Friday, January 28, 2005


Cartoons are at it again. They’re poisoning our children with every animated cell. The latest outrage visited on an unsuspecting nation of toddlers is called “Postcards from Buster.”

“Postcards from the sexually deranged” is more like it.

See, Buster is a bunny who travels all over the United States taking a video diary of the interesting people he meets. Then someone, perhaps a human, takes the footage and edits it into a half-hour children’s show for PBS.

Yep, you know it’s bad. It’s PBS. The people who brought us Tinky-Winky the purse-carrying Teletubby and that obviously lesbian, Barbara Streisand-looking “teacher” from the “Magic Schoolbus.”

Well, the smut-mongers at Public Television are at it again. Trying to press their evil manifesto of tolerance and understanding. It turns out that Buster took a little trip to Vermont to watch a little girl make cheese. A little girl with LESBIANS for parents!!


Now, I don’t know about you, but the last time I saw a video tape of lesbians, they weren’t culturing milk if you catch my drift.

Well, as it turns out, these lesbians weren’t even doing that. Most of the milk-culturing was being done by their “daughter.” The little cheese-making lesbo-in-training. The full-grown lesbians were just welcoming Buster into their home. But that’s enough isn’t it?

Enough to get newly, Bush-appointed Education Secretary Margaret Spellings’ undies in a bunch.

Seriously, sarcasm aside, this lady’s been in “office” since Monday and she’s already uncovered PBS’s sinister plot to gayify American kids? She’s a champ! She’s insisting that PBS give back its government grant money since it’s obvious to everyone that PBS has a problem fulfilling the hate policy of the Bush Administration.

The story was on Good Morning America today. The two women whose home Buster invaded were on the show to defend their lifestyle to the nation. For much needed conflict, and an opposing viewpoint, the producers at GMA also booked a spokesperson from the “Family First Coalition” or something like that. I don’t remember what the organization’s official name was. (There are a couple of them at the moment. It’s a hot topic to save American families these days.) But it was one of those right-wing conservative organizations dedicated to sheltering children from reality. You know what I’m talking about.

So the women come on the show and they play a clip of the “Sugartime!” episode from the Buster cartoon. “Buster” comes through the front door and says hi to everyone. Then he watches as they make some cheese.Or maple syrup or something. I swear they said cheese on the show today. Who knows?

To be fair to the right wing fascists out there, it’s obvious that I didn’t watch the entire show. I don’t know if they talked about being lesbian or anything.

But the lesbians (officially recognized as married in the state of Vermont) talk about how the whole thing is ridiculous. How they’re taxpayers too so why can’t one tiny portion of one stupid show include them. And what do they say to their three children when the government says that their lifestyle is wrong and deviant?

Then the spokesperson opens her mouth. She’s blond and pretty and bubbly and smiling and she says “the government doesn’t say it’s wrong…the majority of the American people do.”

The lesbians almost lost it at that moment. The bubbly bitch from “Screw Your Family, It’s Mine that I’m Thinking Of First” or wherever, was lucky that she was in DC and not in the studio in New York.

She’s also lucky that she wasn’t in my living room. Not that I would have harmed her in any way, but for crissake, what the hell causes people to act like that? And what causes people to listen to that kind of rhetoric and nod “yup, yup, it’s true, gays are inhuman creatures who shouldn’t have rights?”

Have we learned nothing from history? How do we lend credibility to people who spout this kind of hate? We did it to blacks before the civil rights movement. What makes it different now?

How can these people so casually spread hatred and intolerance? They talk about the American family. They talk about values. But what are they teaching their kids? Be a good Christian. Love and forgive. But only those people who think like we do?

How do you stop bullying with thought like that?

“Billy, why were you beating on that poor little girl in the playground!?”

“She had braces, teacher. She’s the only one of us with crooked teeth! And her mom’s gay!”

“Oh, you’re right, let me help you…”

Anyway, the blond supremist in DC goes on to off-handedly say that these kinds of programs “sexualize our children.” Then some other garbage pukes out of her mouth. The lesbian couple latches on to the other garbage and completely ignores the “sexualizing” argument.

But now I wish that I had seen the show. Apparently, if you listen to this lady, there was hot and heavy lesbo action going on. I can appreciate lesbians on many different levels. I’ll stand by them in their fight for equality, but I’m also strangely compelled to watch them make out.

But I’m pretty sure that the lesbians didn’t make out. They probably didn’t even kiss. So here’s what I’m trying to figure out – how is it sexualizing children? Preschoolers aren’t just tiny adults. They don’t think like we do. They don’t know what sex is. They don’t care either. When they see two women living together, they don’t think about the mechanics of their love life. They don’t know to. Sexuality is the last thing on their minds. Do you think that they’re thinking about heterosexual lovemaking when they look at their own parents?


They just want to watch a girl make cheese. And they want an animated rodent to videotape it.

Fun Fact: Sadly, PBS is pulling the episode like the cowardly chumps they are. God forbid someone label PBS “liberal.”

And personally, gays aside, I’m more disturbed by a giant voyeuristic rabbit.

Oh, yeah, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Gay-Rabielicious!

Wednesday, January 26, 2005

Perhaps, Perhaps, Perhaps

So, there was a horrible train accident in Los Angeles this morning. It’s on every channel right now. I don’t have cable, so that means that I get to watch emergency response personnel swarm a bunch of crashed railroad cars all morning.

It happened this morning right after 6:00. Of course, the news agencies arrived on the scene almost immediately. Of course, they had no idea what exactly had happened or was happening.

Of course, it didn’t stop them from guessing, and reporting it as news.

It turns out that there was an SUV parked on the railroad tracks which was hit by a Union Pacific freight train. The freight train derailed and then was hit by a Metrolink commuter train. That train also derailed and hit another Metrolink commuter train going in the opposite direction.

In all, three trains were involved…and one dumbass SUV.

It also turns out that the asshole SUV driver wasn’t actually in his SUV. He had other places to be evidently. He’s in custody at the moment.

I have to say that I’m a little glad about that. I’m glad that this guy was an obvious jerk-ass. Not just some idiot trying to beat a train. Why? Well, because if he were just some idiot trying to beat a train then we would have to hear about railway crossing safety for the next few months or so.

“A car was hit by a train trying to cross the tracks before the flashing gate dropped. We need to get out there and educate the public about train safety!”

No. We don’t need no education. I think it’s pretty obvious to everyone that crossing the railroad tracks while a train is coming could prove dangerous to your car’s paint job. If not jeopardizing your head’s ability to stay on your shoulders.

Look, if you don’t want your new Escalade to be referred to as “debris” then don’t screw with the goddamned train. If the thought of cadaver dogs poking their noses in your backseat to find your nose puts you off…then don’t screw with the goddamned train.

Los Angeles County Sheriff Lee Baca was on the news in a tizzy. The dude was pissed. A couple of his own men were killed on those trains (so far a total of nine people have been found dead). It was all the guy could do not to jump through the TV screen and personally strangle anyone who’s ever even looked funny at a railroad crossing.

I don’t blame him. There seems to be about a tragic Metro train accident a year around this place. And 90% of them are caused by assholes parking or crossing the railroad tracks.

As I said before, I was on a train that killed a man in Montana. The same thing happened there. Man, I guess I’m just lucky that the train never left the tracks.

But, believe it or not, I’m not here to talk about the horrible train accident. My biggest issue is with the news people. Since 6:00 this morning they’ve been filling my head with dubious information. They think that they’re saving their journalistic integrity by saying every 10 minutes or so, “now none of this is confirmed…” But that’s not what we hear. We hear, “as many as 20 people could have been killed in…”

They just don’t know. But we really like to see train wrecks on television. Train wrecks, traffic pileups, fires… And the news people really like it if we watch their station. So they tread water until the authorities decide to release information. And they poke their cameras into survivors’ faces to get the “real” story. Survivors who have just suffered through a train accident. Survivors whose hearts are racing so fast that they can barely remember their own names, much less the number of people in their car and the exact velocity their train was moving.

But they poke their cameras around anyway until they land on something that may be a clue. A rusty car axle. A license plate. The Watergate tapes (what were they doing there?!)

“We take it back down to the scene and Buck Knowitall…Buck?”

“Hey guys, our cameras have just picked up what appears to be a dead skunk. Now, exactly what this skunk is doing here next to the train tracks is unsure. But we can be sure that it’s dead. Whether the skunk
caused the collision or was just an innocent bystander who tragically lost it’s life, we don’t know…all we know for sure is that it’s a skunk and it’s dead…actually it may be a large rat…no…it’s a skunk…I think…I hope it’s loved ones aren’t watching right now…what a tragedy….back to you in Hollywood…”

Of course, I’m exaggerating – a little. But I get tired of the misinformation. The news people aren’t trying to misinform, but they do a good job of it anyway. Little tiny speculations that add up after a couple hours. Remember the World Trade Center Attack? “20,000 people dead?”

If the news people insist on making up details, why don’t they go ahead and make them interesting.

“Aliens have attacked two commuter trains this morning! Of course this is unconfirmed, but one thing we can maybe be sure of is that over a hundred commuters have been taken aboard the mother ship to be taught how to speak Spanish. No word on how many people on board may have already known how to speak Spanish…back to you in Hollywood…”

But whoever said “no news is good news” has never watched “The Insider” with Pat “toothpick” O’Brien. Yes, I’ve changed subjects, so sue me.

I had the 7:30 episode of the Simpsons on DVD, so I decided to get the latest poop on Hollywood. The other channels were fuzzy. I had to watch the toothpick. I hate Pat O’Brien. He’s an ass. But he’s been in the damned business so long that other people have to put up with him.

The Insider was teasing a story throughout the first twenty minutes of the broadcast, “go inside Johnny Carson’s last will and testament. See how the king of late night will split up his immense estate! Only ‘The Insider’ gives you the real story!”

Wow, Johnny Carson’s will?! His body’s not even cold yet. But who knows, maybe they’ve got a friend who works for Johnny’s lawyer or something. Who knows. I’m into will stuff. I want to know how much money Johnny had. It’s interesting. I enjoy living vicariously through those lucky enough to have been related to rich people.

So I wait. I sit through all the other stories about the Oscar nominations and stuff. I watch Jamie Foxx tickle the ivories and sing.

“Tickle the ivories” = playing the piano. Not something else. It’s not a dirty euphemism. I don’t think that Jamie has a touch so gentle that he makes himself sing.

And why are they ivory?


Anyway, I’m sitting through the entire craptastic show just to see how Johnny’s going to divvy up his cash. And the story comes on.


Some guy talks about how much Johnny’s third wife got in the divorce and then says “I think his kids will get most of it.”

What the hell kind of story is that? That’s not even misinformation. That’s nothing! Hell, I could have gone on TV and freakin’ guessed! I understand that entertainment “news” is fluff journalism. But this wasn’t even that. “Fluff” is what turns a tiny bit of sugar and gelatin into a marshmallow.

Where was the sugar? Where was the gelatin?

Why, as consumers, do we demand to have news instantly? We know that we’re not really getting news! We don’t even really pay attention to the truth anymore. We just want someone to come on TV and say something, anything, about the current to-do.

It’s stupid.

If this is supposed to be the “Information Age” why do we seem to care so little about information?

Fun Fact: My pants could be on fire. Perhaps because they were manufactured at some top secret nuclear technology center. All I know is that the flames seem to be invisible…

and heatless…

back to you in Hollywood.

Tuesday, January 25, 2005

Rescuing the World One Misguided Idiot at a Time

So, I’m watching the news this morning. As I do every morning. And there was stuff about Johnny Carson and the war in Iraq (although, disturbingly, not much about Iraq). There were a lot of stories about the Oscar nominations accompanied by speculation on who will win. Paul Giamatti was robbed. But then there were a couple of stories that really disturbed me.

The first one that I’ll bring up was about a prom dress designer who fashioned and marketed a prom dress so revealing that it would even make J-Lo say, “I’d look like a tramp in that thing!”

So, this dress designer is on the Today show this morning and Katie Couric is reading him the riot act, “how can you market a dress like this to kids blah, blah, blah.”

The slutty dress is this guy’s top seller at the moment. Seems that teens can’t get whory enough come prom night. He’s backpedaling and talking about the 300 other dresses in his line that aren’t guaranteed to get the wearer pregnant before her senior year and all I can think is “hey, Katie, leave the dude alone! If a girl wants to dress like a stripper at closing time, so freaking be it, right?!”

There was also a parent on the show or something to offer rebuttal to the designer, although she was not needed. Katie left any lingering shred of her journalistic integrity on the nightstand this morning. She was dishing it out to this guy pretty good without the angry mommy.

They even took a picture of the dress to the streets to get indignant comments from passersby.

Obviously, they wanted this dude to take the dress off the market. But why the hell should he? I’ve got a bit of advice for parents; now, keep in mind that I have no children so I’m no expert or anything, but if you don’t want your teenaged girl to dress like she’s giving away free handjobs, then don’t buy the gaddamned dress for her!

Why is it the designer’s problem that your teenager has the kind of self esteem that needs to be paid for with her breasts. The guy’s not manufacturing opium for chrissake. Your daughter will do just fine without the dress. And if she goes into DT’s because for one night her punnani’s not greeting the world, then she’s got bigger problems and should probably be removed from school altogether.

The dress isn’t the problem. The dress was never the problem, people. The dress is a symptom. But that’s what we do these days. We run around stomping out brushfires while our houses burn to the ground.

I’ve been really getting fed up with it lately because my damned cigarettes are so freaking expensive. Why do I have to pay so much damned tax? Aren’t cheeseburgers bad for you too? Where’s the 100% cheeseburger tax?

And see, here’s the problem. I’ll bet that for a second you thought, “well, he shouldn’t be smoking in the first place.” But I’m, a big boy now. A big, stupid boy. Why does the government get to put a tax on cigarettes just because they’re not good for me? And don’t say because cigarette smoking contributes to the declining health of the entire nation and therefore puts an unfair burden on hospitals caring for uninsured smokers. If that’s the case, then why can’t my cigarette tax go toward my impending health care costs?

My point is that, I get a bit tired of everyone trying to tell everyone else what to do. It’s perhaps the biggest problem that we face in this country right now. George Bush doesn’t want to allow people to have abortions or let gays marry, but telling gangbangers that they can’t own assault rifles would interfere with their constitutional rights.

Where’s the accountability? It’s always someone else’s fault, isn’t it?

“My daughter’s a slut…I’m going to sue Victoria’s Secret!”

“I’m fat…Damn you McDonalds, you’re going to pay!”

There was another story in the news this morning. One that’s a little more delicate. You can find out more about this story on the Smoking Gun. This lady in Colorado, Sylvia Johnson, admitted to giving alcohol and drugs to underage boys at her home (16 and 17-year-olds) as well as having sexual contact with them because she wanted to be the “cool mom.”

The chick is creepy. She obviously has some issues still swirling around from high school. But these boys came over to her house, got drunk and high and made it with a 40-year-old woman. Now one of them is making the media circuit telling the horrible tale of how he was taken advantage of when he was 17.

Excuse me?

Look, I don’t want to detract anything from this kid’s obvious pain, he can’t eat, he can’t sleep… But come on, man. He wasn’t 12. He was 17. People have fought and died in wars younger than that.

I’m trying not to be too cynical, because stuff like this should be taken seriously. But I can’t believe how much this guy has invested in his quest to dissolve any sense of personal accountability. I’m not saying that he should wander through the rest of his life with horrible guilt and self-hatred…

She didn’t make him go to her house. She didn’t make him drink beer and whisky. She didn’t force meth down his throat. But, because she’s supposed to be the mature adult, everything’s her fault. The lady is obviously not mature. Obviously, she has mental problems. What happened at her house was mostly her fault. But it’s time for teenager’s parents to wake up to the fact that their little angels aren’t three anymore.

If you can’t teach your kid to take responsibility for their actions, they’re not going to learn to do it by themselves.

George Bush still hasn’t.

Oh, look, I got all political right there at the end. What an angry post. I hate teenagers.

Fun Fact: SpongeBob SquarePants supports homos! He’s a homo-lover! And so are the Muppets! Homos, all of them!

The Rev. James Dobson, founder of Focus on the Family, thinks so. He’s bringing his Christian beliefs of love, understanding and forgiveness to the fight against queers. Diversity and tolerance have no role in Christianity! Charity doesn’t extend to fags.

Boycott SpongeBob! He likes gays! He actually thinks that they’re people with feelings! What a stupid little sponge!

So put on your round pants and take a stand against the wholesale killer of the American family…homosexuals! And while we’re at it, let’s stick it to Czechs too. They think Prague is sooooo pretty.

Screw you, Czechs!

And the new Tam Cartoon is up for those of you who aren’t gay or Czech. Intoleriffic!

Monday, January 24, 2005


Who’s the OG? Me, that’s who. At least I was last night.

Now, I don’t want to overstate things. I wasn’t fully pimpin’. You can’t truly be pimpin’ if you’re constantly afraid for your life, can you? Probably not. There’s a certain decorum involved in the thuggin’ lifestyle. Something that I can’t truly grasp. It’s just not in me. I blame my mother for not raising me that way. For instilling in me values like decency and education. If it weren’t for her, I could be slappin’ bitches as I roll my kind of roll.

Instead, I was just a pasty dude in a caddy, driving scared.

I should clarify a few things, I suppose. This past weekend I shot a music video for a musician named Phil Hyland. It was directed by my friend Adam Hodge. A good time. Phil’s song is called “No Disguises.” It’s terminally catchy and hopefully will have no problem making it into a film or on television soon.

Anyway, I’m the lead in the “story” part of the music video. There are a few different types of music videos. The type I was in blends genres. It’s the kind where the band powers out their latest hit from some seedy, broken down building mixed with the interminable love story about a relationship in jeopardy.

I’m in the “relationship in jeopardy” part.

So I got to hang out in a house that I could never afford and pretend like it was mine. Which was nice. I had to do a couple “love” scenes. Which was a little awkward. And I got to eat free food and sample 5 kegs of beer.

Which, I didn’t do because I had to shoot those damned love scenes. You can’t be bloated in a love scene. I’m bloated enough without a belly full of Budweiser and roast beef sandwiches.

But perhaps the best part about the video shoot was the car.

Last night, if you happened to be in downtown Los Angeles at around 7:00, you might have seen me driving thorough the streets in a fire engine red, 1973 convertible Cadillac El Dorado.

Here’s a picture of one. Of course I didn’t take my camera with me last night, so I don’t have a picture of the car I actually drove. But here’s a good idea of what it looked like. Just picture it a bright orangy-red.

Evidently, this model was the Indy pace car in 1973 and apparently they factored this in when they designed the turning radius. I felt like I was driving a semi truck. You can’t really tell from the picture just how enormous this car is. It wouldn’t fit in a parking space. Literally, it took up one and a half designated parallel-parking spots.

But I got used to it after a while. I even began enjoying it. It’s a lot of car. And there’s something cool about driving that much car. Jumping back into the old Echo after the shoot was over made me feel like I was going to take a spin around the go-cart track.

But the thing is, the car was as big as a motor home, but it had less leg room than the Toyota in the back seat. It was surprisingly cramped in there. I don’t know how upwardly mobile gang-bangers do it. No wonder they’re so angry. It’s tough to look cool with your knees right up under your chin.

But let me tell you, this kind of car is not inconspicuous in downtown LA. The homeless guys all loved it. They would shout their “crazy” at me and wave their crazy arms. They were actually quite nice. Some of them would shout “Hollywood! Hollywood! Beverly Hills!” I don’t know exactly what that meant, but they were smiling when they did it, so that’s a good thing.

And lots of people honked at me. They waved. It’s amazing how much more popular I got driving a stupid gigantic car that needs a fresh tank of gas every half-mile.

That was the good attention. But I was a little worried driving downtown in the dark. Especially when I was driving by myself. Nothing says “kill me and steal my car” like a skinny, sweater-wearing white dude in a red convertible Caddy.

I’ll keep the Echo. No one wants to steal that. And I don’t have to plan my trips to the store based on how big the streets are.

Fun Fact: As a tribute to the inimitable Johnny Carson, here is a story from

When Johnny Carson first signed on as host of "The Tonight Show" he was so swamped with interview requests that he compiled a list of ten answers - to which reporters were invited to furnish appropriate questions. The answers?
1. Yes, I did.
2. Not a bit of truth in that rumor.
3. Only twice in my life, both times on Saturday.
4. I can do either, but I prefer the first.
5. No. Kumquats.
6. I can't answer that question.
7. Toads and tarantulas.
8. Turkestan, Denmark, Chile, and the Komandorskie Islands.
9. As often as possible, but I'm not very good at it yet. I need much more practice.
10. It happened to some old friends of mine, and it's a story I'll never forget!

All over the country right now there are public schools filled with kids going “Who the fuck is Johnny Carson?!”

He was the best.

Friday, January 21, 2005

It’s Alive!

The Cartoon, that is. It’s back. Look! At the top of the page!

I got over my laziness in time to draw the toon yesterday. I didn’t want to, but sometimes we all have to do stuff we don’t want to do, right?


Our parents are always telling us that sometimes we have to do stuff we don’t want to. It’s not true. You don’t have to do anything. Don’t want to pay your rent? Don’t. Don’t feel like going to work today? Don’t. Tell your boss and landlord that I said you didn’t have to.

But you can’t sleep here when you’re unemployed and homeless.

Why do I bring all this up? Well, mainly because I’m filling space. Just watching myself hit the computer keyboard. Allowing myself to be lulled by the rhythmic sound of plastic tapping under my fingers. Maybe I’ll play a song? I’ll type to the rhythm of “Jingle Bells.”

Jingle bells jingle bells.

There. That actually got me through “one horse open sleigh.” Not much fun to read, but great fun to type. And O what fun it is to ride in a one horse open sleigh!

Okay, enough of that. I’m talking about responsibility and accountability. The president’s inauguration was yesterday, so it seems like a good time to discuss it.

I don’t have any unique insight into responsibility and accountability. I think you know what it is to be responsible and accountable. It’s something that the younger generation seems to be struggling with. Granted, every new generation seems to be struggling with it. It’s not new to be young and stupid. But there’s a new breed of young and stupid these days. Made ever more stupid by the simple fact that my generation is raising them. My generation, “generation-X,” “the MTV generation…” We have a lot of different names for my peers and I. But it doesn’t change the fact that people’s reluctance to grow up, tiny attention spans, overwhelming sense of entitlement and the constant search for the next bigger and better thing are handicapping us all.

That’s why I don’t have kids.

But this isn’t my point either. I’m talking about the president. Not a member of my generation.

Whatever. I totally lost interest in this post.

The president sucks. He was inaugurated yesterday. Could someone please post a comment and let me know one good thing the man has done to help this country since he’s been elected? And “led us through 9/11” doesn’t count. He had no choice.

Fun Fact: If you were to take every empty can of Diet Pepsi consumed in this country last year and lay them end to end…people might say that you had too much time on your hands.

Take them to the recycling center! You’d be rich!

And remember, the new TAM Cartoon is up! Pepsilicious!

Wednesday, January 19, 2005

Big Fat Liar

That’s me. A big fatty, fat, fat, fatty fatterton liar. Fat! Fat! Fatty…!

Waoh, sorry about that. It’s that self loathing again. Looks like daddy needs his medicine.

Okay, I’m better now. The reason that I’m a big fat liar is because I promised yesterday that I would post the new TAM Cartoon either last night or this morning. It’s not going to happen. There will be no new TAM Cartoon for the beginning of this week. I would love to give you a great reason why. Unfortunately, there isn’t one. I’m just incredibly lazy and creatively bankrupt.


Unfortunately, my creative drought is spreading to this blog post as well. I have nothing to post about. I had an idea, but I forgot what it was. See, that’s why I should write these things down. But carrying a pad of paper around is an awful lot of work. Who needs that kind of burden, right?

Oh, hey, here’s something. The other morning Tanya and I were at the gym. Gyms are inherently creepy places. They haven’t made a gym yet without the creep. I don’t think it’s possible. It’s just that everyone is constantly comparing their bodies to others’. That’s what you do. Maybe not consciously, but it happens to the best of us. If you were in an art class, the same thing would happen. Band, drama…whatever…you know…I’m not gay!

Now, my gym isn’t the creepiest that I’ve been to. It’s not a huge meat market. But there are a few guys who go out of their way to personally obliterate any traces of women’s lib. The biggest offender also happens to be the biggest dude in the gym. The most in-shape I should say. He’s a body builder.

Of course, I can’t get into the heads of the women at the gym so I don’t know what they think of him. But most of them seem to take his misogynist leering in stride. Like I said, he’s the biggest dude there. The other guys look up to him. He’s a complete moron, but the other guys look up to him.

In fact, he’s the same guy who was involved in the fight that I mentioned in a much earlier post. He’s not aggressive or anything as a rule. But you can never tell when roid-rage is going to show its think head.

Also, that guy has really nothing to do with my story. I just think it’s interesting to see the hierarchy of the gym. It’s truly survival of the fittest. There’s a hierarchy any place you go. The gym, the country club, the astrophysics lab.

I’m just going to assume a great deal about those last two.

If fitness is key to respect at the gym, one might think that the personal trainers would be gods among men. Not the case. Personal trainers are helpful, sure. They’re friendly. They’re fit. But there’s something predatory about them. Perhaps it’s because they really want your money. They’re basically solicitors. Universal gym-to-universal gym salesmen.


“Hey pal, you looking to get in some really great shape? No one can do it like I do! I’ll make you a deal, buddy. Just because I like you.”

“Hey, handsome, you looking for a great workout?”

“Please hire me, I’ve got eight illegitimate kids to pay for!”

Joining a gym can be like spending the summer in a bear’s den. It’s only a matter of time before you get your eyes clawed out.

I’m being a bit unfair toward personal trainers. But there are those who become personal trainers to pickup chicks/guys. That’s the kind that accosted Tanya the other morning. There’s been a big push for the trainers to find more clients. I know this because it’s posted on the office wall of the PT’s office. I know that it’s posted on the PT’s office wall because the PT’s office has another glass wall that looks out into the workout area.

Luckily the personal trainers though better of putting up the “screw ‘em for all their worth” poster. But I’m sure that’s just implied.

Anyway, I leave for two seconds to get a drink of water and this guy’s all over Tanya. And in a very creepy way. He even had the creepy inflection going on. “Heeeeey, did you just get done with your…workout?”

Complete with the short pause before “workout,” treating it as if it’s some kind of double-entendre.

I’m not a jealous person. Honestly, it didn’t bother me that he was hitting on Tanya. If she was the type of person to run away with that creep, then we wouldn’t be together in the first place.

No, what bothered me was that Tanya saw the man’s flirting as an accusation of her being fat. Only women can take a guy’s obvious flirting and turn it into an insult. Sure, he was a personal trainer looking to make some cash. But this guy was the type of personal trainer whose idea of a great workout doesn’t involve gym equipment.

Well, maybe some Pilates gear.

Does a sex swing count as Pilates gear?

I’m just asking because I’m going to start working on my taxes soon.

My point is, ladies, that when a smarmy assjerk oozes his slimyness all over you, just slap the bastard and feel great about your hot rockin' bod! Jeeze!

Fun Fact: I’m wearing a green shirt today too. No the same one either, smart ass.

No picture though.

Tuesday, January 18, 2005

The Golden Calf

Not just the nickname for my lower leg. It’s also the false idol made famous in the Old Testament.

And how I see the Golden Globe Awards. Much ado about nothing. Well, they were this last weekend as you know. I didn’t watch them. How’s that for a story, huh? A blog post about an event that I didn’t even witness. I should get a job with USA Today.

The evening started out well enough, I’m sure. The celebrities all walked the red carpet in their formal regalia, I expect. And everyone was all a twitter to see how Tinsletown would turn out on this most festive of occasions…I suppose.

Who would win? Who would…not win. Who really gives a leaping crap? The Hollywood Foreign Press Association does. This is their big night really. It has been for a while now. After all, when you’re a member of the Hollywood Foreign Press, what else do you have to do?

Be foreign?

I have always been baffled about the HFPA. What the hell do they do? Are they from Hollywood? Are they really foreign? And what exactly passes for “press” these days?

I’ve found the answers through an exhaustive search of the HFPA website. You can read all about it there. But I’ll give you the gist of it, in case you’re lazy like me.

WWII was gripping the entire world. Hundreds of thousands of brave soldiers were being slaughtered every week. But perhaps the greatest casualty of this brutal war was the entertainment news. It seems that foreign reporters were having trouble getting the hard-hitting stories back to the multitudes. Sure, the French were being marched on and taken over town by town. But more importantly, Orson Wells was loosing his battle with obesity, getting fatter and fatter and, with the Nazis ravaging Paris, the poor French were woefully unaware.

Enter a group of intrepid entertainment reporters determined to inform the world. They banded together to form a syndicate dedicated to sharing stories and spreading Hollywood hype to the four corners of the globe.

It worked for a while. But soon disbanded. Then started up again. Then split into two groups. Then combined again to form the HFPA in 1955.

And the world has been a better place ever since. Now all of the world, not just America, can be inundated with the painfully inane details of the obscenely rich and famous.

Thank you Hollywood Foreign Press Association. We are eternally grateful. And thank you for having the most obsequious awards show on network television. You make the VIBE award look like the Nobel Prize Competition.

Not that I didn’t agree with some of the choices. I like that lady from Law and Order and Jason Bateman. But really, did half of the cast of Desperate Housewives need to be nominated? That show’s brand friggin new! Give it a while to start sucking at least. Just because you think it’s “cool,” HFPA, doesn’t mean that it’s the best. Now who’s desperate, huh? Desperate to be hip?

I’ll wait for the Oscars if you don’t mind.

At least those are voted on by industry people. Not just gawkers and toadies.

And buying an Oscar costs exponentially more. That must mean something, shouldn’t it? You get what you pay for, right? Right, Teri Hatcher?

Fun Fact: I’m wearing a green shirt today. See:

Told you. Man, I need to shave.

Also, there’s no new TAM Cartoon this morning. I didn’t draw one yesterday. I was too busy living Dr. King’s dream. I hope to have it up maybe later today.

Friday, January 14, 2005

Even Joe Goebbels Liked To Par-Tay!

Well, maybe he didn’t. He was probably too busy spinning Hitler’s propaganda machine. But still, the dude must have had to pull out the good stuff every once in a while. Horrific mass-murder is a tough sell.

I bring this all up, of course, because of Prince Harry’s recent…well to say it was bad judgment would be an understatement. He would have been better off snorting coke off a newborn baby. At least then he would at least look like he liked kids or something.

But no, he had to show up at a costume party dressed like a Nazi. A Nazi decked in a desert uniform, as one news broadcast so helpfully pointed out.

I found that a bit odd actually. Why would it matter to anyone which damned Nazi uniform he was wearing? Most likely there was some WWII geek on the news staff trying to impress an intern. I hope it worked. Now we’ll all have a better chance to astonish while playing Trivial Pursuit’s “New Millennium Edition” in 20 years.

But now, Prince Harry is being urged to go to Auschwitz for the anniversary of the holocaust to gain a little sensitivity. His brother, Prince William is also being reprimanded by his daddy. Seems that HRH Charles is more than a little pissed that William, who was also at the party, didn’t warn Harry about wearing such an incendiary costume.

But siblings are siblings, right? Whether you’re just a couple of teens living in Pasco, Washington or you’re the insanely wealthy unnecessary remnants of an antiquated ruling class simply holding onto your status as a historical novelty, no sibling is going to pass up the chance to make their younger brother look like a moron in public.

I’m sure that William was giggling the whole way there.

“No, Harry, *hehehe* that costume makes you look…*hehehe*…very…cool.”

“You really think so, William?”

“Oh, yeah, *hehehe* cool like a desert fox…It’s a brilliant parody!”

“Aren’t parodies supposed to be funny though?”

“It’s going to be hysterical. Trust me.”

What a jerk William is. I’m sure it went down just like that.

But really, a Nazi uniform is never a good idea for a casual costume. It may seem like a good idea. And for all intents and purposes, a Nazi uniform is a good costume. I mean, it’s very easily recognizable. You’ll never have anyone stop you and ask “what are you supposed to be?” The horrible swastika on your arm is a dead giveaway. They’ll know what you are, for sure. You’ll be able to tell by the uncomfortable and revolted looks on their faces. Partly because they’re all wondering the same thing, where the hell did you get a Nazi uniform?!

No, I don’t that Prince Harry is a Nazi, or even a Nazi sympathizer. He’s just an idiot with no class and a disturbing disregard for the fact that there’s really no practical reason that he should be so damned rich and spoilt.

They need to elect a new prince.

Fun Fact: At the wedding of his former nanny, Prince Harry pretended to swallow a goldfish.

Man, that dude crazy!

Speaking of crazy, the new TAM Cartoon is up! Royally!

Thursday, January 13, 2005

New Look, Same Great Taste


That’s the official flavor of The Anthropomorphic Male. Crappleberry.

So, as you can see, there are big doings going on here at TAM. I was getting tired of the old template so I decided to change it. I hope it’s for the better. I think so. Plus now it marries well with TAM too. Consistency, that’s the ticket, eh?

As you can also see, the usual features are still available on the updated blog here. Let me take you on a quick tour of the new digs:

The TAM Cartoon is still at the top of the page. The links to other people’s blogs are still there on the right. Nothing new there. There’s still the ever neglected link to the cartoon archives there right under those. But there’s something new under that! A link to the previous posts! Now you can reread all the wonderful things I’ve had to say for the past week or so without all that troublesome scrolling. Very useful. A feature that came with the new template.

After the new post-linker thing, there’s an old friend. A lonely link to some original blog music. “2000th Visitor.” Hopefully, there will be more songs in the future. I just need to find a willing host. And finally, some links to other things. A new one to and the other usual suspects. Don’t be afraid of them. Check them out. X-Entertainment is not porn. It’s fun, so have no fear.

Then there are the trackers and things, looking very disorganized under that. In case you ever want to see how many people come to this site and what they’re looking for. Hours of entertainment.

So, there you are.

Now let me blog a little…stand back! I need lots of room.

Last night was good for TV. I’m a big fan of “Lost.” It’s a great show. It’s never predictable. But that’s the brilliance of the premise. These people are trapped on a crazy mysterious island where anything can happen. If the audience starts to figure it out, just throw in something weird, like a polar bear or big unseen monster or Vern Troyer or something.

After Lost was over, I decided to watch an hour of commercials. The only problem was that “Alias” kept interrupting. Now I’ll never know if the little boy who spilled his soup on the floor actually got to enjoy the can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup that the Target Dog brought for him. “Now I ain’t got soup no more. Now my soup is on the floor.”

But since Alias was so damned persistent, I watched it too. But I’ve got a few questions for the people who write that show? What the hell is the deal with parking garages?! The show is packed full of parking garages. It doesn’t matter where they are, there’s always a parking garage attached.

INT: Submarine in the middle of the Atlantic – Drawing Room

SIDNEY downloads the evil DR. SCOLIOSIS’S secret formula from his laptop while giving him a lap dance and explaining to Vaughn via ear-thingies that there may still be hope for their relationship.

But there’s trouble. The Doc has figured it out. Her cover is blown. He pulls a GUN on Sydney and chases her through the sub. Luckily, Sidney finds an unlocked hatch and escapes through it as BULLETS WHIZ past her purple-dyed hair.


INT: Parking Garage – Level 8A (AKA: The Orange Level)

Sydney races through the parked cars…

I mean come on. Last night the main bad guy captured Sydney and the other guy (whose name I don’t know…the one who wasn’t in on the big move to the LA subway place…or the “Black Ops” thing..oh, you know who I mean…). Anyway they’re captured and brought to a warehouse for a little interrogation and brutal slaughter. There are big ass crates all around. Crates and nothing else.

Suddenly, there’s a skirmish as Vaughn and the rest of the subway crew burst in to rescue them. The main baddy escapes down some stairs and into…yep…a parking garage.

I don’t know about you, but I don’t know many warehouses with parking garages attached. And the parking garage was full! I guess evil henchmen haven’t learned the value of vanpooling. In fact, I think some of them brought a couple spare cars.

Just in case something like this happened, I guess. You know there’s one of them saying “who’s the idiot now, Franco?! You said I was a fool to keep three cars here. But, like I told you before, it’s always a good idea to have a car on Orange, Purple and Puce! Hahahahaha!”

But just about every episode of Alias has a parking garage in it. And they’re all nice. Even this “evil” parking garage had a color-coding system so that the bad guys won’t forget where they parked. But when you’re trying to take over the world, sometimes you have to pick up and leave in a hurry. And the last thing you want is for one of your cronies to make you late because he’s walking all over hell’s half acre clicking his car alarm key-chain at every nook and cranny.

And the preview for next week’s show inferred that there may be another Sydney sibling in the mix. But what I want to know is, with Sydney’s mom so busy pumping out baby killing machines, when did she find time for dastardly double-agenting?

Fun Fact: When it was built in 1973 (a good year by the way) Chicago’s O’Hare Airport had the largest parking garage in the world, 9,266 spaces for over 79 acres of parking that sprawled over six levels.

That’s a big garage.

Watch for it in “Alias: The Movie: The Final Truth…for realsies…no foolin’…maybe”

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Jingle All the Way

I’ve been passing the time lately writing jingles. I should say writing and recording jingles. It’s been a good time. So much fun, in fact, that I’m going to cut this post short to go and record some more.

So far, I’ve written and recorded a jingle for and recorded 8 different versions of the same jingle for another web site (I didn’t write the jingle). My ultimate goal is to record at least 12 different versions of the tune. It’s great fun. And I get to try out a number of different musical styles, which, if you’ve ever heard the Christmas album, you’d know that it’s what I’m all about.

Don’t look for the jingle just yet. It’s not up. And neither are the others. But hopefully they will be soon. Otherwise, I’m just spinning my wheels here. Feel free to visit if you’d like. But it’s tragically unmusical. Although there is a link to the short that I did the music for. It’s entitled “That’s Classified.”

Anyway, if you know of anyone who needs a jingle, let me know. I always appreciate pay, by the way.

I’ll try to get someone to host them for me so I can post them here along with some other tunes…like the Christmas album. If anyone has some space they would like to lend me, let me know. It would be very charitable.

And, Julie (winner of the TAMtoo contest) I haven’t forgotten about your song. It’s coming. I swear!

Fun Fact: It’s not raining here anymore.

That fact is a lot more fun if you live in southern California.

And the new TAM Cartoon is up! Jingly!

Monday, January 10, 2005

There’s 100% Chance of Rain, Tornado Advisories and a Winter Storm Warning in Effect for the next 24 Hours…In My Heart, Brad and Jen.

Say it ain’t so! Brad and Jennifer broke up. It’s the big news story of the morning. Well, that, and the incessant rain that’s pounding southern California bringing with it highly destructive floods, mudslides and horrendous mountain snow.

But really, what’s a little death and mayhem compared to the breakup of one of history’s most powerful celebrity monarchies? Nothing, that’s what! Lets’ just take a little time to reflect on what used to be, shall we?

It all started seven years ago. I was still in college then. Life was simpler. “Friends” was still going strong on Thursday night television. But “Beverly Hills 90210” was on its last legs. Brad Pitt was not on Beverly Hills 90210. He didn’t attend my college either.

But somehow I seemed to feel a great connection to Brad Pitt. Like a person may feel with a celebrity. Sure, we didn’t know each other. Sure, I didn’t think about him much. But we had a connection. It was more like a mutual disregard. It was bliss. We were both better people because of it.

As for Jennifer Aniston, well, let’s just say that we had something more. I thought she was cute. I didn’t have that with Brad. But the mutual disregard was still there. She’ll always be my special gal. Or, at least, my “so-so” gal. But a gal nonetheless.

Since that time our relationship has grown into something that can’t be explained. But let me try. Splendiferousness? No, that’s not it. How could it be? They’ve been in the tabloids together for the last seven years. I’ve been inundated with their ups and downs. Oh, I’ve got it, the perfect description of my relationship for Brad and Jen…


It’s our complete lack of regard for each other that brings us closer. They care for me as I care for them. Not one iota.

That’s why this is important. That’s why this is worthy of being national news. Brad and Jennifer is us! They’re bigger than floods and snow and death and destruction. They’re celebrities!

We all are in our own little way.

Brad and Jen's lives are so important to me! Thank you media for bringing me every detail that I was afraid to stalk them for.

Here’s a poem dedicated to the top news stories of this morning entitled “My Heart is Flooded with the Rain and Melting Snow Runoff that is Brad and Jen’s Trip to Splitsville.”

My Heart is Flooded with the Rain and Melting Snow Runoff that is Brad and Jen’s Trip to Splitsville

You were just in the Caribbean
Canoodling for the cameras

Was it real?

Inside you were knee deep in the standing waters of sorrow
With occasional swells that threatened the homes on the beaches of your secret feelings

Then it hit
Didn’t it?
Didn’t it?

A mudslide.

Your love was like owning a home in the Hollywood Hills
The view was spectacular
And it’s monetary worth seemed to only increased with the passing time

But you ignored the neighbors
Didn’t you?
Didn’t you?

They told the truth.

When it rains, it floods
When it’s dry, it catches on fire easier than my stovetop gas burners
Was it worth the risk?

Now you’ve done it
Haven’t you?
Haven’t you?

Now your house lies in a heap at the bottom of Laurel Canyon

You wanted her to be as ripe with babies
As the black clouds over my apartment are with rain
Let’s face it, Brad, You’re not getting any younger

Watch out
Watch out

Angelina Jolie is like the lake-sized puddle at the end of my driveway
Through the murky water you can’t see what kind of ickies live in its moist depths

Wear a raincoat
Wear a raincoat


Fun Fact: A car can hydroplane on a wet road at 30 mph. However, a hydroplane cannot “car” at any speed.

Friday, January 07, 2005

Slow Nudes Day

I mean, slow news day. It’s not a slow nudes day. We’ve got plenty of them around here.

Okay, just one.

No, I’m not really nude. And if I was I wouldn’t tell you anyway. It’s none of your business if I chose to write a blog post while giving some much needed fresh air to my peas and carrot.

Peas and Carrot!

No, I don’t call them my peas and carrot either. I try not to call them anything. Nothing seems right. But I’ve been mulling over the name “Tony Orlando and Dawn: Live from Royal Albert Hall.” Or, “Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass.”

Band names seem to work the best. Especially ones that have an “Albert-like” name in them…

“Fat Albert and the Cosby Kids?”

Ewwww….Let’s stop talking about this.

Fun Fact: Sorry that the post is so short (and disturbing) today. I’m anxious to get some jingle writing done. I’m working on a few things for a friend’s web site. Hopefully it will be unveiled soon and you can hear it all.

Until then, why don’t you check out the new TAM Cartoon, because it’s up, visit the archives or just mill around reading old blog posts. Funkadellic!

Julie, I haven’t forgotten about your song. And Vince, good luck with the lasik today. Don’t let them give you ape eyes!

Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Oliver Stone Eat Your Heart Out

The sly character from Oliver’s dubiously historical film JFK now resides in my kitchen. Thanks to Kevin Sage’s benevolent act of charity, I now have a Magic Bullet.

Not the kind that murdered. The kind that makes tasty treats as seen on TV.

That’s right, I’m the owner of a kitchen device the claims to do “any job in 10 seconds or less.” I’m only going to assume that there are certain conditions on that claim. It can’t possibly do any job in 10 seconds or less. I know that. I’m not completely stupid. After all, it hasn’t even been able to put itself away yet.

But I can’t wait to give it a real spin. I used it last night in a somewhat disappointing baptism into the futile world of home-juicing.

(a quick note: originally I was going to use the term “self-juicing,” meaning that you “do-it-yourself.” Luckily, I thought better of it. I realized that my more…youthful-spirited…readers may twist it into something dirty. I’m only sharing it with you now because I can’t get that “term” out of my head. And the visuals of “self-juicing” with the help of powerful, spinning cutting blades is very unsettling. Besides, they’re two very different worlds. I figured that out long ago…sans Magic Bullet.)

Yes the Magic Bullet also juices. Well, it more creams. Mashes? Smushes? I was amazed at how little juice came from three apples. About a cup. Worthless. I don’t think that I’ll be juicing much in the future. Besides, there’s a much easier way to get juice from an apple. Buy it at the store.

So, no more juicing for me. It’s frustrating. It takes too long. It’s too much work. And it’s very messy.

Now, I’ve done it haven’t I? You’re all using the term “juicing” as a euphemism, aren’t you? Well quit it. It’s not. Many people like to juice. It’s a way of life to some. They wake up in the morning and juice. They juice before they go to bed. It helps them sleep and it’s a very healthy way to start the day. Hell, I’ll bet that some people even juice at work. And if they don’t, I’ll bet they’re thinking about juicing.

Oh, stop it.

But the Magic Bullet is a fine product. They have the best infomercial. If you live in LA you can catch it on Saturday mornings. That’s where I’ve seen it. In fact, I’ve even watched it a couple times. You know, when Fillmore is a re-run.

The MB infomercial has a storyline. A group of people are filing into a couple’s kitchen after what looks to have been one hell of a wild night. They’re all tired and hung over. And they have characters. One lady is a frumpy housefrau with a long granny ash hanging from her fake cigarette. There’s another guy who is a finicky eater – which is strange because he’s the heaviest guest at the table. There are some others, all very diverse.

So diverse in fact that it make you wonder what the hell the hosts were thinking when they made the invite list. Why would they invite all these weird people to their home for a weekend of drunken debauchery?

Well, it doesn’t take long before the hosts begin to show their true colors.

It’s a scam! They’re just selling kitchen appliances! They’re like those Amway cultists. Taking advantage of their friends to make a buck.

Of course, the commercial doesn’t say all this, and the guests – somehow – never seem to catch on, but we all know the truth.

But how could the guests not see it? Do they find nothing strange about the fact that their hosts have six Magic Bullets sitting on the counter right in front of them? Don’t they thinks it’s just a little odd that at breakfast, their hosts keep sharing recipes with them that can only be made in the Magic Bullet? I mean, it goes beyond just being happy with an appliance. You get the idea from this host couple that after the sucker guests finally stumble home with appliances under their arms, they’re going to have a group “self-juicing” session with the old MB. And then they’re going to sacrifice some kind of barnyard animal to it.

They love their Magic Bullet.

And why not, really?! I love the Magic Bullet too. That’s right, I’m a “Bullet Buddy.” I’m proud of it.

Thank you Kevin for having the guts to order something that I would be far to embarrassed to order myself. Thank you MB people for having a buy-one-get-one-free deal. And thank you Kevin again for first thinking of Tanya and I when you were trying to think of people who would want something that most people would laugh at.

I’m not laughing, Kevin. The MB rocks.

I need to get my hands on a live chicken or a small pig. Definitely living though. The MB’s very specific about the offerings.

Fun Fact: Well, it ain’t been smooth sailing for little Ashlee Simpson, has it? She just got booed at the Orange Bowl. Sure, she sucked, but did she really deserve to get booed? I mean, Kelly Clarkson was there too, and if you’ve ever heard Kelly sing live, you know that she got off easy in the booing department.

Yeah, Ashlee deserved it! She sucked!

But really, Ashlee’s got a real problem. This is what happens when you don’t pay your dues. You know it’s bad when Ashlee Simpson makes Kelly Clarkson look like she “earned it.”

How does it feel Ashlee? To be booed by the people who introduced the world to the “Sound Machine?”

Tuesday, January 04, 2005

Keeping the World Safe for Rock and/or Roll

That’s me, the guardian of cool. Sentinel of the ultra-hip. Look-out guy for...neat things.

My friend Adam is putting me in a music video. I’ve never been in a music video before. It should be a good time. I guess he’s going for “geeky-cool” with less emphasis on the “cool.”

Maybe he’s not going for cool at all.

You know, I’ve never thought about that. Maybe he’s just looking for some nerdy dude. In order to make the musician look that much more “rockin-er.”

Hey, maybe I don’t want to do this thing at all! Jerk. Make a fool of me, will he?! Well, we’ll see who’s laughing after I slash his tires…

I’ll be right back.

Okay, I’m back. I got halfway to the 405 and realized that I may be jumping to conclusions…or, maybe, I never actually left my apartment and only lied to you just now. I guess you’ll never know, will you? I bet you could take a pretty good guess.

Alright, things are getting a bit punchy around here right now. I’m a little frazzled lately. The rain does something to Southern Californians. It turns them into mindless jerks. Not me, of course. Everybody else. No one has even the remotest idea of how to drive in these conditions. And the “conditions” are relentless. The rain just never stops down here lately. Mother Nature’s making up for the last 100 years of fantastic weather.

And the gym is over-crowded. Thank god that Bally did that New Year’s push. You used to actually get to work out there every once in a while. That’s not what Bally is all about. Membership gyms aren’t about working out. They’re about the promise of working out. A fitness potential. If people actually used their memberships to their fullest, the gyms would lose money. See, the trick is to get people to pay for a service that they eventually get tired of utilizing so that they’re ultimately, in essence, paying for nothing. That’s why they have you sign a three-year contract. Who’s going to workout steadily for the next three years?! Mr. Universe maybe. Jeeze.

However, not all of the “resolutioners” have figured out the Bally way yet. It seems that they feel as if they should actually use their memberships at the moment. Hopefully they’ll see the light. Sooner rather than later. My weak little heart can’t take the aggravation. And probably never will be able to since I can’t get on any of the freaking machines to strengthen it!

I haven’t quite figured out the Bally connection to the incessant rain problem, but that doesn’t mean that they’re not conspiring against me.

Anyway, that’s my grief. Compounded, I’m sure, by the fact that at the moment I have no job and am thoroughly bored. Bored, bored, bored.

I probably shouldn’t have said that. The second that someone mentions that they’re bored, every idiot in the world comes up with some “brilliant” idea to stifle that boredom. I should have learned earlier in life. My mother had an uncanny knack for finding mindless chores to fill my time.

You know, come to think of it, Tanya’s pretty good at it too.


Maybe it’s just women. Tanya’s usual is “mop the floors.” Mop the floors. Really. Come on now. “Clean your room” was my mother’s favorite. That and “do the dishes.” But the dishes I can understand. After all, there’s a pressing need to do the dishes. Especially if you plan on eating something sometime in the near future. Which, invariably, I am.

But mop the floors? I need for there to be some kind of urgent reason to perform a chore. When I was a kid, no reason was sufficient, but now I’m an adult and have learned that there’s a reason to take the garbage out. Look what happened to Susan Sara Cynthia Stout. But unless the bathroom floor is covered with blood or some kind of floor-eating acid, it’s just not that vital, you know?

Besides, with all the friggin’ rain, the floors are just going to get dirty again. And all the hair on the bathroom floor is cheaper than carpeting. And my god is it soft.

Well, most of it.

Fun Fact: The new TAM Cartoon is up! It’s brand new! It’s not very well drawn, but it’s new. Plainly, in the week that I took off, I forgot how to draw.

Damned rain.

Monday, January 03, 2005

Hoppy New Year!

“Hoppy” because of the New Year’s Bunny! Go little New Year’s Bunny! Hop down that New Year’s trail!

Okay, so I’ve used that stupid joke before. So, sue me. I’m a bit rusty.

As you know, I’ve been neglecting this blog for a little while now. A week or something. Just long enough for the normal person to have built up a great list of exciting stories to share.

I’m not the normal person. I don’t really have any exciting stories to share. Tanya’s parents came to visit. We played cards and ate. We went to Julie’s to hang out for New Year’s and ate. Tanya and I took another expensive – and apartment crowding – trip to IKEA…and ate.

Actually, the trip to IKEA was a little bit exciting. It always is. Tanya accused me of being Euro-Trash because I said that Swedish desserts were better than American desserts. But it’s true, you know. American desserts are too sweet. And just because I’ve never actually been to Sweden is no reason that I can’t consider myself an expert on Swedish deserts. I’ve been to IKEA damnit! I know Swedish!

I like IKEA food. It’s good. Like their furniture. It’s simple yet exotic. Like their furniture. It’s cheap. Like their furniture. It’s made of real wood. Unlike their furniture.

It’s somehow symbiotic to have a restaurant in a furniture store. When I was a kid and first went to the IKEA outside Pittsburgh, I thought it was really weird to have a restaurant in a furniture store. But now, I won’t even set foot in a furniture store without one.

As you’ve deduced, my furniture store options are a bit limited. Especially because Tanya says that stealing salt shakers from the local Burger King doesn’t count as “furniture shopping.”

But the damned booths are just too heavy. Not to mention the fact that they clash with the dining room table. In fact, there’s really nothing at a fast food restaurant that you would want to put in your house. The color scheme is always too horrible. People used to decorate their house in fast food restaurant colors in the 80s and look what that led to.

The 90s.

Speaking of New Year’s resolutions. I didn’t make any this year. I didn’t make any last year. I never make them anymore. I made them when I was a kid but I didn’t understand them then. “This year I’m going to make a million dollars” isn’t really a resolution, is it? Needless to say, none of them came to pass. As I grew older, they only got more disappointing. I’m numb to them now.

It’s funny that I’ve become disenfranchised with New Year’s resolutions. I know I’m not the only one out there who is. “Stupid New Year’s resolutions!” As if they were some kind of unfulfilled Christmas wish or something. I guess we all get sick of feeling like failures. It’s always easier to blame the resolution. But it’s not the resolution’s fault that I could never lose weight after January 1st. I know that now. Besides, a New Year’s resolution isn’t new, is it? It’s something that you’ve been thinking about doing for a while usually. And the real problem with them is that once their broken – since they’re a New Year’s resolution – you feel like a loser for the rest of the year. And it usually takes until the next December 31st to finally feel that little breath of hope again.

Screw you, New Year’s resolutions! You still owe me a brand new big-boy bike!

Fun Fact: The number one New Year’s resolution is to lose weight. Is that really surprising to anyone? Of course, it helps that New Year’s is right after the ThanksChristmasGiving feeding orgy. I wonder what the most popular New Year’s resolution would be if the New Year followed Easter? I bet that it would involve a big advertising push for LIPITOR.

And I’m going to start actually drawing the TAM Cartoon again this week! Sorry about last week. I was being lazy. Yow!