My Triumphant Return

Again.

Sorry about that. My mother was in town. I spent the better part of the week tooling around the greater LA area taking in a little culture.

A very little culture.

Ha, ha, I kid. I like to make fun of Los Angeles and its disposable, movie star mores.

Actually, it’s sad, but it takes a relative visiting for me to get off my sorry rear end and make a trip to some of the wonderful art museums that we are privileged enough to have in this magnificent city.

Unfortunately, whenever I go to an art museum, I get an incredible urge to paint. It’s more than that actually. I want to paint enough to have my own exhibit. I’ve got a few ideas for some really provocative shows. Here’s the bad part. I’ll never actually do it. I’m no painter. I don’t want to have a gallery show. But I still get the urge to do it. And when I don’t, I feel like a lazy failure.

I haven’t become an architect, an astronaut, a jazz saxophone player or the king of my own south pacific island yet either.

I suck.

But, as I was saying, I’m back. The TAM Cartoons will be forthcoming. Have no fear, barring illness or some unforeseen employment (essentially the same thing) they should keep coming for the entire summer. I know what a big deal the cartoon is for you. After all, I’ve seen the spectacular numbers from the TAM too website.

O sarcasm.

Well, that’s about it. Nothing really to say today. Silicone breast implants might be making a comeback in this country. Isn’t that exciting? Some people are up in arms about it. Makes sense to me that they would. I mean, when are people going to learn? Silicone is the devil. When is the medical community going to take the risk out of elective surgery? It’s elective! It should be fun! Right? When a woman chooses to have herself cut open and a plastic sack of goop smushed into her boob, it should at least be safe!

Crummy doctors. Quit making everything so damned dangerous.


Fun Fact: My mother is the best house guest a person could have. She’s very low maintenance. She requires only minimal food, bedding and entertainment. The only thing she really ever asks for…is for me to dye her hair for her.

Yes, I dyed mother’s hair.

If that doesn’t sound excruciatingly lame then I don’t know what does. She claims it’s because I do a good job. And that’s true, I do. It’s a curse. I’m a good colorist. I’m not ashamed of that. It doesn’t make me less of a man. But I really don’t like to dye my mom’s hair. Not because I don’t like her or want her to have visible roots or anything, it’s just that whenever I do it, I get this unsettling “Norman Bates-y” feeling.

And I hate taxidermy.