely limited, I DEMANDED permission to watch. This permission was only granted after my mom saw the "Yakko's World" segment.

When Warner announced several months ago that Animaniacs would soon be available on DVD, I immediately pre-ordered it on Amazon. It came this week, and this week has been pure bliss. The show not only holds up despite it's age - nigh on 14 years - it manages to surprise even me, who has seen nearly every episode.

I truly think that the development of the completely zany, surreal animated shows on Adult Swim can be traced in part to Animaniacs. It's smart, it's funny, it's a total inspiration.

Now, if they'd only release FREAKAZOID on DVD.....

A Cry for Help

Oh, man. It's frackin' hot here.

Now, don't get me wrong. I grew up in the South. The Dirty South. The Deep South. So far south, in fact, that we consider Memphis Yankee country. I know heat. I know what it's like to watch a sno-cone (spearmint flavor) melt before your eyes. I'm talking about 110 degree, 98% humidity tropical hot.

HOWEVER...

That was many years ago. I've reconditioned myself since then to Southern California, where the air is dry and the temperature is usually a manageable 75 degrees. Maybe 80.


For the past week, we've been between 95 and 100 every day (with one brief afternoon respite). AND my apartment has no air conditioning. Can you imagine painting in that kind of stifling heat, on your knees on hardwood floors, doing detailed work? It's MURDER, I tells ya!

So here's my cry for help: I need friends who have air conditioning. I need them STAT, doctor. So, if you're out there reading this, and you have central air...or even a goddamn window unit...let me spend the night. Please? Just once?

Please?

Arts and Crafts

It's been a busy weekend over in Fabulous West Hollywood - "The Creative City!!"

After 10 months of delays, excuses, and aborted attempts my roommate and I finally mounted my dartboard on our wall. This dartboard, a birthday present from my sisters, had been collecting dust in a corner since our Haunted Housewarming Party of last year. Regulars to TRA's apartment will be happy to hear that F. Murray Abraham has paid enough penance on the board, and is resting peacefully at the bottom of a large stack of newspapers.

HE KNOWS WHAT HE DID!!!

Anyway, we spent the weekend amassing supplies: cork, screws and other hanging accoutrements. Hung up the dartboard. AND we painted a spiffy chalkboard score...board.

In addition, I am painting a mural about the scoreboard. Something classy: two naked broads caressing our tallies. I'll post pictures as I work.

Yesterday I outlined the girls and filled in the lines with a sealant and then gesso. I sanded that down and bought the paints last night.

I'm about halfway through with the actual painting today. But I'm going to see Superman tonight, so I probably won't finish till' tomorrow. As soon as Blogger fixes its image posting software, I'm going to put up some pics of the work in progress. Enjoy!

Quack Attaq

It was an idyllic morning, spent in the cool embrace of (somewhat) freshly washed linens and a glorious breeze through the window. Late morning dreams flitted through my head: beautiful women fawning over my wit, good looks, and stunning command of Monty Python quotes. That kind of thing.

"Oh, TRA!" a particularly statuesque brunette exclaimed. "You truly are the toast of the town!"

A milky pale redhead agreed: "Whatever did we do before you came to please us? What a dull life that must have been."

I demurred. "Ladies, please. There's only one thing worse than being talked about...and that is NOT being talked about!"

The girls went all atwitter.

The gorgeous but ethnically undefined nymph to my immediate right purred in a vague foreign accent: "Oh, do let us take you out and show you off! Be sure to wear one of your 8-bit Star Wars graphic shirts; we love your sense of style."

The other girls assented in a chorus of "Yes, yes! Do!"

"But first," inquired a blonde tart I until now hadn't noticed, "can we but bathe you?"

"If you must, you must."

They helped me to my feet and began disrobing me. The shower was readied; a luxuriant, fragrant steam began to fill the room as we filed into the deluxe tiled washroom. They reached for the soap and began to work up a lather with which to --

QUACK!!

What the hell was that? I looked around.

QUACK!! QUACK!!

A DUCK!? Where was it coming from? How did it get here?

QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK!!!

Suddenly the lather, the steam, the shower...the girls...dissappeared and my eyes shot open.

FUCK!!

QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK QUACK!!!

That's right. A duck woke me up this morning. Now, let's look at this rationally, shall we?

Where I grew up as a child, I was USED to ducks in the morning. I lived on a small pond. We had ducks, turtles, herons, woodpeckers, snakes...occasionally alligators. But I had long since forgotten how to sleep through the sounds of wildlife.

I life in LOS FREAKIN' ANGELES now. In West Hollywood. There's not a lake around here for miles! And, after two and a half years living here, I've never heard a duck. WHO THE HELL decided to go out and buy a GODDAMN DUCK yesterday afternoon? It's still quacking.

But I have a solution.

Everyone's invited over this weekend for some delicious Duck A La'Orange.

Tell your friends.

B.O.R.E.D (Also, poor)

Back from home, unempolyed, I'm a slob.
Occupation is needed! I sob.
Revenue: none
Expedient? One.
Down to WeHo to give a blow job.

Next Door Antics

When setting the scene of my apartment, I forgot to mention the Den of Sin next door to us.

There's a sprawling ramshackle kind of house not 15 feet from my window; the kind of place that was originally a small house, they added a room here, a garage there, then a second floor later...kind of grafting on pieces from other buildings. It's an architectural abortion. And who else would live in this thing, in the middle of West Hollywood, other than an undetermined number of Fratty McMeatheads?

Activities of said residents? Fighting/street brawling (at least 3 fights in the past 2 months). Pumping out KILLER jams on their sound system (bumpin' rap or frathouse DMB/Reggae - truly these straight white boys between the ages of 18 and 25 must Get Up, Stand Up...Stand Up For Their Rights). Throwing raging parties with lithe LA bimbos which, for some reason, I'm not invited to. And the weekly Topless Waxing of the SUV.

Diet Coke Break!!

Neighbors

SCENE:
A cozy little apartment nestled off Santa Monica in the very heart of West Hollywood. It's a walk-up, one of those buildings with the garage on the street level and the apartments above. There is a tiny little courtyard in the back, around which an obtuse cast of characters goes about their daily lives.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE:
The Reluctant Angeleno - Sporadic writer and voracious love machine. Devilishly charming, handsome, witty...that kind of thing.

TRA's Roommate - New York transplant. Writer, director, future media overlord. Currently PAing.

The German Building Manager - Smokes hand-rolled cigarettes and sunbathes in Speedos in the tiny courtyard. Often takes up entire courtyard with sun-drying laundry.

The Couple - Young gay couple living below TRA. They own the second and third cutest dogs in the world.

The Spartan - This guy moved in a couple of months ago and still only has 3 pieces of visible furniture: a table, a chair, and a beanbag chair. Otherwise, his apartment - as far as I can see - is totally empty.

The Beemer Girls - A group of girls living together (Are there two? Three? Four? We have no idea) only seen near their BMW black SUV. Whether sitting inside talking to each other, gabbing on the phone near it, screaming at each other to and from it, washing it, driving it around the block (never more than a 1/2 mile trip), or standing with it in the garage, they are NEVER further than 50 feet from their car.

Catsup

Going to try and bring this up to date.

My Fourth of July was a Star-Spangled Celebration EXTRAORDINAIRE of all things Great and American.

Nah, not really. I drove home from Big Bear and unpacked. God bless this land.

Then I went to see "Cars" with a couple of friends. But seriously, how American is that? Stuffing yourself on junk food while watching a movie about cars. Made by Disney. I felt a great swell of patriotism when the lights dimmed and, stuffing my greasy craw with salty goodness, I settled in for 90 minutes of animated hilarity.

You don't care what I think about the movie, and I don't feel like writing a review. But I will say I liked it. Pixar kicks serious ass.

Big Bear Hunting

I left Las Cruces the next morning after trying again - in vain - to poop. Ah well. It'd come eventually.

See, the whole reason for such a short trip home was that some friends of mine had rented a cabin at Big Bear for the 4th of July. Well, not really the 4th. For the 2nd and 3rd. Instead of enjoying fireworks over the lake, I found out we'd be packing up on the 4th. Still, I was excited: I'd never been to Big Bear, and it promised to be a lot of fun: hiking, grilling, swimming, ghost stories, panty raids on the girl's camp across the lake. That kind of thing.

It was a blast. I ate so much grilled meat over the 36 hours I was there, my little lower intestinal problem sorted itself out quite nicely. I just kept eating until there weren't no place else for the food to go.

Aside from that, we played outside more than I have since I was maybe 12 years old. Only problem was the company.

Scratch that. The company was great. Except this one person, who shall remain nameless. She complained, she couldn't hike, REFUSED to let an inch of her skin touch the sun (in the words of my friend, she looked "like Panama fucking Jack. Seriously, is she going on safari?" And, of course she had a "bit of a tickle" in the back of her throat. So before we could do anything either morning, we had to go pick up some lozenges at the local apothecary.

It was like having my mom at the cabin, except my mom is cooler. SHE would have played frisbee with us.

Deuces in Las Cruces

Poor radio choices notwithstanding, I eventually made it through all of Texas in one day and pulled into Las Cruces, New Mexico.

Oh, one last thing about Texas: if you're ever driving near San Antonio, do yourself a favor and stop at the Pig Stand restaurant on the east side of town off I-10. They have this ridiculous bbq pork sandwich...man. Delicious.

Anyway, Las Cruces. Checked in, threw on some clothes, decided I wanted a nice dinner after driving for 1066 miles. I followed the signs to Old Mesilla, which was apparently the old Spanish town before Las Cruces was founded, got out of my car and walked around to find somewhere to eat.

Let me tell you something about Old Mesilla: it's the most charming southwest town you've ever fucking seen. Restaurants, shops and a cathedral line the old town square that actually has an honest-to-god bandstand. Families were there with their kids! People were taking in the evening air, stopping to talk to one another!

I left this idyllic scene to have dinner at what turned out to be probably the best restaurant in the city, the Double Eagle. And let me tell you, it was a great idea. Huge margarita (only $6.50, fuck you LA!), delicious ceviche, and an amazing pork chop. Oh, that pork chop: raspberry jalapeno glaze...who invented that? He deserves a medal. Also a baked potato and vegetables.

After dinner I was too stuffed to consider going back to the hotel, so I walked around the town square and sat down on a bench to read my book. It was great.

Only problem was this little problem I've discovered about myself driving back and forth across the country: try as I might, I can't poop in a hotel. I think it comes from when my family went on trips when I was a kid, I'd try to avoid any loaf-pinching activities while sharing a room with either my parents or sisters. Because how gross would it be to be the one to stink up the entire hotel room?

But somehow this has followed me into adulthood and turned into an honest-to-goodness affliction. So here I am, at the La Quina Inn, trying to make Deuces in Las Cruces.

Radio Lessons in Ethnic Diversity

Like a second rate TV show that's getting bad network notes, I've been on hiatus for a couple of weeks. However, unlike said hypothetical show, I'm back and hotter than ever. Goddamn it, I'm on fire!

I drove back home last week and surprised my parents - they weren't expecting me till later in the week. I consider a prank successful only if someone (A.) ends up facedown in a pile of manure or (B.) cries. Guess which my mom did.

It was an uneventful stay at home with one exception: I left my sweeeeeeet ass Volvo (a guaranteed chick magnet, that) in the sticks and traded up for a sweeeeeeeter Honda. Now, whenever I veer left, I'll be.....TURNING JAPANESE!!! HAHAHAAA LOLLOLLLOLZORS!!1!11!!!!

Ahem.

So I left damn-hell-ass early this morning, drove 15 hours, and ended up in Las Cruces, New Mexico.

Quick question: when the hell did every radio station between the Mississippi River and...well, Las Cruces, decide to stop playing music and/or news? A dictum must have been issued to them stating that by NO MEANS would they play ANYTHING but religious shows. Seriously. This lovely exchange took place near Beaumont, Texas:

"And this morning, we're lucky to have with us the learned Reverend Randy (Something), a man not only strong in his convictions and strong in his intellectual aptitude, but also in his physical strength. He can bench press over 400 lbs."

"Aw, shucks. With an intro like that, you'd think I'm Superman!"

"Well, to us here, you are."

"You know I saw that new Superman movie this weekend; I liked it."

"That's great. You know I grew up with Superman on TV in black and white. Well. Superman was white. He was white, the program was in black and white."

And this is the most popular radio format in America. Fuck me.