Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Memorial Day

I know it was officially yesterday, but The Anthropomorphic Male is sponsoring another Memorial Day…today!

Remember the thrill and exaltation you experienced last Friday when the new TAM Cartoon was posted? You remember that?

Good, hold on to that memory because there’s no new cartoon today. I took yesterday off. Sure, I know, I take everyday off. But yesterday I took…uh…more…off. I’m a lazy jerk.

In other news, I got the part I auditioned for. I’m playing Petruchio in an original Shakespeare spinner “The Shrew Variations.” I’m excited about that. Tanya got in it also. The fantastic monologue that I posted last week also netted me a primo, bitchin’ spot in the children’s theatre production.

I’m the “Farmer!”

I’ve always wanted to play a farmer and do fun farmer things. Like pretend to plow something or act like I let people spend the night after their cars break down only if they promise not to have sex with any of my three impossibly sexy and promiscuous daughters. You know…farmer stuff.

I hope my costume comes with a single stalk of wheat that I can clench firmly in my teeth.

No, really, I mean it. They won’t let me smoke cigarettes on stage. That wheat may be the only thing that keeps me from busting some irritating actor heads.

Fun Fact: I’m off to write some more music today. I’ve got a lot to get done before Thursday.

I lieu of a cartoon, here is an interesting cartoon fact: The phone number for the Jetsons is VENUS-1234.

They ask that you only call if it’s an emergency. Bookings should be done through their agent.

Friday, May 27, 2005

Check This Out!

Hey, hey, the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Lazytastic!

That is all.


Fun Fact: I'm working on a song for Michael Madsen today. Although he doesn't know it yet. That's why I can't post.

I'm not crazy.

It's a long story.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

I Want to be Bo Bice When I Grow Up

Partly because that means that I'd be a few years younger.

But mostly it’s because he got to perform with Lynyrd Skynyrd. The ultimate southern rock band. A band so kick-ass that they can usurp the power of over-used vowels in order to let a sometime-vowel, “Y,” finally get the spotlight it so richly deserves.

The letter “Y” is like the “tomato” of the alphabet. Is it a fruit? Is it a vegetable? Depends on how you use it.

But poor disenfranchised “Y” is punished for its versatility. A renaissance letter forever doomed to be yoked with the dubious prefix “and sometimes…”

Lynyrd Skynyrd knew this and came to the rescue. And Bo Bice loved them for it so much that they let him perform with them on national television!

Bo Bice got to sing “Swyyt Hymy Ylybymy” with freking Lynyrd Skynyrd!

That’s enough to make any person feel cool…forever.

Fun Fact: Another short post today. I have to get to work on the cartoon. But I will leave you with a little something “special.”

I had another set of callbacks last night. For a couple of shows. For one of them, the children’s theatre show (ugghh…kids), I was presented with a piece of paper and two envelopes. I was instructed to pick a slip of paper from each envelope, one containing a character and another containing a trait.

Okay, sure, whatever. Sometimes theatre auditions can be a bit…weird.

My character was a “Cow” and my trait was “Clown.”


I was to take the sheet of paper, give my character a name and write a brief first-person paragraph describing my typical day as a “Clown Cow.”

So I wrote a little thing in a couple minutes, thinking that I was going to improvise something based on my paragraph.

I was wrong, my paragraph was my stinking monologue. I had to perform my dumb monologue for the director (who happens to be a friend of mine which makes things worse if you ask me).

Today, you’re in luck. I’m going to share the monologue I wrote with you. Think of it not so much as entertainment (that should be easy), but rather a resource. If you ever need a monologue about being a “Clown Cow” you can use this one for free! Lucky you. Don’t forget to make cow noises. And remember, this is a children’s theatre thing. I wouldn’t use it for those RSC auditions. You’ve been warned for legal reasons.

This monologue has not been edited or revised, so you can get the entire feel for my personal humiliation.


There is nothing better than making people laugh…except for chewing cud. I love cud. Plain cud. Broiled cud. Fillet of cud or cud au-gratin. Many great jokes can come from cud also. Like, “why did the cud cross the road?” “Because it was chewed out by the cow!” Ha! Isn’t that funny? It’s the opening of my clown act. Then I spray a little seltzer, cram myself into a tiny car, dive off a 100 foot platform into an 8 ounce glass of water and end with a little audience participation. My favorite thing to ask the audience is “who left the door open?! Were you born in a barn?!” Which of course they all were…being farm animals and all. And that’s pretty much my fantastically exciting day! As my clown cow business cards say…it’s udderly entertaining!

At least that’s what my day would be like if I actually had the courage to do any of those things. Crowds scare me. After all, my name is Clarence! It’s a boy’s name! I’m a COW!

Besides, it’s hard to do clowny magic tricks when you have hooves for hands.

...Aaaannnnnd scene.

Fantastic! I thought that I’d add a little fear and bitterness there at the end…for the kids.

Wednesday, May 25, 2005

We’ll Always Have Paris

And that’s so depressing.

I’m not talking about the City of Lights. I’m talking about the bane of humanity…Paris Hilton. Her new Carl’s Jr. Hamburger ad is running now here in LA. And I have a bone to pick.

Wait, that’s probably not the best choice of words when one’s talking about Paris Hilton. After all, that’s part of the problem. Too many idiots are picking their bones to Paris Hilton. And now you don’t have to try to find some time when there’s no one near the computer to log onto the internet and do it. You can just watch primetime television and wait for her commercial.

Here’s the beef. I now find myself having some kind of identity crisis. When Paris comes on the screen and wiggles her vagina at me it doesn’t make me want lunch, it makes me desperate not to loose my lunch.

What’s wrong with me? I used to be all man, baby.

And now my masculine little world is crashing down around me. What kind of man am I? My adversity to the whole ad campaign makes me question my testosterone levels. I used to be pretty damned sure that I wasn’t gay. But now I find myself being turned off by the very thing that so many perfectly virile men crave. I need to spend some time at one of those “man camps,” the kind where men get together to pretend like their Native Americans, kill things and objectify chicks. Maybe then I’d find my testicles.

Maybe then I’d love hamburgers again.

As for Paris Hilton…damn you! You’ve made me question my love for America’s favorite food! You’ve made me feel inferior. Get off my television!

Come on, I can’t be the only heterosexual guy in this world who is absolutely disgusted by Paris Hilton, can I? And I’m no prude. I don’t care if Carl’s Junior wants to advertise their Spicy BBQ Six Dollar Burger with hardcore porn. But please, make it porn that I can sit through without wanting to put a wolverine in my underwear just to put my little man out of his little misery.

Granted, when I see Miss Hilton, Six Dollars IS the first thing to come to mind, but it has very little to do with hamburgers.

Paris does have her fans though. She has to. Would someone please explain to me why she is sexy? Please?! I really want to know. I’m being serious.

Is it her scrawny, stick body?

Is it her absolutely vapid personality?

Is it her rehearsed lack of respect for anything remotely important to people?

Is it her utter lack of any discernable talent for anything other than giving ass-jerk, opportunist ex-s BJs?

Is it her monumentally homely rat face?

Drop me a comment and let me know. You don’t even have to use your name if you don’t want to. I wouldn’t admit to being a Paris Hilton fan. Then again, I’m not a fan so…

Let’s get to the bottom of this. My entire faith in myself as a male human being is at stake here. I have to know if Paris Hilton is actually a horribly spoilt Six Dollar whore – or if I’m just insanely out of touch with what’s “hot.”



Fun Fact: I can’t believe that actually used the term “BJ.” I had a flashback to junior high when I wrote that.

He, he, he…BJ.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005

Will You or Nill You?

I had my callback yesterday. Everything seemed to go well. I’m keeping my fingers crossed, I’ve always wanted to play Petruchio. ‘Cause, really, I’m everything a director could want in a Petruchio. What with being so strapping and intimidating and all.

But theatre callbacks are notoriously long. Tanya and I were there until almost 11. This means that we missed the gym this morning. Which means that I’ll get really fat. Which means that at the next callback I’ll be cut at around 9.

So it’ll all work out in the end. I won’t miss too much TV.

Yeah, I shouldn’t complain. At the end it was down to me and another guy for the lead. That’s not bad. I’ll take that. Of course, I’d rather have the part but…

It had been a while since I’d been at a theatre audition. I’ve forgotten how much I miss them. It’s a lot of sitting around, and I smoked almost an entire pack of cigarettes (to keep my voice in tip-top shape), but I got to read quite a bit. You don’t get that at a film audition.

Film auditions are a joke. You make yourself look presentable (unless you’re an LA actor, then you simply roll out of bed) and drive 45 minutes to some god forsaken place just to stand around with a bunch of other scared weirdoes waiting for your 30 seconds in front of the casting director with a cheap-ass video camera that, no matter how good the light is, could make Brad Pitt look like that guy who played Balki on Perfect Strangers.

It’s not an ideal set-up…ever. In film, ones with a budget anyway, the real audition doesn’t begin until around the third callback. By that time, you’ve had a grand total of a minute and a half with the casting director and he or she is probably the front-runner to become the godparent of your next child. You are bestest buddies and BFFs. You’ve made it past the first couple of auditions which means that you must be as talented as your resume would have everyone believe. Right? Because we’ve never seen a bad actor in a movie before. Right?

That’s the real joke here. Actors spend a lot of time trying to impress casting directors. After all, they are the first line of defense in your battle for a career. But what the hell is a casting director anyway? Sometimes, they’re former directors or agents or managers or actors. But isn’t everyone? Most of the time, they’re just someone’s assistant who worked their way up to become their own boss.

And they talk a lot about their guts. “My gut told me that he/she was the best choice for this role because of all that charisma just oozing through the camera and into my pants…”

Yeah…gut. Lower. Lower. Just a little lower. There you go! That’s where the decision originated. Somewhere around where ones legs come together in the middle.

Let’s face it. There are a few really great casting directors out there. Maybe 5 or 6. They do the casting for everything. Mostly because they’ve built up a repore with a lot of celebrities and can bring even the biggest names to the smallest project if pitched the right way. But the rest of them are little fish trying to make the next big discovery. “I cast so-and-so-rich-now-bigshot-actor in his first film! It was a small student film blah blah blah…”

Sure, casting directors don’t actually make any final decisions, but they are still an important ally or obstacle for an auditioning actor. They can determine who a director gets to see. And most of time they are pretty assertive. They like to be part of the creative process. They like to pretend that their sole job isn’t to look at a group of people and make “gut” decisions.

Most of the casting directors working now (on small projects that I would be more than happy to be cast in, I’m no snob) are hired simply because it’s easier for a producer/director to pay someone to set up and run an audition than do it themselves. They need someone to print out forms and create a sign-in sheet, collect headshots and resumes, deal with idiot actors who can’t remember what time the audition is even though they’ve already called ten times before to ask the same question, book a space, keep everyone happy and make sure things run smooth as silk.

Which makes most casting directors glorified party planners.

I know, I’m an actor, I shouldn’t bag on casting directors. I may need to be BFFs with one someday. But any casting director worth anything knows that there are imposters out there, ruining their good name. They won’t be offended by what I’ve just said. They’re totally cool. In fact I was thinking of asking them to be godparent to my future children.

But, truly, how can anyone respect a process that involves first impressions gleaned from a photograph and 30 second of chit-chat? Is that anyway to make a movie? No wonder there are mistakes made. No wonder I have to sit through movie trailers with Lindsay Lohan in them. Take some time people! Make an informed decision.

But Hollywood doesn’t take it’s time. That’s why George Lucas spends more money than any of us will ever see in our lives to make an iconic blockbuster but won’t take an extra 10 minutes to write a better script.

Really, would you randomly pick people off the street who looked “competent” to help you build your dream home?

That’s why last night’s auditions were such a breath of fresh air. That’s why I love the theatre. It’s just you, a bunch of other scared weirdoes, the director and the occasional stage manager. And it takes its time (a lot of time).

It may be snooty and elitist at times, but at least it gives a crap.

Fun Fact: I’m hoping to become so successful that I never have to audition for another thing ever again. Like every other actor, I just want to get calls and offers.

And I’ll know that I’m a big-shot when I start getting into films that even the director doesn’t want me in. When I start hearing buzz around town like, “Steven didn’t even want him, but the producers said that if he didn’t cast him they were going to pull all funding…”

Ah, every actors dream: To transcend talent and enter the realm of insufferable box-office draw.

And the latest TAM Cartoon is up! Castmetastic!

Monday, May 23, 2005

I Just Have One Question This Morning

If I love film noir. If I like comic books. If I like Robert Rodriguez. If I like half-naked chicks.

Why didn’t I like “Sin City” more?

Fun Fact: This has been a short post.

I’ve got some stuff to get done today. I’ve got a cartoon to draw and I have a callback to go to tonight.

Yes, I got called back for the play that I auditioned for this weekend. I auditioned for two actually. My other callback is on Wednesday. I’m just trying to figure out how to record LOST and American Idol.

My “career” has no respect for my TV watching schedule.

Also, they just played a song by trumpeter and vocalist Jack Sheldon on KKJZ. You should go out right this second and buy a Jack Sheldon album! He’s fantastic. And I know that you know who he is even if you don’t know that you do. He sang “I’m Just a Bill” on Schoolhouse Rock.

Hell, while you’re out purchasing that Jack Sheldon record, why not pick one up by the most innovative and distinctive talent in jazz, Bob Dorough. Also a Schoolhouse Rock Alum. The Musical director in fact.

What are you waiting for? Get to the record store! Tell the TAM sent you. They may look at you like you’ve got a chicken on your head, but tell them anyway. It’ll be fun.

Friday, May 20, 2005

A Blogger’s Lament

Why can’t anything exciting happen around here?

I’ll I’m asking is for one really interesting thing to occur. Something with the potential for hilarious commentary. I’m not talking about the war in Iraq. It’s depressing. I’m not talking about the Michael Jackson trial. That’s a morose circus. Like watching triple amputees try to put together a high wire act. Sure, it’s entertaining for a little while but eventually dread sets in when you realize that no matter what the outcome, it’s not going to make anyone whole.

I can’t talk about the picture of Saddam Hussein in his skivvies that has been plastered on the cover of the SUN. I’ve already vented my spleen at Newsweek. Besides, it’s not like Saddam is a God or anything. He’s just a dude who happened to be the supreme dictator of his own country. Just a guy who must now fold his own pants. Who has to wash his own clothes. It makes me feel a little sorry for him. And I don’t want to feel sorry for Saddam Hussein. He was a dick. And still is I’ll bet. After all he has to wash and fold his own clothes now.

I don’t want to talk about Star Wars. I haven’t seen it. And it’ll probably be while before I do. I have to let the crowds die down. And by then, it will be old news. I can’t stand going to the movie theatres anymore. They’re awful. But I also don’t want to patronize the jerks selling pirated copies of the film just so I can watch it in the privacy of my own home. I’m a firm believer in intellectual property. I’m also a firm believer in oceanfront property. Probably because I own neither.

All I’m asking for is something really great to happen. Is that too much to ask? Something where no one gets killed or kidnapped or kidnapped an then killed. But the news isn’t helping. Nothing but dead people, or dead people’s mourning families. Missing children or the people who took them. And then there’s the rest of the “news.” Fluff stories about makeovers or fashions or fulfilling some cancer-surviving housewife’s lifelong dream of drinking Arnold Palmers with Arnold Palmer while getting a pedicure on the back of a monster truck being driven by a rock star.

Where is the irony? Where is the blatant stupidity? I’m sure I could find it if I looked hard enough. But who has the time? It’s hard to sift through all of the stupid crap to find something innocently idiotic. I have a life you know.

Unfortunately, that too is excruciatingly boring half the time. And the other half of the time, I’m just too lazy to write about it.

So why am I complaining? Maybe it’s because I’m bored? Maybe it’s because I’m a malcontent? Maybe it’s because I’m treading water here.

Mostly it’s because it’s what bloggers do. And I am a blogger. A whiny, whiny blogger with nothing to say but nothing.

And you’re the weirdo that read every word of it.

Fun Fact: I’m auditioning for a play on Saturday. I haven’t auditioned for a play in quite a while. Wish me luck!

Come on…wish me luck. I need it. I crave it. Tell me to “break a leg.” Make it insanely funny and tell me to break both. Please?

I’m sorry I called you a weirdo.

And the latest TAM cartoon is up! Boredsational!


Wednesday, May 18, 2005

International (Con) Man of Mystery

That’s my vote anyway.

If you don’t know what I’m talking about…well it’s because I’m being intentionally vague. It’s for dramatic effect. I know it’s annoying, but sometimes you have to something completely trite and bothersome just to grab a little attention.

Like wash up on the British shore wearing a soaking-wet suit with no tags, say absolutely nothing and play the piano like a dream.

That’s just what happened a short time ago. A starkly blonde man was found wandering a beach near the city of Kent, England wearing a sea-dampened dark suit with the labels cut out and looking a little scared. When he was questioned about his identity, he offered no response. He hasn’t spoken a word since.

But perhaps the greatest mystery is his incredible talent. Sure, the dude can’t talk, but who needs to talk or even be remotely sane when you play piano like David Helfgott? It worked for David anyway.

The Brits are baffled. The mystery man has been dubbed “The Piano Man,” presumably because “Blonde Weirdo in a Dark Suit with no Labels who can Really Tinkle those Ivories” was a bit of a mouthful. Plus it doesn’t get Billy Joel songs stuck in your head.

Some suspect that “TPM” might be a foreign national seeking asylum, others believe that he might be suffering from a mental condition such as amnesia. I’m sure that even others, more inclined to soap-operatic speculation, believe that he was tossed into the English Channel by his evil identical twin who has hated him ever since he learned that they had different fathers. But everyone seems to be concerned. The outpouring of support has been pretty overwhelming.

And that’s always the first sign that this isn’t going to end well.

My hypothesis? The Piano Man is suffering from a severe case of “hey, pay attention to me…and don’t forget to pick up my latest album in the foyer after the show!”

I think he’s faking it. But that may just be the cynic in me.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m somewhat of a romantic. I would love nothing more than for this guy to be on the level. A man who has suffered some kind of trauma so severe that he’s become disoriented and deluded, still retaining his god given gift of virtuosity so that, in his weakened condition, he can become the latest freak to hit the big-time, singing for handouts of human sympathy and being exploited by the masses, satiating their desperate need to pity something.

That would be sweet. Like something out of a fairy tale.

But I doubt that it’s true.

The British authorities have put out an APB for any information on his real identity. They have scoured the concert halls of the world trying to see if anyone’s missing a pianist.

Yes, hello, this is Scotland Yard calling. We were just wondering if you, by any chance, if you happened to be missing a…well…a pianist.

Hold on, Officer, let me check…Umm…Oh my…Oh hey, wait a minute, we are missing a pianist. I just set him down here a minute ago! [muffled] Hey Janice, have you seen our pianist?! He was just here on my desk!...What?...[into phone] Okay, we found him. Yeah, he’s here. Sorry to get everybody all excited. Have a nice day, officer and good luck. [muffled] Damnit Janice! I told you not to clean off my desk! I have everything just where I…*click*

So far they haven’t gotten too many leads. But some of the more promising ones have been from people who claim that he's actually a French street musician.

That’s my bet. He’s a highly talented street musician tired of playing on the damned street.

And it makes sense why he’s not telling people who he really is. It could be embarssing.

He’s French.

Fun Fact: K-Jazz has been playing a lot of Gypsy music this morning. There is nothing better than Gypsy music if you ask me. It’s really great. I’m being serious. Django Reinhardt was one of the greatest musicians to ever live. So I’ve been very pleased to be serenaded with Gypsy music for the last few minutes.

But I seem to be missing some silverware.

Oh, I kid the Gypsies. Why shouldn’t I? Everyone else has for the last 400 years.

Tuesday, May 17, 2005

Let’s All Say Something Stupid

Newsweek and Vicente Fox. Could you both be bigger morons? Come on, try.

At least El Presidente didn’t get anyone killed with his remarks. At least not yet anyway. And at least his stupid comment about Mexicans taking jobs that not even “blacks” would take was spoken extemporaneously. He didn’t have time to hide any deep lingering racism that he may harbor.

Oh, I don’t think that Vicente Fox is racist. Don’t get me wrong. Not spitefully bigoted anyway. He just put his “corra” in his “boca.” That’s all. Not that I don’t think he shouldn't go out of his way to be very nice to the African-American population from now on. He should.

But what the hell is Newsweek’s excuse? Could a publication be more moronic? I mean besides “O” magazine, whose name brings to mind Orgasms more than it does Oprah.

Orgasms and Oprah…


But no one mixed up in this whole Newsweek debacle has come out of it without saying or doing something incredibly asinine.

In case you haven’t heard (and there’s really no reason why you haven’t, it’s everywhere) Newsweek published a short article that accused interrogators at the Guantanamo Bay Naval Prison of desecrating the Islamic holy book, the Quran (or Koran), in order to break prisoners down and get them to spill whatever beans they may have rolling around in their terrorist heads.

Since the article was published it has spawned wrath and violent protests that have left at least 15 people dead.

Well, no shit.

The Koran is taken very seriously by the Islamic people. It’s almost like it’s their bible or something. To say to the world that American military personnel have little or no respect for it is just idiotic. I mean, come on, even the most brain-dead staffer at Newsweek had to be thinking “you know guys, maybe this isn’t such a good idea.”

But the controversy over the article is the best kind of story. There doesn’t seem to be a single brain cell among anyone on any side.

The people at Newsweek are dumb-asses. Obviously. But so are the people rioting over the whole thing. I can understand their anger over having their religion being treated so shoddily. But let’s be a little honest here. Can any of the people wreaking havoc really say with a straight face that they’ve never given short-shrift to anyone else’s beliefs?

I doubt it.

Newsweek has since printed a retraction, as if that will do any good. Anyone so hot to riot doesn’t want to hear that the allegations were false. They’re just not interested. Once that hot-button is pressed, there’s no…um…un-pressing…it.

But what difference does it make to Muslims if some dumb Christians act like jerks? After all, followers of Muhammad, you’ll be spending eternity in Paradise, right? Let it go. Thumb your noses at the unenlightened in the afterlife. The best revenge is good afterlife living, I say.

But perhaps the biggest idiots in this entire fiasco are the good men and women at the State Department. They’re really pissed. They’ve accused Newsweek of doing irreparable damage to the U.S.'s “good” reputation overseas. Damn you Newsweek! The United States was doing so well before you came along and ruined everything!

That State Department guy was a hoot. Carl Reiner couldn’t have written a better punchline.

But my favorite quote came from a Newsweek spokesperson who was shocked by the response the article received. “Evidently there was a lot of tinder lying around and our story was the match.”

What?! Unrest in the Middle East? You’re kidding me! Next thing you know, up will be down, right will be left and Paris Hilton will be an actress!


Fun Fact: “Up” may well someday be “down.” And the “left” is moving dangerously close to the “right.” But Paris Hilton will never be an actress.

Oh, and the latest TAM Cartoon is up, in case you haven’t noticed. Stuptacious!

Monday, May 16, 2005

And the Award for Best Award Giver Goes to…

Thank god for Oprah Winfrey. Finally, there is someone out there to recognize the accomplishments of Maya Angelou. Without Oprah and her “legends” ball/awards event, people like Maya and Diana Ross may have gone unnoticed forever.

First, I must say that I like Oprah. Why not? There’s nothing particularly wrong with her. She’s a fine person. I’m a little creeped out with how much time she spends with Quincy Jones. I mean that guy is like her lap dog now. Always one step behind her, peeking over her shoulder at red carpet events. But if Stedman can deal with it, who am I to criticize?

And Quincy did write the theme songs for “Ironsides” and “Sanford and Son.” That alone should entitle him to a little play, eh?

But Oprah’s recent foray into “African-American women legend honoring” is getting on my nerves. Just who is Oprah trying to honor anyway?


Oprah claims that she’s throwing the party thing as a “thank you” to the women who influenced her life. Because, presumably, telling them individually, in person wouldn’t be as self-serving.

Plus, we might not know who Oprah thinks is “cool.” And what a tragedy that would be. Like the book club. If they’re good enough for Oprah, then, damnit, they’re good enough for me.

Oprah’s “People Club.”

We get it Oprah. You’re rich and you have impressive friends. It’s nice and everything that you have put together a gala to recognize the accomplishments of your talented buddies. But come on. Let’s be honest about this whole thing. If the event was truly about Maya’s great works then I would be seeing a lot less Oprah. Right?

A word of advice, Oprah (‘cause I know Oprah needs my advice); keep your dumb face out of the spotlight for once. There actually are people out there who deserve it more every once in a while.

Except for Diana Ross. She’s just gotten weird.

And how many damned awards for being a genius “black woman” does Maya Angelou need? She could probably build a house on each coast with all the ones she’s gotten thus far. We know she’s black already. She knows it too. We know she’s made quite a name for herself for being black and a woman. I’ll bet she’s aware of that also.

But what people may not know is that when Maya Angelou is not swamped with having darker skin and a vagina, in her spare time she likes to write poetry.

If Oprah wanted to really surprise Maya, she should give her kudos for that.

I know, you’re thinking to yourself, "why the hell is TAM talking about all this?" But the answer should really be self-explanatory:

I have absolutely nothing else to write about today. Lucky you. Thanks for reading…sucker.

Fun Fact: If you spend too much time thinking about your fingers and toes, eventually you’ll realize how unattractive and creepy they would probably be to a visiting space alien who had never seen such a thing.

Friday, May 13, 2005

I’m Ready for My Close-up Officer


The other day a man driving a stolen car lead police on a 40-minute chase through the south bay area. After hitting a guardrail and almost running down some pedestrians, he was cornered in a parking lot. He jumped out of his ill-gotten car with a pistol…and was summarily shot by the cops.

And it was all on television. Wonderful television.

But you probably already know this. Unless you’ve been living in some kind of media-free bliss, you’ve seen the story a few times on the national news. They keep showing video of the incident, stopping it right before the man is killed.

I didn’t get to see the original broadcast. I missed the panic that must have been going on over there at the local ABC affiliate. I haven’t gotten to see the suspect receive his fatal injuries. I’ve only been able to see him take the first, non-lethal slug.

And I’m so much better adjusted for it too. Thank god I don’t have to see this man lose his life on live TV. It’s much better for my fragile psyche to just see him get shot the first time and simply be told that seconds after they paused the tape he was killed.

The thing that really gets me is that the media outlets will show footage of the man lying dead on the blacktop. After the fatal bullet struck. I guess they figure we could all just fool ourselves and pretend that he’s sleeping.

Let’s all sing the sleepy-criminal a lullaby.

Lullaby and good night
Go to sleep little car thief
Tomorrow’s another day
At least it is for me…

Now people are up in arms about the whole thing. NBC made it a point to call attention to the fact that their local affiliate has a policy against broadcasting live police chases for just this reason. Well, la-dee-da. Good on ya’ NBC. Taking the high road like that.

ABC’s Good Morning America today was doing some hard soul-searching. “Are televised high-speed chases simply gratuitous violence? That was the question they posed. And a good question it is too.

Are these chases and shoot-outs gratuitous violence? Here’s the answer.


Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie chasing each other through a house, shooting and spouting off one-liners is gratuitous. Oh sure. It’s film. It’s art. Art is at its very nature both gratuitous and exorbitantly necessary. It makes us think. I can dig it. Sure. Films are supposed to reach deep into our brains and make us ponder things that normally we wouldn’t.

“If I were a secret assassin and I was suppose to kill my wife who is also a secret assassin assigned to snuff me out, what would I do?!”

Indeed, an important question. And if I ever find myself involved in the exciting life of secret assassins, I’ll be very grateful that “Mr. and Mrs. Smith” was there to prepare me.

But, let’s face it. That’s not going to happen.

But I might get a hankerin’ to steal me a car someday. It’s much more likely. I might also think that bringing a handgun along for the ride sounds like a fantastic idea. Who knows? And I might feel like driving my stolen car recklessly through the streets without a care for the well-being of innocent bystanders. Hey, you can never tell.

At least, I might have done that. Before. Before I saw a guy who tried the same exact thing get gunned down in a parking lot. Now I’m having second thoughts, you know. That dude who got killed on television isn’t getting up. He’s not going out drinking with the cops who shot him at the wrap party. He’s not going back to his house in West LA and checking the voice-mail for a hopeful message from his agent about the next gig.

He’s dead.

And he’s going to stay dead. Unless a meteor passes too close to the earth’s atmosphere and causes all beings that were once dead to rise from the grave in a never-ending quest for human flesh.

But that’s probably not going to happen either. Although it has a greater probability than me ever becoming a secret assassin. Nobody wants to hire an assassin who jumps and screams every time his own gun goes off.

My point is that movies have ruined us. In movies, leading cops on a freeway chase has a kind of sexy allure. In real life, if you do that, you’ll find yourself alone on the ground at a fast-food restaurant, leaking O-positive into the parking lot.

It’s not sexy. It’s deadly. It’s real.

If people are mature enough to see violence on television and in films and think it’s cool, then they should be mature enough to see the real thing.

In fact, in my opinion, they should be made to see the real thing. It might help a little.

That is if it doesn’t just totally fuck them up.

Fun Fact: Justin Timberlake had surgery to remove nodules from his throat. Which is what happens when you go out partying and drinking and then try to sing at a recording session for hours on end.

Sorry, I was channeling my old voice coach there for a second.

Anyway, Justin is being forced by his doctors to take it easy on his vocal chords. So he’s going to have to lip-synch for his upcoming concerts.

Therefore, fans should be happy to know that his concert performance won’t change one iota.

And, the latest TAM Cartoon is up! WhogivesacrapaboutJustintastic!

Thursday, May 12, 2005

Happiness, Thy Name is DSL

Finally! I’ve come out of the Stone Age and gotten DSL. I’m a relic from the past. I may not know much about your modern times. Your “SUVs” may frighten me. And, in an embarrassing case of mistaken identity, I might have tried to make love to a soda machine. But I know that DSL kicks ass all over dial-up.

I don’t have to tell you that high-speed internet access has many advantages. Now I don’t have to fight with my stereo just to listen to KKJZ. I can get my jazz streaming over the internet! And those soda-machine porn sites load in seconds!

If you don’t already have DSL, I suggest that you get it. SBC Yahoo! has a great deal right now. That’s the only reason I could convince Tanya that we absolutely needed it. Couldn't live without it.

I don’t mean to go on an on about DSL and soda machines. I know that DSL is old news. But I’m old news too. So we’re perfect for each other.

As for soda machines; if they didn’t want me to make googlie-eyes at them, they shouldn’t have made them so damned sexy!

Other than that, I don’t have really anything to say.

So I won’t say anything. I have a TAM Cartoon to draw. And I have to take some flowers to the soda machine at the corner gas station. It’s the least I could do after…

Fun Fact: The average American eats 35,000 cookies in their lifetime.

I’m way ahead of the curve.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005

Now a Shirtless Man Throws Out $100 Bills as He Grinds his Genitals Into a Bikini-Clad Ghetto Rat…Again…

They’re making music videos for blind people. It sounds like a bad Saturday Night Live Sketch. But it’s real. My only question is: when they broadcast the Braille will the dots damage my TV screen?

I tease the sightless. But, really, music legend Stevie Wonder is teaming up with rapper Busta Rhymes to bring music videos to the blind.

That’s right. Stevie is trying to spread the love a little. He’s asked Busta to record a secondary track for his latest video “So What [sic] the Fuss?” (Presumably to draw attention away from the poor grammar?)

Stevie, and rightly so, believes that blind people have been neglected for far too long when it comes to music videos. Sure, they can listen to the music, but what’s the point of listening to anything if you can’t see the video?

This could lead to a whole new audience for music videos. I’m sure that the entire R&B world is clamoring to jump on the bandwagon. The sky’s the limit when it comes to roping in that all important “music video-watching blind person” demographic.

And with Busta lending his throaty voice to the description track, I’m certain that sightless people won’t be disappointed.

Besides, now Stevie can actually enjoy his own music videos. And they are fantastic. In fact, if given the choice, I’ll bet most people would opt to watch Stevie’s videos than listen to his legendary, soulful and timeless music.

I picture him listening to the commentary and self-consciously saying, “They’re doing what in the background? Isn’t that a little…suggestive?”

But that probably won’t happen. For one, I certain that Stevie has 100% control over his business and secondly, he’s a class act and his videos aren’t overly…graphic.

But not everyone has the moral fortitude of Stevie Wonder. What I would really like to hear is the commentary for other videos. What would Usher’s description track be like?

Okay, now Usher is standing alone in the middle of a room with his shirt off. Now it’s raining on him with his shirt off. Now he’s making out with a woman…yeah, right, like that’s ever happened…sorry, back to the video…So, now he has his shirt off and he’s looking forlorn. Now he’s in the park…he’s put his shirt back on! No, I’m kidding…it’s off…

And you would have to hire another rapper to do the commentary on a rap video. They’re the only ones possibly capable of describing the events without giggling uncontrollably.

MC Thuggin’ is rolling down the strip wid his homies. Now he’s throwing money out da car and not watchin’ the road. He’s checkin’ the fine ladies on the street. They roll. They roll. They roll some more. Okay, now he’s pullin’ over to put his discourse down on one finy hiny. And…wait…is dat MaShequa?! Oh no! No MC don’t get near dat mess, yo! I ain’t playin’! You’ll wake up in da quarantine wing of da hospital wit your “little pimp” in a hazmat suit! He ain’t listening to me! …Okay, coz, it’s your funeral. Hope you ain’t allergic to antibiotics.

And a Lindsay Lohan video would be a cinch. And since she’s like so classy and whatnot, she could have her butler do it for her.

And now Ms. Lohan is writhing against a wall with her arms over her head. Oh dear. That’s not wholesome. Alright, at the present moment she’s lip-synching and pouting all at once. Which takes a lot of skill, really. You try to be sluttish and sing at the same time. Not so easy is it? Now the little miss is tugging at her jeans. They seem to be cutting off her circulation. I told to maid not to dry them! Oh, my, there go her arms over her head again. I insinuated the other day that I needed a raise, but this is…

Sorry, the butler got creepy there at the end.

Call me strange, but I think music videos for blind people are odd. Then again, I’m not blind. If I was, I might appreciate them more. And who am I to disparage blind people from wanting anything that would make their “situation” more enjoyable?

And I suspect that when blind people get a full description of what most music videos are like, they’ll be glad they can’t see them.

Fun Fact: The latest TAM Cartoon is up! Brailleicious! It’s hilarious!

My wonderful blind readers will just have to take my word for it.

Monday, May 09, 2005

Take That, Jerks!

Man, am I ever a conniving super villain.

As you are already annoyingly aware, my neighbors are what the French call Les Dicks-Supreme. I have been thinking of a way to get back at them for their midnight parties, horrible musicianship and proclivity for parking on their own yard. They just get on my last nerve. And I hate them.

But now I, utilizing my supreme intellect and deviously clever Machiavellian genius, have birthed retribution into the world so innovative, so vile – so grotesquely deadly – that even stout hearted women will run screaming into the night, grown men will turn into puddles of weepy terror and tiny babies will wish they had been born blind…

I wrote – a SONG!!!

That’s right. I wrote a song making fun of my pre-pubescent 30-something neighbors. How’s that for evil, eh?!

Okay, it’s not all that evil. But it’s incredibly passive-aggressive. And what do you expect? I asked for help on this and no one but my own father offered any advice. I was all alone on this one. I was lost. I needed you and you left me in the cold. So I wrote a song. That’s all I could think to do. I’m no evil genius okay? And you were no help.

Thanks for nothing, jerk. Your song will probably be coming shortly. (Unless you’re Julie, winner of the “have a song written for you by TAM” competition. In that case, you’ll just have to be patient.)

So yes, I wrote a song. But it’s an evil song. I’m partially taking my dad’s advice (the only one who offered any because everyone else is a big dumb…man, I’m getting mad all over again. I must move past this…). He suggested that I blast Glenn Miller music at them. But the last thing I need is for the ghost of Glenn Miller to haunt me because I used his music for the purposes of revenge without express written consent.

Or, worse, I might inadvertently introduce the rectum-chapeaux that live next door to an exciting new type of music. And they’re already slaughtering the hell out of the blues.

I know they’re slaughtering it because I can hear it screaming in tortured pain at 2:00 in the morning.

So now I have an altogether new song to blast back at them if I so choose. I don’t know if I will. I’m pretty non-confrontational. But I could. And that’s what matters.

Why don’t you take a listen? It’s an Mp3. I must warn those of you listening in from work, use your headphones. I can’t write a song about my dick-head neighbors without using some profanity. It’s not harsh, but you might not want the blue-haired lady in the cubicle next door to think you’re some kind of “dirty word listener.”

© 2005. All rights belong to me, The Anthropomorphic Male.

The Neighbor Song


Fun Fact: Yesterday, I got to listen to one of my purple-headed neighb’s talk all about the dream he had last night.

He dreamt that he was eating a bird.

It freaked him out. So I decided to look up some analysis of his dream.

‘Cause I’m just one fantastic neighbor. A neighbor who doesn’t park in other people’s parking spots, no matter how “quick” I’m going to be. A neighbor who puts his bags of trash in the actual dumpster. A neighbor who doesn’t leave mattresses in the driveway…

But enough about what a great human being I am. Let’s get to Blind Scrotus Lemon’s bluesy bad bird dream.

You know, I had a dream that I was eating a bird just the other day. But I soon realized that I wasn’t dreaming. I was at a fabulous Kentucky Derby party and I was gnawing on some KFC. Creepy, no?

Anyway, I have consulted the dream analysis web sites. They were a wealth of information. And I’ve cracked the analysis. I’m like Joseph.

Your dream can mean only one thing, jerk neighbor guy:

“Your band sucks big donkey penises.”

You’re welcome.

And a special thanks to Kevin for hosting my fabulous tune!

Friday, May 06, 2005

Help! I Can’t Think for Myself

No, I’m not quoting George Bush (*rimshot*). I mean me. I can’t think for myself.

I’m pretty good at it usually. I haven’t given into crappy pop trends since I went on a popularizing bender in the sixth grade and bought both Duran Duran’s “Arena” and “Seven and the Ragged Tiger” cassettes in the same day.

I’m typically a pretty free thinker. I liked swing music before it became popular. I still like it now that it’s “like sooooo over. Gag me with a spoon” See, I even make my sarcastic quotes sound like a valley girl. And even girls who actually live in the valley don’t talk like that anymore. But I still think it’s cool. Why? Because it is? No. Because I’m trying to assert my strong sense of self, that’s why.

But now that’s all different. I can’t have an original thought anymore. It’s only a matter of time before I start admiring Paris Hilton for her “tenacity.”

It probably has something to do with the fact that I didn’t get much sleep last night. My jerk-ass neighbors were up to their old tricks. But this time they put an interesting new spin of things. Instead of starting their lewdly obnoxious behavior at around 10:30pm, they waited until about 2:00am.

Yeah, so I actually got to get some sleep before they woke me up and made me make Tanya call the cops on them. I lost just enough sleep that I didn't go to the gym this morning.

I hate them. I hate them “like sooo much. Gag me with a spoon.” Their insufferability is about to make me homicidal. And when I wake up in the morning to see their lawn and front porch littered with beer cans, I honestly want to throw a rock through their front window. And if that rock happens to hit one of them on its way through, then so be it. And if that rock happens not to be a rock but rather a sword, I wouldn’t complain. And if that sword just happens to be made out of highly a combustible and toxic substance that explodes on impact and wipes out the entire race of ass-hatted jerk fuckers that won’t let me sleep…that would be sweet.

Here’s my problem: I can think of many, many unlawful ways to get back at these dicks. But what I need is a really good way to get back at them that won’t land me on death row. Something cruel. Something fitting. Something that annoys the hell out of them.

I need your help. Do you know of anything I can do? They’re driving me crazy. We’ve called the cops about 7 times. By the time the patrol car rolls around, 4 hours later, the beer and pot have kicked in and the retards have tucked themselves into their racecar beds for the night.

I hate calling the cops. It makes me feel old.

So I just need one solid idea; an idea that will make these crap-monkeys want to move to another state.

Help me before I kill…again.

Fun Fact: I’ve looked at the usual “revenge/prank” websites. Useless.

My anger has blinded me to any really creative revenge tactics. All I can think of as I’m lying in bed, listening to some guy yell “whooohooooo!” once a minute, every minute for some inexplicable reason is, “Eggs! Eggs! I need to get my hands on like 50 dozen eggs!”

Gag me with a spoon indeed.

And, the latest TAM Cartoon is up. Incredibly edible!

Thursday, May 05, 2005

I Screwed Paula Abdul…Buy My Insanely Crappy Album

I wasn’t going to post today. I have a cartoon to draw. But I wanted to say a thing or two about the “Fallen Idol” “expose” on Primetime Live last night. I will try to keep the sarcastic “quotes” to a minimum.

Actually, I wanted to ask a few questions.

Does Corey Clark really believe that he’s fooled America into thinking that his motives for dragging Paula Abdul through the mud are pure?

But at least Corey is (lamely) trying to make excuses. What does John Quiñones have to say for himself? ( I smell Pulitzer John!)

How does Corey’s mother accuse Paula Abdul of corrupting her “poor” little 22-year-old “boy” with a straight face?

Who gives a ripe rat’s rectum about all this?

And who can I sue for making me endure the torture that is Corey Clark’s “music?” God that crap was awful. And they played it incessantly, with reckless disregard for the safety of the viewing audience. Shame on you ABC!

The worst thing about this entire mess is that Corey, his dad and his mumsie-wumsie were on Good Morning America today. Corey wanted to set the record straight again. He said that he didn’t want people to get the wrong idea about his statements on the show last night.

As it turns out, he wasn’t complaining about his treatment at the hands of temptress Paula…

He was “thanking her!” You know, for all that she “did” for him. If you catch my drift.

Next time send flowers, Romeo.

Fun Fact: Paula doesn’t deserve this. Prescription drugs. That was supposed to be her Achilles heel. She was supposed to end up getting fired from the show for a dependence on pain killers. She was supposed to wind up in a gutter on Sunset Boulevard, friendless and dirty, wreaking of her own urine and Demerol.

I wasn’t supposed to go down like this.

Damn you, Corey Clark, for being perhaps the biggest ingrate ever to darken the Earth. Damn you. You Screwed Paula all right. And my hopes for her bleak future.

Wednesday, May 04, 2005

Shoot First, Ask Questions Later

After what I’m sure was a bitter battle with their conscience, ABC has decided to air their American Idol expose “Fallen Idol” on Primetime Live tonight.

The network has been threatened with lawsuits by Paula Abdul if the show airs because of former contestant and expose “architect” Corey Clark’s claims against her. Season two reject and sister-beater Corey claims that he received “private coaching” from Paula and, more incendiary, that he and Abdul had a secret affair.

It’s all so sordid and derivative. But ABC is powering through, citing their network news duty to proliferate gossipy tripe.

Corey claims that Paula “seduced him,” that they had “wild, drunken sex” and that she gave him an unfair advantage in the competition by coaching him on ways to endear himself to the audience.

I suspect it’s the complete and total failure of that last thing that incited Corey’s odium.

For one, Corey doesn’t seem like the type of guy that any woman would have to seduce. He seems more the type that’s put in the cabinet cocked and loaded if you know what I mean.

Secondly, the inclusion of the “drunken” claim raises a red flag for me. Is that supposed to prove a privileged insight? “We had sex, and Paula was…drunk!” It proves nothing to me. It’s a little like saying “We had sex, and Paula was…a washed up pop princess!”

Pardon my French, but…no doy!

“Backstage at American Idol, Paula was…drunk!” “We went to the supermarket to buy vodka and Paula was…drunk!”

These aren’t claims by Corey as far as I know. I was just adding my own for good measure. Because Paula…is drunk!

And I would be too if I had to deal with people like Corey Clark. I hated that little crap-ass when he was on the show. I hate him now. I wish he would shut the hell up. Of course, I’m going to watch the expose, but I’m not going to enjoy it.

Paula dismisses Corey’s assertions by stating that she’s not going to “dignify” his claims with a response. She also points out that Corey has a history of lying and a criminal record. You can’t trust a criminal, can you Paula? Dirty criminals. Hit and run criminals!

…oh, wait.

Pots and Kettles, Ms. Abdul. Pots and Kettles.

The FOX network is upset by the special. They claim that there are ulterior motives behind Clarks tattling. Like promotion for an upcoming book.


And here I thought that Corey was just trying to benevolently protect us all from drunken sex with Paula Abdul. Say it ain’t so, Corey.

ABC, being the upstanding journalists that they are, isn’t claiming that any of these allegations are true. They’re just giving an outlet for Corey to display his humongous bowl full of sour grapes. And perhaps throw a few in for themselves because FOX is handing them their asses on Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

But what does that mean? How is this journalism? Well, it isn’t. ABC claims that they’re doing their duty by raising important question about the integrity of America’s number one show.

Raising questions? 1) Is ABC run by Satan? 2) Does Satan even exist? 3) Does he take kickbacks from show producers to ensure prime timeslots? 4) Is Charlie Gibson a member of the Illuminati? 5) Are Tom Cruise and Katie Holms really getting serious? 6) Is Usher gay?

Those are questions. I felt it was my duty to raise them.

I remember when journalism tried to answer questions.

As far as ruining the integrity of American Idol? It’s a TV show. It stars Paula Abdul. It’s on FOX. How much damned integrity can it have?

I love American Idol. I’ll admit it. And so does the target audience for tonight’s expose. That’s why it’s on TV. But if this expose makes you change your mind about American Idol, then A) You’re incredibly naïve and B) You are taking the show way too seriously.

Just because it has the word “Idol” in the title doesn’t make it a deity. It’s not to be worshipped. It’s entertainment.

But if next season’s winner turns out to be a golden calf, I’ll start to worry.

Fun Fact: Here are the answers to the questions I posed earlier:

1) No, but their parent company is.
2) Yes. He tells me to write things…bad things.
3) He wouldn’t be a good network exec if he didn’t.
4) Hell no! Charlie Gibson is a class act and I’m sorry for even insinuating it. Damn you Satan!
5) Yeah, sure. Tom’s way into chicks! He lova da’ ladies! And if you believe that, I’ll tell you another one. Usher’s straight!
6) Um…no doy.

Tuesday, May 03, 2005

O The Humanity!

There will be no post today. Poor sap. Instead, you can sit back and relax with the latest TAM Cartoon because it’s up!

If that’s not enough for you, why not take a trip to the other fabulous websites linked to from this fabulous website. Why not take the Simpsons Archive Trivia Quiz? Or read James Lilek’s Daily Bleat before moving on to the Institute of Official Cheer (and while you’re there order a copy of The Gallery of Regrettable Food). Or head to Snopes and debunk some urban myths? X-Entertainment is always good for reconnecting you to your lost 80s childhood. Read some scripts, look up the resume of your favorite celebrity, buy some fine collectibles or hire an actor or web designer.

The possibilities are endless. As my grandmother used to say, if you’re bored, you’re boring.

Fun Fact: The TAM Cartoon archives is the best place to see all of your favorite past TAM cartoons. In fact, it’s the only place. Go there now and relive the history!

Monday, May 02, 2005

Wrecking the Curve

A letter to Rachel and Keith:

Congratulations on your wedding on Saturday. I didn’t get to talk to you much at the reception. I’m okay with that. You seemed a bit…preoccupied. But hey whatever, it’s not like I drove all the way from Culver City to Malibu just to attend or anything.

But this isn’t about me. Although, it was the most “interactive” wedding I’ve been to. When I walked in the door I was accosted by the “guestbook” girl who insisted that I write down my favorite memory of you two. That was a lot of pressure.

Do I write something funny? Do I get all serious? Do I even have a favorite memory? And do I let you know what it is, inadvertently setting an unattainable imaginary bar for all future memories?

“Oh, sure, this is fun…we’ll remember it always…but is it as great as the memory you wrote in our wedding guestbook? Huh? Is it?! Are we doing something wrong? Are we becoming lame?!

I chose to write something funny. Actually, it was at Tanya’s request. She said, “No, write something funny, they’ll think it’s hilarious!” So I did. And I signed both mine and Tanya’s names. It was funny. At least I think it was. I had a few glasses of Merlot by that time. I hope it’s not offensive. It was about the time when my paycheck from Keith came in the mail. I was pretty proud of it until later when I saw Tanya surreptitiously filling out a memory of her own. She left my name off of that one. I don’t know what she wrote on her own. I suspect that it was an apology for what I wrote. Her lack of faith makes me think that you should just skip my entry in the book. Crumple it up and throw it away in fact. Pretend like I wasn’t even there.

But I was really impressed when you asked for my mojo. I’ve never attended a wedding with a “shell ceremony.” Did you make that up? I thought it was sweet when you gave us all seashells from the New Zealand beach where Keith proposed.

I won’t lie, I was a little sad when you asked for the shell back. I had a nice one. I named it Shell-y Duvall. Look for it. It’s brown and white and smells like Merlot.

Like I said, I was a little disappointed until I realized what it was that you were doing. You weren’t just trying to be mean. You wanted our best wishes…in shell form. You actually wanted my hoodoo. But I have to warn you, when I was rubbing my “best wishes for your future” into Shell-y, I was a bit on the cold side. When I get too cold, I loose focus.

So somewhere down the line, as the hoodoo shell jar is leaking everyone’s “best wishes for the future” into your living room, if you get an uncanny urge for an extra helping of bite-sized quiches and puff pastry asparagus thingies, sorry, that was me.

It had been hours since I ate lunch.

Finally, the crowning touch on the “audience participation” wedding was the bugs. Butterflies. I don’t like bugs. So when I heard that we were all going to be releasing creepy flying insects at the end of the ceremony, I got a little nervous. When I heard that the butterflies had once been frozen and then thawed for the special occasion I got even more nervous.

Handling bugs is one thing. But everybody knows that you never handle things that have been brought back from the dead. Butterfly or not, it has seen the other side. And, I’ve seen “Pet Cemetery,” I’m more than certain that it was hungry for human flesh.

But I held (tightly) to my necromanced bug. For you. And when it came time to let it go, I set the box on the ground and kicked it until the little guy flew far away.

It was perhaps the most romantic thing I have ever done.

So, thank you Rachel and Keith for inviting me to your fantastic Malibu wedding at the beach. I haven’t had to do that much work at a ceremony since I videotaped my sister’s wedding. But it was well worth it. As I said, it was near perfect (my perfect wedding involves no driving and no actual ceremony. Nothing but finger foods, a host bar and a reception dinner). But you’ve set the bar way too high. When I have that stroke, loose most of my brain function and start planning my own wedding, I’m going to have to outdo you by going the other way.

I’m going to have the crappiest wedding anyone’s ever seen! B.Y.O. Mad Dog 20/20 and Vienna Sausages!

Fun Fact: The average cost of a wedding is $20,000 to $25,000. About 75 percent of first-time brides will receive a diamond engagement ring. The average ring costs $2,000. The favorite honeymoon spot is Hawaii. An average honeymoon can cost around $3,000.

If you add all those numbers together, you’ll have the number of times people have asked me “why don’t you and Tanya get married.”

If you add those numbers up again, you’ll have the answer.