Lunch time dance

We've been talking about a lot about death

This much is true. I have been on the phone for about 27 hours straight. Death here, death there, what's that you say, death? Yes, death.

I am not sure how it all started, but our beloved dog, whom for the sake of her soul I will call Trudy, was hit by a truck a couple of days ago and died. Now, everyone loved Trudy, that is, everyone who came to visit over the past few years, stayed a few days and left. They would call from the airport, Trudy is just so sweet. Or Trudy slept with us last night, it was so cute. Trudy this, trudy that, and really, I loved Trudy, but honestly, Trudy was a dog.

A dog dammit. People buy clothes for their dogs. Special foods. They take them on planes and to bars. Haircuts, surgery and the right to marry in New York. It is insanity. As word spread that Trudy had died, my family began a cascade of never ending phone calls.

My cousin Ricky who lives in a trailer in rural Alabama called on Monday morning. She was drunk, but she said she saw my "Postin' on Facebook, bout Trudy and shit, and I wanna say I'm sorry, and shit."

Later my brother called, said how he and his wife loved when Trudy had slept on the bed with them last time they stayed with us. Yes, I said, she loved to sleep with strangers. Speaking of people who enjoy sleeping with strangers, I no sooner hung up the phone and the phone rang again, my nephew Sandifer. All lispy, I imagined he was prancing around his silly little apartment, holding some obnoxiously small dog in one hand and a picture of Brad Pitt in the other, the phone cradled to his well manicured ear, lisping ever so gentle, "I think I heard about Trudsy, she was killed, or something?"

I needed rest. I'm not sure what it is about tragedy that brings about the speed dial, but my phone would not stop ringing. My other brother called, the one who speaks in full sentences. He offered his condolences. I accepted. This is a brother who is a bit too competitive. He demanded to know how much the burial for Trudy would cost, I lied and said 12 thousand. He had his dog cremated, and cast in some exotic sculpture, 30 thousand. He is competitive about everything. "Losing the dog," he said, "anytime we face these moments, whether the dog, or when grandpa passed, it is a time to reflect. You where you think you should be."

Me: We really having this conversation.

Him: I think it would be OK.

Me: I am OK.

Him: Well, are you sad about the dog passing.

Me: In part, but you know, at the end of the day, she was a dog, not a child or a parent or a loved one, she was a pet.

Him: Still, we love our pets.

Me: Yeah, but under the right set of circumstances, on a cold winters night, she might have been a meal.

Him: Understood.

Me: And no, moments like this do not make me ponder.

Him: Pondering is good.

Me: So is the BBC.

Him: Hit and miss.

Me: True that.

Him: You know, I will probably out live you.

Me: How can you say that? I am younger than you.

Him: I am healthier.

Me: In what world?

Him: I am. I work out, I have never abused my body.

Me: What does that mean.

Him: I just have lived a healthy life.

Me: Yeah, but what are you inferring.

Him: I will out live you.

Me: First, I am two years younger than you. I am a trained martial arts expert. I can swim 15 miles, run 26.2 and cycle 100.

Him: In a day?

Me: Fuck no, what are you insane.

Him: All I am saying. I am certain that just judging from lifestyle and choices made over the long run.

Me: When did you sell your soul to the republican party. What does lifestyle and choices made mean?

Him: I think we both know what they mean in the context of you.

Me: OK.

Him: And that's all I am saying. I would just say, step back, look at the way both of us have lived, you know, marriage adds years, being single for long periods, subtracts, things like that add up. Plus, you have been a little hard on your body.

Me: Are you trying to piss me off.

Him: Not at all.

Me: On this, the day I am mourning the loss of my, what was she again?

Him: A dog?

Me: There you go.

Him: Not trying to piss you off. Trudy leaving us just got me thinking. I will miss you when you're gone.

Me: Oh, I get it. You know, you're really very funny. That was all a very funny set up. Very very funny. Oh, here, yes, I am still. Hold on. I think, yesm that was very funny. Now, listen, are you listening?

Him: (Smiling as he answered) Yes, I am listening.

Me: Good. You are right, I am certain to die years, possibly decades before you. No, that's not true, because just to fuck things up, karmically speaking, right as I am fading there in my death bed, I will grab you by the neck and strangle the very life out of you, just so you die right before me.

Him: I believe that's called cheating.

Me: I believe it is.

Him; Touche.

Me: Indeed.

Him: See you then?

Me: Of course, douche bag.

Him: Night.

No sooner than he had hung up, truly leaving my head spinning from a serious case of mind games and general jabber wabber, the phone rang again, I did not check caller ID, I just answered.

Me: Hello?

Mom: Matthew?

Me: Yes, Mom?

Mom: Yes, Matthew I needed to call.

Me: Why now?

Mom: Your dog is here with me.

I keep secrets

There is a vault in my head where I keep all the secrets anyone has ever asked me to keep. Even some that people have not specifically asked me to keep, but I keep them there, because that's just who I am. Sometimes I might bring one out, at a party or something, and change a name, or not even include a name, use it as a hypothetical as we all stand around a table and discuss politics, and I might interject, "oh, I know a woman who is sleeping with the dean of a college just to make sure her husband remains employed."

Generally people just stop and stare. I am working on my delivery.

The point is, if you have a secret, almost any sort of secret, and you need to share it and know that the person you share it with will keep it good and safe, I am that person.

That said, I am in a sharing kind of mood.

Years ago I was in a sexual relationship with a woman in New York. She was a tough as nails print reporter in the city, I was working freelance stringer news jobs late at night. If someone shot up a diner, I would grab a camera and follow the police. It was not a good job, but sometimes I made money. The hard as nails print reporter was fairly new, so she got the shit jobs, and so we seemed to travel in the same circles. Sometimes late at night we would share a beer after staking out a suicide attempt or the arraignment of someone almost famous. After one such night we slept together and so it went. It was not romantic, and it was not really a lot of fun and this was a point in my life where I actually thought of myself as a fairly talented and intuitive lover.

After one grueling late night of work and an even later night of drinking we were back at her apartment and we were both laying on her bed, the aftermath of what seemed to me to be barely functional vanilla sex. I asked her what was up and she started to cry. Then, after a time, she told me of a rape incident in college, and ever since then, any sort of physical closeness with men has left her feeling used and alone. In her tears she confided in me that she had not been able to share this with anyone else. She had not reported the rape in college. She had dropped out and returned home. No one knew. I told her then, her secret was safe with me.

Recently I was given permission to share that story, otherwise, that secret would have remained right where I kept it all these years.

People, for whatever reason, feel comfortable telling me secrets. Sometimes they are not very big secrets. Recently a co-worker came up to me at the office and told me she had just walked out of the convenience store downstairs without paying for her candy bar. She looked me in the eye and said, that's a secret between you and me and then walked out of my office. But really, a candy bar theft really isn't something I am going to keep secret.

Now, murder on the other hand.

So a few years ago I was at a bar in North Seattle, waiting for my friend Glenn, who was supposed to be picking up a tree for me. Seriously, it was a free tree, and he said he could use his truck to retrieve it, meet me at this bar in North Seattle, and then he and I would drive to my house. Fairly simple plan really. So there I sat, an iced lemonade in my hand, at an outdoor table at a kind of run down skeezy bar, waiting for Glenn, when this burly man, who must have been about 6'5" - 250, walked up and sat at the table next to me. He had a beer and a rumpled baseball cap and he looked at the parking lot, scanned it for something, looked me up and down and took a sip. "You waiting for someone?" He asked. I told him I was. It was quiet for a moment. Then he said he was too.

I sipped my lemonade, he drank his beer, got up, went inside, got another and came back and sat down. "You're not from around here, right?" I told him no, that I lived in Seattle, but I was picking up a tree. "A tree, that right?" Yes, I told him, a free tree and I explained everything. We chatted about landscaping and he mentioned that for a while he worked as an irrigation specialist in Oregon. I told him how I always liked Oregon and he said he hated it. Hated working with water and pipes, but the pipes got him the job in Alaska, working on the oil pipeline.

I told him I had lived in Alaska, so we talked about about that. I mentioned my father had worked in the oil industry in Southern California and we talked about the oil industry. He got up, went inside and came back with another beer, I was chewing the remaining ice cubes from my lemonade cup. He sat down and looked me in the eye and said, "can you keep a secret?"

"Yes, yes I can."

"I was working that pipeline job in Alaska, and this faggot was working with me, he was the foreman. We did 12 hour shifts, they had us in these shit barracks. The money was good and we could take time off and fly to the lower 48 and spend all that cash, but life up there was hell. Anyway, this faggot foreman hated me, mostly cause I hated him, so he found a way to get me fired. I got a check and a company ride to Fairbanks, nothing else. Duffel bag of clothes. I checked and there were no flights to anywhere for 3 days, so I rented a car and was gonna drive to Anchorage. Put the car on my card, threw the duffel in the back and got in, pointed it toward Anchorage and drove. I drove for what seemed like forever. I was about 2 hours outside Anchorage, there was this place, the Chugash Mountain House, little shit bar on a hill. I pulled in, hardly any cars, walked in and ordered a beer. Had another and went to pay, no cash, so I handed the bartender my card. He pointed to some little sign behind the bar, something like cash only or something. He threw my card back at me, hit me right under the eye and I started glaring at him. He said to me, cash only asshole. I reached behind me and pulled a 38 outta my belt, don't know why, to this day I don't know why, and I said to him, who you calling asshole mother fucker. There was just one other guy in the bar, he hit the floor and crawled to the door and was gone. Bartender reached under the bar and pulled out a shotgun and I shot him in the chest right about the time he started to level it at me. I stood there for a second. I never shot no one before. He fell behind the bar. I put the gun in my coat pocket, walked out the door, got in the rental car and got back on the highway, changed course, drove 14 hours straight to Haines, caught a ferry to Seattle and never looked back. Shit, I have only told that to two other people."

I kept looking at him. He kept looking at me. Neither of us managed to say anything else. Glenn pulled into the parking lot. I set the empty glass of lemonade on the table, stood and walked out to Glenns truck and we drove away. This is not the first time I have told that story to someone.

Even though I do have a pretty strict policy about keeping secrets, the next day I called the Alaska State Troopers office in Anchorage and asked who I would speak to about an unsolved murder. I was put on hold. A man picked up, "who am I speaking to?" he asked. I told him, and then I told him the story of the out of work oil pipeline worker and bartender killer. The detective in Alaska had been working for the state for 25 years, homicide for 15. It's a huge state, but not a lot of murders and not many go unsolved. He said that in all the time he had been working, which would have been in the strangers timeline, no bartender had been killed and the killer had not been charged. Not one time. There was not an unsolved murder of a bartender in the entire state.

We exchanged numbers, just in case.

Just for the record, I do keep most secrets.

A long road ahead

In the earlier stages of my mothers dementia she would get lost on thought tangents that could keep her focused and busy for weeks on end. For a while she only wanted to shop for new underwear, and when we would go to the store, she would buy 10 pairs of old women underwear, same style as the week before, no difference, and that was it. On the way back to her home, she would be so proud of herself, because in her mind, she had set up this plan, you know, to get to a store to purchase these underwear, because, in her mind, these were valuable and getting to a store was an adventure.

It was, in a word, adorable. For a while she did the same sort of behavior with pineapple slices. On Tuesday she would begin talking about pineapple slices and how nice it would be to have some. By Thursday she would be needling me to take her to the store, there was something she needed was all she would say. Once there, she would walk, aisle to aisle, looking at the various products, buying some things, discarding others. She would find the fresh cut pineapple slices and buy a container. On the way home she would crack open the plastic container, fish one out with her long painted fingernail and stuff it in her mouth and look at me with the look of a child and smile a giant pineapple smile. It was sublime.

And then she got pissed off at Benson and Hedges.

See, my mom was a lifetime smoker, nothing wrong with that, it's legal and if the advertisements are to be believed, and really who doesn't believe advertising? Anyway, for as long as I knew her, she smoked. She really liked Benson and Hedges and the scary thing started one day when I stopped by her apartment and had lunch and she asked me, really just kind of out of the blue, "who makes Benson and Hedges cigarettes?"

I told her I did not know, which was the truth. I went home later and Googled it and when I stopped by later that night to bring her a chocolate and a glass of wine, I told her that Philip Morris manufactured her cigarette of choice. Why I asked. "I'm going to kill the president of Philip Morris," she said, sipping her wine, setting it on the table, taking out a Benson and Hedges Slim, lighting it and inhaling deeply. I knew then that this was going to be an adventure.

A few days later I stopped in to check on her and she was in the activity room, surrounded by giant maps of the United States. I saw my mother, sprawled on the floor, a giant crayon in her hand, circling the state of Virginia. She looked up at me, a bit surprised, "we're going to Richmond," she proclaimed.

Well, to be honest, my first thought was I had never been to Virginia, it would be a nice place to visit. My mom walked up to me and said we needed to talk. She grabbed my arm like only a mother can do to a son and dragged me a more out of the way table, we sat. "We'll need a gun," she said, seriously. "No doubt," I said. "You have one?" "I do. In fact, I have two." We both smiled. I told her, "I'll have to get the car tuned up, also kennel the dog, this should not be more than a week, right?" My mother nodded, knowingly, like she drove to Virginia on a monthly basis to kill a CEO of a major American company.

Highly unlikely.

For a few days we plotted. She had called the main office to find out if the President of Philip Morris would be in Richmond. There were calls made to hotels, all along the expected travel route. We decided it would be wise to leave on a Monday, less traffic and with any luck, we would be pulling up to the employee parking lot at Philip Morris on Friday morning, walking into the executive lobby, reading a magazine until the President walked in and then shooting him, leaving and driving home. Two weeks max.

I picked her up at six in the morning, Monday. We took to the highway and we were about 300 miles in when I realized I had not really asked my mom why we were on our way across the country to murder the president of Philip Morris. So I asked her. "He lied to me. He lied to me about cigarettes."

That's all she said. Then there was this uncomfortable silence, which I can not replicate here, although if I go off on an uncomfortable tangent and wander off for a few words, you will spend as much time reading this gibberish as I spent wondering what the hell she was trying to say.

"What the hell are you trying to say?"

"Matthew, when I was younger, Philip Morris sold me on smoking because I could be sexy and sophisticated."

"Oh come on, you were never that naive."

"That is not the question. When you are a young person and everyone is doing something, like smoking, and all these big companies keep telling your that is helps you sleep at night and keeps your skin looking younger, you start to feel like you should smoke too."

"That's what advertising is."

"But everything Philip Morris did and said was a lie. For that, I am going to kill the president of the company."

"OK."

We drove on.

Thursday night we stayed at a wonderful hotel in downtown Richmond. The Jefferson is an old hotel, but up to date, grand and stylized and old southern in every possible way. The massive lobby was bristling with well dressed men and women, drinks in their hands, gabbing about something important. As I looked around, I could see the old south in the complexion and demeanor, you did not need to hear the accent. What I also noticed was that look of some of the men, almost leaning to the right a little bit. I would have guessed mom and I were not the only ones carrying weapons that night.

We ate well, we slept well and at seven in the morning we were parking in the guest parking space outside of the corporate office. We sat silently in the car. We had spent a few minutes at some point during the drive vaguely talking about the actual plan. Mom said that the president arrived at the office every morning at 8, we could take him in the parking lot, or walk in, read a magazine and shoot him in the reception area. Either plan worked for me. So far, at 7:15, we were in the car, so we were going with the parking lot option, so far.

At 8:15 Mom grabbed the pistol laying on the cushion between us and opened her door, "I'm going in."

I did the same, closed my door, but left the keys in the ignition and my door unlocked, because after shooting the president of Philip Morris, I thought mom and I might need to make a quick getaway.

We walked into reception at 8:20 and immediately an older woman behind a massive wooden desk asked if she could help us, my mother, without missing a beat, said we were there to see "Cooper, in accounting."

I was shocked. First, brilliant move on Moms part. I mean, in a large corporation, chances are there is a Cooper somewhere. Then, so quick to have any answer at all from the receptionist . If I had bothered to speak up I would have yammered, "umm, we are here to kill the president."

The older woman behind the desk picked up a phone and spoke silently into it. In a moment she set it down, looked at my mother and said, "there is no Cooper in accounting."

With that my mothers eyes looked around. It was a large reception area, trees against a far wall, plaques and awards on the farthest wall away from us, a window wall that showed acres of well tended grass. Mom sized it all up. Letting the news of Cooper sink in. Without a word, she turned and walked out. I looked at the woman behind the desk, mouthed the words "I'm with her" and followed closely behind my mother.

Somewhere around Texas I asked my mother, if we had seen the president of Philip Morris in the parking lot, would she have shot him? "Yes, of course. Would you?" "Solely based on the harm he has done to you, yes."

My moms decent into Alzheimers continued for a couple more years. She would not make any more trips out of the area again. She would not threaten to bring vengeance down upon the evil. She slowly deserted us.

I think about that strange trip every now and then. I wonder how the president of Philip Morris got so lucky. I also wonder if these people in our world who lie and cheat and steal and plunder, if they ever wonder if someone that they have wronged will someday just show up and make things right.

Houdini calls

So, there I was, laying in bed, doing what I seem to do a lot of lately, absentmindedly plotting a murder, and the phone rings. I answer and it's my better friend Houdini. He has news.

Me; "News you say?"

Houdini: "Huh?"

Me: "I said, news, you say?"

Houdini: "I think I said I had good news, and then you whimpered about how you have only had bad news and started in on your little drama, but I set the phone down and went to the kitchen and grabbed a cold beer, came back and you said something about a chicken goat or something. Then you said, news you say and that just freaked me the fuck out."

Me: "Right, so you have good news."

Houdini: "That I do. You know that girl I got pregnant."

Me: "Woman, please tell me she's a woman that you pregnated."

Houdini: "Is pregnated even a word?"

Me: "I believe so, yes."

Houdini: "Yeah, so I got good news."

Me: "Regarding the legal aged woman that you got pregnant."

Houdini: "Yeah. Her."

Me: "Let me guess, somehow, some way, she is no longer pregnant."

Houdini: "Even better news than that."

Me: "She had the baby."

Houdini: "No fuckin' way."

Me: "OK, step back. Good news, involving the pregnant woman..."

Houdini: "Right there."

Me: "What?"

Houdini: "She's not pregnant because, she is not a she."

Me: "You impregnated a woman who is a man? How do you do that? I could not even impregnate my first 3 wives."

Houdini: "That's the point. I did not. She was not. She could not. She was a he."

Me: "Oh, right. I see. Wait. What the fuck? Wait. How long have you two been dating?"

Houdini: "It's one of those modern romance situations."

Me: "How long have you been "benefiting" from this modern romance situation?"

Houdini: "Couple months."

Me: "OK, I think I get this. You are doing what adults in adult romantic situations do for a couple of months, so much so that at some point, the woman involved in this romantic situation claims to possibly be pregnant by way of some sort of romantic situation that the two of you must have been involved in, and since you were involved in such a thing, you were OK with that, until the day you find out the woman who may be carrying your beautiful love child is actually a dude, and then you consider that a good day because, well, you will not be a father."

Houdini: "Right."

Me: "See, I'm a glass half full type of guy. I would be more focused on the idea that for a few months I have been having sexual relations with a dude and did not notice it, in fact missed that fact so clearly, I thought I got him pregnant."

Houdini: "I know. Right?"

Me: "I know."

Houdini: "I'm a block away, picked up pizza, you got something to drink?"

The dreaded phone call

I was drunk many years ago.

With a very queeny gay friend, as you can imagine. One thing led to another, I believe we were on a beach on Long Island and at some point, I said something to the effect that if it was legal, dude, I would marry you.

Last night the New York senate passed a law allowing same sex couples to marry.

Late last night my phone rang, but I was already sleeping.

A voice from a long ago past left me a message. Apparently when you make drunken promises as a college student, they are legally binding. So at some point, I am getting gay married in New York. Lucky for me, he is in a long term committed relationship, so he has to get out of that before we can tie the knot.

Still.

The joy of strangers

I just got off the phone with the nicest operator in the world. Seriously. I am not kidding.

See, I was sleeping and my cell phone rang, and I did not answer it because I was sleeping. People need to understand priorities. But at some point I stopped sleeping and thought for a second of all the people i love and how many of them could be calling my cellphone for a variety of important reasons, so I grabbed my phone and listened to the message and a friend called to say she needed to talk and she was staying at the Hotel Metropole in Lisbon. Of course she was. She read off a series of numbers and told me to call back.

So, awake now, I dialed and of course, this being a friend of mine, the numbers did not work, but because I know how to manipulate the massive Google machine, I figured out the way to call the hotel in Lisbon, which is how I came into contact with the nicest operator in the world.

Operator: "Hello, Hotel Metropole."

Me; "Yes, I would like to speak to room 51."

Operator: "No one is in room 51."

Me: "But my friend left me a message, she said she was in 51 and that I should call back."

Operator: "She was in 51, but she and her, I believe him to be her husband, have gone for a walk."

Me: "They are walking?"

Operator: "Yes, people walk."

Me: "Yes, of course, I know people walk."

Operator: " Would you like to leave a message."

Me:" Is that even possible?"

Operator: "Yes sir, it is Lisbon, we have pens and pencils."

Me: "Oh my, how modern."

Operator: "What would you like the message to say sir."

Me: "Matt called."

Operator: "Matt?"

Me: "Yes?"

Operator: "No, is that the message? Matt called?"

Me: "Yes."

Operator: "Is there anything else?"

Me: "What sort of weather is it there that people are out walking?"

Operator: "It's a beautiful day here sir, a beautiful day for a walk."

Me: "I will keep that in mind."

Operator: "Will that be all sir?"

Me: "Yes. Thank you."

Operator: "You are welcome sir."

We hung up and I thought for a second. What a nice phone operator. I only thought about this because just yesterday I called a local WalMart store to see if they had rectangular portable swimming pools and I believe the woman I was speaking to called mean asshole and hung up. Maybe I should have asked the hotel operator in Lisbon about rectangular pools.

Perfect

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When the saints came marching in

I took an improv class in college. This was, of course, a very long time ago. The course was designed to help people come out of their shell, learn to think on their feet, gain self confidence, that sort of thing. Quickly though, it devolved into an evening of entertainment for the rotund professor. Once it became obvious that the professor was more interested in personal entertainment than education, I certainly enjoyed it more, but I am not sure the class ever really served a purpose for the neurotics and other social misfits who took the class as some sort of self help system.

The professor called on me often because I was quick and funny, the qualities he found necessary in his particular brand of fat man humor. All was well. Then one day he changed things up, he wanted to work on drama. Now, I am all for drama, drama is fine by me, but I am more a shallow clown, and drama always seems to contain traces of depth, because to feel those sorts of emotions required of real drama, you have to entertain some sort of depth of emotions and at that time in my life, I could not do that, the world was my stage and I was its clown.

The professor would have none of that. He sat a small table on the stage and set the scene. He was a doctor about to give us, the patients, some bad news. One by one, a student would be called into his "office" and he would sit them down and say in a stern voice, "Cindy, the results from the tests are back and it does not look good." Cindy, or whomever was there at the time, would then begin to quiver and shake and ask, what the results were, what it all meant and then, hopefully crying at this point, he or she would ask, how much time do I have. It was all super dramatic.

Until I was called into the pretend doctors office. I bounded onto the stage, way to energetic for a man about to get life changing diagnostic information. I ran into his "office", quickly sat down, said something like, "hey doc, what's up?" and immediately steam began to come from his ears. "Start again," he said. Impatient with my antics, he wanted me to drop the clown act and show a serious side that had yet to appear. I walked off the stage, turned and slowly walked in, pulled the chair out, sat down, and looked at him and began to laugh hysterically. "Try it again" he said.

This went on a couple more times. Then he finally got my entrance right, and I was sitting patiently waiting for the diagnosis, he said, "the results are back, it's not good." I broke in, "when you say not good, do you mean the lab did not go a very good job, because quite honestly those nurses with the needles were brutal and I am not about to go through that again."

He had me start again. I entered, serious and distraught, sat down again, he began, the results, not good, things did not look well. I may only have weeks to live. "Weeks to live," I said, "why that's great news." He looked at me, exasperated, "how can that be good news," he asked. "Well," I continued, "I've been dating this freshman (true) who is a dumb as a bag of rocks (also true) and I have no idea how to break up with her (even more true) and this should do the trick."

He sent me off the stage to try again. So it went, for a few more minutes, to all sorts of hilarious laughter and the immense frustration of the professor. At some point he gave up and had me join my classmates in the small audience. He stood on the stage, and reminded us that not everything was a joke, not every situation was funny. He made pointed remarks about how some people, the talented and deeper people, could call upon memories and bring up honest emotions and get an audience to believe that even though they were standing on a small stage in a small college, pretending to hear life changing information from a professor, the moment was real, the emotional exchange was real, the reaction was real and the audience would react with real emotion. On the other hand, he continued, if a joker would continue to make silliness out of the most heart wrenching situation and not take it seriously, then neither would the audience.

For whatever reason that moment has stuck with me for a long time. Life is drama and pathos and silliness and sometimes it is all those things wrapped together in absurdity. Sometimes not. But in many times, I have been in what should be a dramatic situation and instead of buying into it, I remain calm, thought how strange it might be to crack wise at exactly the wrong time, and see what happens. A few years ago my mother had a stroke, she was dying, I was her primary caregiver at the time and I was the person legally in charge of making life and death decisions. I spent a lot of time with her in the hospital and her prognosis was not good, she was going to die and she was going to die in that hospital soon. She was unable to talk, she was not moving and barely aware of where she was. I sat with her and held her hand and told her things, like the kids were all fine and that she was going to be allright. One day a nurse came in as I was whispering in my mothers ear and the nurse asked if there was anything she could do. Now remember, for a couple of days my mother was basically in a coma, so when the nurse asked if there was anything she could do and my response was, "yes, my mom asked for a dry martini and she was wondering if you could change the channel to Matlock" the nurse looked at me like I might be a little high.

Making jokes at the wrong time is a family tradition. It did not serve me well in improv class and it did not seem to make any friends in the ICU unit at the hospital.

So, yesterday, I was at my doctors office. He had called the night before and said he needed to see me and wondered if I could come in the next day. Time on my hands and all that, I was there at 1PM. I sat in his exam room for a while, then a slight knock, the door opened, he walked in. Now, keep in mind, my doctor is a handsome young Asian doctor who has been brilliant and caring in every interaction he has had with me. I think we have a healthy friendly regard for one another. He is adorable and if I could, I would put him in my pocket and take him home with me. The door opened and his eyes were red. When he closed the door behind him he began to cry. He said, "I don't know how to tell you this." Immediately I stopped him and said, "you have the worst bedside manner or any doctor in history. What are you doing. Seriously. Stop. Go back outside, get yourself together and come back in here without the drama." He looked at me for a second. He seemed to straighten up, pull himself together and exit the room. A second later, a slight knock on the door, it opened he walked in, his eyes still red. He looked at me, I looked at him. Now I began to cry,

My improv teacher would have been so proud of me.

A lot of questions

Dear Matt
We have been married for 3 years and recently my husband said he would like to "open things up." Any idea what he means when he says that?
Signed,
Confused

Confused,
I do speak both man-speak and passive aggressive lingo-speak, so let me offer some advice. Married 3 years you say? Well, I hate to be the one to break it to you, but your dear sweet husband is having an affair and instead of breaking up with you, or divorcing you, which would be, you know, kind of drama, he has decided to go for the home run and see if you might be maleable enough to join in.
I say, divorce him and almost immediately find yourself your own couple to become the third partner of. That way you prove you are liberal enough to engage in interesting relationship numerology, just not with liars and creeps.
Next?

Dear Matt
I read your blog all the time and some times they are funny and sometimes not.
Signed,
Reader

Reader,
So what?

Dear Matt
My dad has been sick for a few months. He is slowly dying in front of us. He will be gone within a year. My mother died about a year ago, there is not much for him to live for, he knows it, we all do too. He understands the disease he has will kill him soon enough and he seems to accept that. My problem is that I can't. I don't want to watch another day of him wasting away, I do not want my memories of him to be clouded of decay and loss of health. I want to remember him as a strong and vital man. I am filled with guilt over this. What should I do?
Signed,
Overwhelmed

Over,
He is dying and you are overwhelmed? Drama much? What the fuck is wrong with you? If I were you I would go thru your house right now and break every mirror because you spend way too much time focused on yourself and your own stupid feelings. Yeah, he is dying and will be gone soon enough, so what you don't like it. I don't like a lot of things, does not mean I can change them. Plus, you want to remember him as healthy and strong? Again, so what? Remember him any way you want, he won't care, what he will care about is if you loved, honored and respected him to the end. I could care less if he makes you sad or sick, stick with him till he stops breathing, stop being so self centered and enjoy every moment you have with him.

Dear Matt
You used to answer letters from readers of your blog. Have you stopped?
Letter writer who has questions

Writer,
I have a lot of letters people have been writing, and I am going to spend some time getting to some of them. Mostly though, they are either trolls, or morons, like the one above. So, I will be answering them, because I am lazy and sick and too tired to actually write something of substance.
Plus I might be coming down with something.
That and I think I am drunk

A woman I love

There is this girl that I know.

I was there when she was born. It was not a pretty evening. Well, in some respects it was a spectacular evening. Her mother was and remains an exceptional beauty, even when giving birth she was at peace. In fact, while giving birth to this girl, a nurse asked me if I had a camera, although when she asked me that I was face first in the receiving area of child birth and I commented that I doubted anyone would want a picture of what I was viewing and the nurse said no, look at the face of the mother. She was deeply at peace, almost tranquil, and impossibly beautiful. The girl being born would end up at least as beautiful, but not on the night of her birth.

No, the night she was born the girl was angry and she would remain that way for many years, in fact, as I write this, she is plotting new ways to take over the world, possibly the universe and dammit all to hell if you have any plans to stop her.

While her mother was at peace the girl came out congested and a little pissed off at that slight imperfection. Almost immediately a doctor used some sort of micro plunger to remove some sort of goo from her nasal passage and she was breathing, but her baby eyes lit into the doctor and I am sure that even now she is plotting her revenge. She started loud and stubborn and she remains so.

Which may be why I love her. Deeply. What we see in our children is often the people we may not appreciate or even like so much in ourselves. When my daughter picks a fight with me over whether or not she should have to clean windows, the argument, the sheer will power to argue over something so trivial, is a part of me that I really dislike. When a co-worker recently asked me to change the toilet paper in the women’s restroom at work, I argued that since I was a man and therefore never used the women’s restroom, at least to the vast majority of my offices knowledge, I should be the very last person to be required to change anything in the restroom. Argument won, but for what purpose?

This girl came out a bit ticked off and she has been something of a hurricane since then. A couple of brief stories. Once she could walk, which if memory serves me correctly was at about a week old, she started to torment her ultra calm older brother. If her brother had some sort of Buddhist zen thing going, she had gale force winds that could magically create a tornado in a second. She would bop into a room, her brother laying on his back in the middle of the floor, staring at the ceiling, possibly watching dried paint dry a little more, and she would pounce, first throwing her entire little body onto him, then running to a far wall, touching it and zooming back, only to catapult onto him and knock him back to the floor. He would scream out in pain, she would be laughing hysterically.

When she was four, and after a particularly harrowing week of her wild and often out of control behavior, her mother I were laying in bed. We had purchased every possible parenting book on raising a hellion, although I am pretty sure the titles were something more sublime, like, “experiencing a wild child” or something sweet like that. The key was, the books were available in the Devil Child section of the bookstore and you could see all the other worn down parents there, bags under their eyes, a look of simple desperation and pained wonder on their wrinkled faces.

My wife was reading a paragraph out loud and she got to a part that said something about the wild 4 or 5 year old will soon grow out of the physical aggressive phase and by 9 or 10 they will certainly be easier to control. I stopped her there. 9 or 10 I said, outraged. She won’t live to see 9-10 at this rate. We both sighed.

She lived. My lord, did she live.

The young woman with a huge brain found books. She devoured books like I devour burgers at a barbeque. Nothing was off limits to her. At 3 she was reading chapter books, at 4 she finished Harry Potter, all of the Harry Potter books that were available. She always had a book with her, a paperback in her backpack, a comic book next to the toilet, she would read the cereal boxes at breakfast. She read everything and she absorbed every last detail. Around five her vocal acumen was surpassing mine, which kind of hurt, but I was still bigger and stronger, but since she could out-smart me almost at will, the physical intimidation thing lasted maybe a week.

She threw herself into things with a passion and when I say she threw herself into things, I do not mean intellectually, I mean physically throwing her body into real objects, like walls, buildings, tress and play parks. Her body was a bruise factory. One time, while at a pediatrician for a yearly exam, she was down to her undies, and there were bruises up and down her body. I was in the exam room and the doctor, unfamiliar with my little hurricane rightfully looked at me and thought he probably had the worlds most abusive father standing right in front of him. He turned to me and looked me directly in the eye and asked me where all these bruises came from and if on cue, my daughter had stood on the examining table and jumped into the sink across the room. I never had the opportunity to answer his question.

After the divorce I had the kids full time. A single father raising a family of three children, my hurricane now perfectly unhappy as the middle child. Then one night, she was attacked by a rottweiler.

These things happen. If childhood were simple, everyone would survive it without scars both internal and external. This young girl, this powerful and brilliant young woman was not going to have it so easy. She was at a friend’s house; this mammoth dog had been friendly and then changed its mind. He had savagely torn into her face, biting her nose, her arm and ripping part of her lower lip almost completely off. I was able to get to the house almost about the same time as the ambulance and for whatever reason, the authorities allowed me to drive her to the hospital rather than transport her in the ambulance.

I spent about an hour reassuring this young girl that all would be all right. At the time I was pretty sure I was lying, but what else could I say under those circumstances? The emergency room surgeon stitched her together; a plastic surgeon did the rest. She survived and in her own way was a much stronger woman for it. For a while she seemed to have a well grounded fear of dogs, but today, as a healthy young woman, that seems to have abated.

I think she took a day off school, but with bandaged on her swollen and bruised face, she returned. She healed, scars disappeared and for the most part, she just rolled with the experience. She was and remains an animal enthusiast. She volunteers at a local shelter, and it seems an hour does not go by that my phone does not ring with the request that we adopt some sort of Pitt Bull or kitten that has lost its way.

It is not just survival that makes someone stronger. There is a particular look in warriors eyes that make you understand that whatever it is you have done to them has only steeled them and made them just a little bit angry. This young woman has been that way for a long time. She is an intellectual warrior in that way. As parents we were able to win some battles, using all sorts of techniques and bribes, but almost weekly, she would figure out the game and beat us at it and in the end, make us look foolish for even trying it.

I wish I could say that our life together has been all sweet and perfect. We have had monumental disagreements. One summer she spent a couple of weeks living in a tent in the front yard, I am not sure if we were on speaking terms. If anyone has ever seen a baseball manager argue a blown call with an umpire you know what an argument might have looked like with my daughter and myself. Face to face, eyes bulging, spittle flying out as we both, high octane language spewing at disciples only dogs really appreciate, going at it. Of course, we have swam in cold water in the dessert, almost drowned in the ocean, white water rafted, painted beautiful pictures, danced to decent music and worked together on a variety of bad video projects. To say we have a complex relationship would be to diminish complexity.

This precious little girl, this amazing and brilliant young student is now a woman. Soon she will leave for Europe for two years of study. In some ways my heart is broken, we have had an 18-year relationship, filled with love and laughter and fights and disappointment and forgiveness and respect. The time has come for her to go out and be who she was destined to be. I have been lucky enough to witness these first chapters of her life.

Those of us lucky to have children and then lucky to have smart children and then luckier still to have smart children who allow us to exist in their lives are blessed. I used to tell this to my fellow stay at home parents, that I was a blessed man to be surrounded by these three amazing children. They have gone and grown up on me, they are leaving, setting out on their own, waving goodbye from the window seat of jet airplanes. I know there will be more, I know this story is not over, and I will forever remember the night when the nurse wanted me to watch the peace and tranquility on the face of the woman who was birthing this powerful, beautiful and brilliant force.

That night I fell in love. Today I am in love. Forever I will be in love with that girl who will always amaze.

Happy Fathers Day

Look, it's the most important holiday in the history of bullshit holidays.

My father used to make me laugh.

So, when I saw this short film below, I thought, Happy Fathers Day.

For all you fathers who read this blog, or people with fathers, I say to you, Happy Father Day.

Riots and cameras - always fun

Vancouver is and always will be one of my favorite cities. I spent part of my honeymoon there. I have fond memories up the kazoo of Vancouver. The following video does not change that.

I am not a hockey fan.

Gluten free pizza

I was doing what I usually do around 6 in the evening and that is sleeping on the couch. I thought everyone does that, but apparently that is not true, because there was a pounding at the front door that woke me up. I stood, almost naked, and walked to the door and opened it. There a man in a bright uniform with horizontal yellow stripes asked if I ordered the gluten free pizza? For a second I thought I might be sleeping. My lone experience in the gluten free universe was a recent hamburger served on a gluten free bun which tasted surprisingly like ground up sheetrock.

No, I said to the clown like delivery boy, I certainly did not, nor would I ever, order a gluten free pizza. Just then I noticed the candles, the front yard filled with large helium filled balloons, the dancing midgets and the man dancing wildly on stilts. I looked again at the delivery man, who was no delivery man at all but my dear friend Houdini, standing at my door, in person, with a box that now looked to contain some sort of cake, with candles. "Happy birthday my friend."

I looked over his shoulder onto a sea of merriment and insanity, the clowns were either drunk or high, or both. There was a large animal, possibly an elephant, but more likely a Manatee, out of water and slowly dying, and what appeared to be a family of gypsies. Great, just what my ghetto needs is a family of gypsies. Well, they would have to compete to with crack dealers, the gun fights and of course fat momma, the worst mother in the world, who lived close enough to me that I could hear her screaming rants at all hours of the day.

Right at that point, as if on que, fat momma herself leaned out of her front door, her girth visible to this new community of clowns and freaks and screamed at the top of her lungs, "get that fuckin elephant off my god damned front yard you stupid faggot."

See, that's why I like my neighborhood. There is no pretense at civility. Houdini, upon hearing fat mommas dictate, looked over at her ample self and said in a voice loud enough for every circus performer to hear, "you heard that monster, get our elephant away from her feeding trough."

Oh dear I thought, no one, as far as I could remember, had ever challenged fat momma on any level. She is an angry bitter and loud woman, who seems bent on screaming at everyone in the worst possible language available. A few nights earlier, during her nightly parenting session with her seemingly unwanted child, she spent the better part of evening belittling her child with warm mothering wisdom such as "shut the fuck up you useless piece of shit."

So, imagine my surprise when Houdini actually insulted the obnoxious bully. She retreated into her cave like existence.

"Come with me," Houdini said, as he grabbed my arm and led me to his waiting convertible. The crowd of circus freaks and other assorted felons parted, we drove off, Houdini in a tuxedo, me in boxer shorts and a strained t-shirt. "Where are we going?" I asked. He looked at me, smiled and turned the radio on, where I could hear some sort of loud, bass heavy music bother my inner peace.

We drove for at least an hour, I am not quite sure, because I fell asleep. When I woke, we were parked illegally in front of Trump Plaza in New York City. Houdini was gone, I was alone in his car, the top down, the music off, the city opening up in front of me and me, sitting in someone else's car. in a stained t-shirt and some boxer shorts. This was probably not going to end well.

Houdini came out of the Plaza, threw me a key card and said, "hey sleepy head, ready for the best birthday ever?"

I was awake at that point, but still a little bewildered. "I guess I am, I mean, I need some clothes and a shower."

"Everything is in the room, I have everything under control."

"You do know it's not my birthday, right?"

"Really? Am I close?"

"A few months off, but it's the thought that counts."

"Sure is."

To be continued.

Bad news for online pic exchangers

Representative Anthony D. Weiner plans to resign his seat after revelations of his lewd online exchanges with women. His announcement is expected to take place in Brooklyn at 2 p.m.

What's wrong with this?

Two words, Senator Vitter.

See, Weiner sends pictures of his, well, weiner.

Vitter, a senator, engages in sex outside of his super important marriage, with prostitutes, which much to my chagrine, is against the law.

Vitter remains a senator. No one screams about him resigning. He is, of course, a republican, schooled in hypocrisy and sexual deviancy. Weiner, a New York Democrat, just likes to show women his dong.

I just checked, the world continues to spin.

In praise of Maury

Months ago, and you can go back over the posts and find it, I wrote about a job I was asked to do for the infamous Maury Povich Show.

Now, anyone who knows anything about me knows that I am almost always willing to do work. It's what I do. If you need an artist shot is his or her studio along with an incisive interview, all edited and packed and ready for production, I can do that. If, like the producers from the Maury show, you want some pot smoking stoner in government housing to sit for some b-roll footage for an upcoming show on who's my baby daddy, I can do that too.

Today I got the check for doing just that. Which reminds me why I do these sorts of things that, if truth be told, I would probably not do if I had a choice. Instead, when the producers called one late winter afternoon, I was all about driving out to some slummy area and getting a contact high while some inadequate parent person pretended to be interested in a slew of rowdy and badly cared for children.

See, I actually think Maury and shows like his are what is wrong with America. It is not congressmen sending pictures of their wieners that is bad for the country, that is just bad for the people who receive the pictures, I would imagine. No, I think the sort of trash TV that poisons brains and makes people stupid, that is bad for a nation. It's not just Maury and his pals, it is the mindless "reality" crap that seems to be on every channel.

See, when I had little children, we did not have cable TV and we did not spend any time watching bullshit programming. When we moved to a farm in New York, as some sort of bride, I got this dish thing that offered well over 750 million channels, every channel more shallow and banal than the next. After a few months, it went away, but not the mindless scars that had somehow permeated our collective thinking. Now that my little tiny children are full grown human people, they do and watch what they want. Why, just yesterday, they sat for 24 straight hours watching nothing more than Survivor re-runs and fake small claims cases decided by a drunk and mean spirited toupee wearing moron.

Now, where was I? Right. The check. Well, it's not enough to pay for the Italy trip, but it's going into that pot.

Pride parade

We lost count of how many parades we have attended now, possibly more than 90.

I did attend one of those gay pride parades once, by accident really. I was out riding my bike with my certain friend Glenn. I say he is my certain friend, because if I was not certain he was my friend, I would almost be completely certain that he was almost always trying to kill me. Once or twice he has viciously knocked me off a bicycle, possibly, I may not be remembering that part clearly. One time he threw a knife at me from a great distance. I saw it coming and took defensive action. Another time, he handed me a running chainsaw in such sloppy fashion that most of my left arm was chopped completely off. I could go on, the list is almost endless.

Anyway, what I do know is that we were thrift store shopping via bike and low and behold, we cycled right into a gay pride parade in Seattle. It was a terrible event. Just an eyesore. My lord. I was appalled. Shocked really. At some point there was a gaggle of lesbians on motorcycles, that was refreshing. A man in a diaper almost made me want to puke, a few men in dresses both scared me and made me wonder. Countless men chose to wear jockstraps, which at the time seemed strange because none of them appeared to be preparing for an athletic event. Lucky for us we were drinking, so much of the parade came and went as a giant pink boa and the smell of sweat and leather.

What I did take away from that adventure was how sad it is that something called a pride parade is really more of a freak show. Seriously, any community could bring out its fetish wear and acting out drama queens and call it a parade, but is that really the face you would want on any community? I'm just saying.

Which is why I only attend Shame Parades. Oh, I know, it is often just me and my children, our lesbian dog and her lover and lately they have to be shamed into going, but I think, as traditions go, this one is a keeper.

One of the great things about living in our little ghetto is the downtown core of our town has been abandoned. The buildings are all still there, these old solid brick buildings will be standing for a long time. The problem is, there are no businesses inside of the buildings. Nothing. There is a security company of some sort, it's kind of a mystery. I think someone opened a used bookstore, but everyone tells me you can buy crack there. An older gay couple opened a used furniture store, naturally, but that is only open weekends, and then, seemingly, weekends when they feel like it.

So, the roads are empty. We marched down the main street on Saturday, filled with shame. No one was out, of course, which made us even more aware of what social outcasts we had become. Oh the shame of it all. I waved to a squirrel in a tree.

Once again, the Shame Parade was a big hit. No turnout, no negative stories in the press, nothing about the children, those sacred children being exposed to shame. Nope, nothing. We fly under the radar, which, as filled with shame as we are, the very last thing we would want to do is garner the attention of anyone more influential than a squirrel sunning himself on a lazy Saturday afternoon.

Sunday Bone

OMG Blog groupies OMG OMG

Like you, I have an email address. If you email me from this blog, and yes, there is an email address attached here somewhere, trust me, because I get emails. If you email me, it comes to my email address, which is also my business address, my somewhat personal address and the address attached to banking and investments. Basically, it is my all encompassing email address.

Sometimes I contact clients for my job via my personal email address, just to touch base, set up logistics, ask questions, answer questions, that sort of thing. I always sign those emails with my full name, cell phone number and office number. So, if you got an email from me, even if it was concerning a job through my employer, it might very well come from my private/business email.

Saturday I was working for a client whom I had not met, but I had sent a couple of emails to and we had corresponded that way. All was well, or so I thought. There I was, setting up my camera and she came up to me, asked if I was Matt, I said yes, shook her hand, and she said, "I googled you and then I found your blog." I think I kind of winced. She continued, "I could not stop reading and I sent a link to all my friends. We have all been reading it. We have some questions, come with me."

I followed her into a hotel ballroom. There I found about 7 stunning women, all of them young, perfectly made up and dressed like they might be going to some sort of formal occasion. My client asked me to sit down. "We all have some questions about your blog."

My lord. My mind began to whirl.

Last century I was driving a small sports car on a windy hillside road, following a landscaping truck, probably too closely, and he came to a stop. I hit the brakes, and the pedal went to the floor. The car did not even start to slow down, I had no brakes. I had an instant to make a decision. I could drive off the right side of the hill, down an embankment, a cliff, into homes or pools or god knows what. I could hit the truck, rear end it, and then who knows what would happen in front of the truck, I could not go into the left lane, another car was coming, I would head on into it. I could cross the left lane and ram my car into a brick garage. I chose the garage. I came to in the front seat, covered in blood, my steering wheel broken where my head had hit it. A man was knocking on my window, he said he called an ambulance. In the emergency room a nurse was taking my vitals and asking me simple questions to make sure I was not suffering from a concussion. She asked me what I did for a living and I told her I wrote scripts for a new TV show. She then went on about a 10 minute rant about how crazy it was to work in an emergency room in Los Angeles, you see all kinds, and how crazy the doctors and nurses were and that it is always changing, always new people coming in the door with the strangest problems. "You should write a TV show about us," she said as she took my blood pressure. I said I might and almost immediately realized I would never tell anyone again that I was a writer.

In the hotel ballroom, I sat down, but I told them, I was quite busy and did not have the time to just sit for a long time. They said they had a lot of questions. Do I really call all women Becky was the first one. I laughed. I then stood up and reminded them that I was there to film. I walked towards the door and my client, the woman who had already written a substantial check, stopped me, "Matt, we have a book club. We'd like you to join on on Thursday. We have a lot of questions."

Before I could respond, a dark haired younger woman, maybe 30, hard to tell, deeply tanned, looked to have been working out and was stunning, stood and walked towards me, she leaned into me and whispered something into my ear. We made eye contact, that sort of steady eye contact that seems to contain an unwritten promise. I nodded and she smiled the most seductive and glorious smile I have seen in a long time.

"Deal," I said and opened the door, walked out and did not let it hit me in the ass.

The good news is that everything went well. I got home late, a little drunk, and the experience gave me something to think about. Maybe I should create an email account just for this blog, or something. Maybe I should not email business clients from an email account linked to this blog. Maybe I should have mentioned that I have a date on Thursday.

Paul Revere - by Ms. Palin, teacher of stuff

Bike lanes

OK, I am a bike rider and have tried to ride a bike in some major cities, New York included and this video shows what it can be like. That final shot of the police car is, well, perfect.

New York Post headlines

Embattled Weiner leaves Queens co-op

I support Weiner

As a former New York resident. As a former New York photographer. As a man who wears underwear. As a former New Yorker who has internet access. As someone who has seen pictures on the internet. As someone who does not care. Leave Anthony Weiner alone.

He lied. I would too. So would the vast majority of everyone caught up in such an idiotic web of their own making. I am old enough to remember Blow Job Bill Clinton and the circus that ensued with that little slip up. At the time I kept wanting to turn away, my lord, the nightly news would report on oral sex in the oval office with a straight face. It was horrid. I could not get enough. When friends would get together, almost inevitably the conversation would turn to Clinton, when it was just men, we would collectively shrug our shoulders and look at one another and seem to do a group think of getting head in the oval office, no one saying anything for a few awkward moments.

If women were around, we would fein intolerance and claim that a man is only as strong as his commitment.

During the entire Clinton oral-gate as the media began to call it, I kept thinking, really, isn't this more of a personal issue with his wife? I mean, it's fun to be getting all the sordid details and everything, but in the end, the real judgement would come from his wife. What was interesting, at the time I began to ask my male friends if they would have done the same thing in the same position. The results were not surprising. Gay, straight, transgendered, republican, democrat, married, single, Christian, Jew and everything in between, 100 percent said you bet.

As a quick side note, if you Google Jasper Flem, seriously, the first page that comes up is this. FLEM

What congressman Weiner did was right on, good clean fun and to be expected. Like the vast majority of men, I totally and completely support his silly picture taking, his immature picture sharing and his probable engagement in meaningless sexual behavior via the internet. For the life of me, I still can not find what it is he did wrong, although he is Jewish and he does shave his chest, that I do have a problem with.

Did I miss something? Some sort of secret contract or press conference? Why do you think smart phones have cameras and internet connections anyway? Who develops these products? Nerdy engineers. Who uses them? Nerdy engineers and sexually repressed business people. Who sends pictures of their junk to strangers on the internet? Almost everyone, it seems. As a side note, my attorney Beth Libitard has a racy video of herself doing some sort of yoga Karma Sutra thing, it might be posted on YouTube, if not, www.kittytrannylesboxrateddisgustoporn.com.

So, to stand with my fellow New Yorker, because at a time like this, we are all New Yorkers, I say, all of us, well, those of us with smart phones, we should all, right now, right this moment, take a picture of your junk and send it to Nancy Pelosi (@NancyPelosi) and remind her that what our forefathers said all those months ago in the bible is still sort of true today, "thou should probably not post pics of your junk on the internet."

A little painting music please

A most important letter

A world famous economist emailed me yesterday. "Matt, I have been following your blog for a couple of years now. I like where you are going. Leave the number crunching to the professionals, I think you have found a new career."

About 3 years ago I was knee deep in the production of a long form film on the faltering economy. I had contacted this world famous economist, and he is so famous that if I gave you his initials you would know immediately who he is. Well, most of you would know, judging by the spelling and wit behind many of the comments posted in the comment section of this blog. Then again, the guy who wants pics of everything and the people who use fuck in every sentence, they would need a full name and an intense Google search. He's famous. Nobel famous. Sunday morning talking head famous.

I started this blog to run parallel with the film. Short clips of the film in progress were added to that site, all was well. Then, as almost everything else at the time, all funding ran dry. So I had all these interviews and interesting shots and no real cohesive narrative. Plus, I had interviewed or contacted some of the worlds leading economic thinkers, opinion makers, intellectuals and professors. Thus, this guy, this emailing Nobel prize winner, offering brilliant career advice.

Another letter writer:

"Dear Matt,
My wife and I no longer connect sexually."
Enough said, divorce the old bag of bones and find yourself a new, fresh, sexy one.

I see how easy it is to give advice, especially when you know nothing of the situation.

That said, I have some breaking news.

Flem responds to Faxing Allegations.

Serious republican presidential candidate Jasper Flem today admitted that in the early 80's he faxed images of his bare buttocks to friends of his as some sort of joke.

"This ain't shit," said the embattled right wing tea bagger. "The left wing media elite knows that the public is starting to get the Flem message. So they are digging in my past for any bullshit story they can find. Here's the truth. Me and Barbra, this transvestite dancer I used to enjoy the company of, spent an evening getting drunk on bourbon and using the office Xerox machine to take pictures of our asses. I went through the company directory and sent the best pictures to the board of directors. It was just all in good fun. This once great country is in a lot of trouble, not the least of which is a foreign born Kenyan muslin running the White House, and all you liberals can think of is how in tarnation could serious republican candidate Jasper Flem be sending pictures of his ass to corporate big wigs. You people disgust me."

When asked about the midnight ride of Paul Revere Flem continued with this rant against the Lame Stream Media, "you know as well as I do that Paul Revere drove a fairly new Ford Mustang and honked his horn, 3 if by chariot and a couple of short honks if there were hookers. It's in all the history books. Next question?"

The industrialist from Hickory Stick North Carolina is the leading "vote getter" in the latest Iowa straw poll. In fact, in that poll, Flem was ahead of Cain by 17 pieces of straw, a remarkable feat, since neither man is a politician, experienced, intelligent or anything other than a belligerent billionaire with money to burn.

Dear Matt
I read your blog on a consistant basis and I think you might have the sort of economic insight I am looking for. I have a good job in a decent city, and there is a foreclosed home in my neighborhood. Currently I rent, but I could buy this distressed home for 35 thousand dollars from the bank. I would have to kick out the "current owners" but the value of the house is probably 200 thousand. What's your thinking?

Well, obviously, since I have this blog, I am something of an expert on real estate. First, before you do anything else, go to the house right now and demand those deadbeats leave immediately. Then call the bank and offer them, oh, something like a third of what they want. Banks are desperate. Win win and all that.

Next.

Hey, this just in from the Flem press conference, which is being carried live on Fox News.

"Why yes, I did have sexual relations with my maid. In fact a couple of my maids. Hell, how you think I made all them kids?"

Dear Matt,
Your blogging makes you seem smart. How can I get a job in Aerospace?

What a good question. Hate to disappoint you, but I Googled it, there is no such thing as "aerospace". Nice try, but you were right about one thing, I am smart.

Dear Matt
Do you any good dating sites? I tried Match.com and it was all freaks and desperate fat people. I signed up for JDate, because I am Jewish and thought I would find my soul mate, but all I found were these neurotic messes with father issues and all I get now are almost daily threats from Jdate to either pay more money or never find the woman of my dreams. Do you know of any places where a nice guy could meet a serious woman?

Funny you should ask. Have you heard of Squirrel and Moose?

Live feed from the Flem press conference:

"Of course we should cut Medicare. You know what I think? We should end it immediately and if I am elected president, my first duty will be to completely defund Medicare, Social Security and the Military."

Dear Matt
Sometimes when I pee it hurts. Does this mean anything?

Nope. Not a problem at all.

Live feed from the Flem press conference:

"Oh, there you go again, with your fancy Gotcha question. Well, let me tell you Mr. Harvard liberal elitest. You ever fill your bathtub with crisp 100 dollar bills? I didn't think so. You ever have Warren Buffet pay you 27 billion dollars for your chemical company? No? Well, I did son. And there are a few things you think about when you are taking a bath in 100 dollar bills."

Dear matt
Do you plan to vote for Jasper Flem in 2012?

Duh.

Text message

Actual text message.

"Tell Becky to Facebook my vagina, or whatever it's called."

Theater texters

Dog

Yes, you.

Palin Palin Palin

I am not political. I remain non-political, because I learned a long time ago, if you are going to play with pigs, expect to get piggy.

I could care less about republicans or democrats. They are all prostitutes and whores, selling what is left of their tattered souls to the highest bidder. The things they do for cash would disgust you if you knew.

That said, I think we can all agree that Jasper Flem is a fresh voice in the political world. He is a wealthy industrial who can not be purchased, at least for millions. He has great ideas, like ending subsidies for tobacco and corn and starting it for stem cells and Viagra. Mostly, he is not a whore and an idiot. I'm sorry, I take that back, he is an idiot.

Still, he is not Sarah Palin stupid, which is a whole new stupid. The nice thing about candidate Flem, he is not afraid to call a Palin an idiot.

All true, again.

Late last night I was driving home from an illicit affair and I hit a deer. Before I could even manage to grasp the situation, I hit another and as I tried to remember where the brake pedal was, I hit yet another. That's when I knew I should not be driving in that field.

Short cuts are always like that for me. Oh, don't get me wrong, I am lazy and sloppy and I will probably die with a piece of pizza in one hand a remote controller in the other. In fact, now that I think about it, that is exactly how I will die if I have any say in the matter.

Palmetto Becky emailed from Europe last week. She goes way back, to my Los Angeles days, when I was cash rich and suntanned. I met Palmetto Becky one morning when I was walking home from an orgy. I almost tripped over her, she was passed out in the entryway to the parking garage near the harbor. When I stumbled over her she screamed "who the fuck are you?" and we went for coffee. She spent a week on my couch and we have been friends for a long time. She is one of those women who is so effortlessly beautiful and naturally at ease, everyone who meets her likes her, wants to be like her, wants to sleep with her, wants to know what she knows.

She owes me a lot of money. When we met, all those years ago, it was one of those points in my life where people seemed to want to shovel money at me. So I lent Palmetto Becky some cash, kind of a lot of cash, with the understanding that before too long, she would pay me back. I saw her a couple of years ago in New York and without saying a word, she gave me a hundred dollars. I am not sure of the exact amount that she continues to owe me, but 100 dollars in a very tiny percentage of the total. She handed me the folded up bill, leaned into my ear and whispered, "part of the money I owe you." That was it. One payment over 20 years or so, one payment, 100 dollars.

Palmetto Becky, red hair, even today, long limbs, a flat stomach and an angular face that screams for a Picasso setting. She is half brilliant and a quarter insane, but almost 97 percent always fascinating. I used to drive a British racing green MGB in Los Angeles, and Palmetto Becky and I would smoke cigars and put the top down and ride Sunset, to Laurel, go up to Lookout and visit Houdini. Los Angeles is a dirty city and sometimes that's just the way it should be.

Palmetto Becky used to score weed from the Mexicans. She was so proud of the fact that she would say, "we should go score some weed from the Mexicans." Once I drove her to a small stucco house in Compton, we both got out of my tiny little sports car, walked into the home, the door closed behind us, we sat in a darkened room and a fat Mexican guy named Mexican Rick. He asked us what we wanted. Palmetto Becky asked what he had for sale and Mexican Rick asked "who's the fat Jew?" I did not think he would have been referring to me, because back then, while I may have been husky, it would have been a stretch to call me fat, and I was well tanned, but hardly anyone in Southern California would have mistaken me for a Jew. I mean, seriously.

"Are you talking to me?" I asked. Mexican Rick looked over at me, "I ain't talkin to you homes, I'm talkin to Palmetto Becky, you look like a Jew cop." That was actually true, I did look like a cop back then. Short hair, clear blue eyes, a healthy outlook and a decent diet. I looked over at Palmetto Becky, but she was looking at the table, where a giant bong was sitting. "He is most certainly not a cop," Palmetto Becky said, without breaking her gaze, "but I think he's a Jew." She grabbed a baggy, filled the bongs bowl and pushed it toward me. "Would a cop smoke pot?"

That day in Compton was the most fun imaginable. Mexican Rick was a great cook, or as good of a cook as one needs to be when his friends are baked. We spent a couple of hours listening to traditional Mexican music and telling stories. Palmetto Becky bought her pot and we stumbled back to the MGB, which was sitting, top down, in pristine condition, in the middle of what would have been Los Angeles most crime infested blocks. Go figure.

I accidentally got Palmetto Becky pregnant. There was a time that a woman could walk by me in a snow storm and 9 months later she would give birth, so it was no surprise that somehow Palmetto Becky ended up with child. She did not stay with child for long. A month or so in, she miscarried. It was an interesting few weeks of soul searching and some very serious adult type questions. When she lost the baby, it was the end of all those serious conversations, I believe we went surfing.

When I do hear from Palmetto Becky I never ask about the money. First, she always seems to call at a point where I am not desperate for it, and she never seems to contact me when I am. Palmetto Becky asked me if I was interested in moving in with her, somewhere in France, maybe learn to be a farmer.

I haven't responded, because really, if there is one thing I have learned about farming is this, farming is boring. Then again, my professor of microbiology once told me that "it would be a lot better if we all went back to farming and stopped trying to cure cancer so much." I did not say he was a good professor.

Epic meal

So my young little baby daughter has turned me on to these internet meal makers and I am both appalled and incredibly jealous. It's a beautiful Saturday, the sun it out, our semi-retarded bird is chirp-a-lirping and this video is for you. Enjoy.

On being OK

I just returned from my morning yoga session and I have to say, I do not understand why more people do not take2-3 hours every morning and center themselves, find inner peace and also get a new muffler on their car.

Should be simple, right? I mean, what is more important than stretching and soothing your body, all the while getting your oil checked, a new gas filter installed and having them repair that little leak on your tail pipe. Right? Am I right?

Personal to Emailer: Why yes I am, thank you and thank you for that picture that did not leave a lot to my limited imagination. While I have never actually dated a member of congress, I did meet a senator in Minneapolis once....

Let the raping begin

So I have not been paying much attention to the former IMF chief who has been charged with raping a woman in New York. Oh, wait, did I say he was charged with raping a woman?

Oh, please, I am so sorry. I forgot I am part of the main stream media. Hang on a second. Former IMF head Dominique Strauss-Kahn will face a trial for rape allegations stemming from an encounter at a pricy New York City hotel with a maid.

Oh, that is much better. See, first, let's make clear that the suspect is a wealthy international business leader, who by the way, has a reputation with the ladies, if you know what I mean. Can you see me winking?

The key to this media abuse though is dehumanizing the victim. I was laying in bed this morning, listening to National Public Radio and they had a full story on Dominique Strauss-Kahn's sex scandal. The very first thing I noticed was how formal they made the suspect sound, you know, former head of the IMF, possible candidate for the French presidency, on and on. Oh, and he probably raped a maid. A maid? Yes, a maid, a lowly maid. Heck, the reporter seemed to be saying, a maid is not really even considered a real human, so the charges might not even stick, so to speak, wink wink, all that stuff, back to you.

What I found appalling is they could not bring themselves to describe her as, oh I don't know, a woman? No, they could not say she was a woman at her workplace. That I think might upset a lot of women. Imagine all the women in their workplaces today, thinking that the sweet middle aged banker with the adorable French accent was actually hoping to rape them later. No, see, that is just unpleasant.

As long as we can discount the incident by almost praising Dominique Strauss-Kahn's lifetime of leadership and success and discount the, chambermaid I believe she is called in European news accounts. Maybe if Dominique Strauss-Kahn had been giving a speech at Harvard and raped a professor backstage, then this would be a story that focuses more on the crime and less on the victims job or resume. The headlines would read "out of control French banker rapes educated professional woman." Of course, maybe she was a new professor, an interim professor, or even just a graduate student. I wonder on what rung of society a graduate student would land, certainly much higher than maid, but certainly not yet at the value of full professor, or secretary of state or something. Heck, this makes me wonder what a yokel like Sarah Palin would rate on the news reporters rape value indicator. I mean, certainly she portrays herself as a bumbling idiot, so a lot of people would assume she is often in rapes danger zone, then she does meet with well know business men, like a recent classy dinner with Donald Trump for pizza in New York. Maybe a rape occurred there. "Hair challenged megalomaniac charged with raping empty headed unemployed politician"

Maybe Dominique Strauss-Kahn will find some opportunity to rape a lawyer at his defense firm. Oh, that would be interesting. What if he raped a junior partner. Not a full partner, the headlines would be brutal. But a junior partner? Heck, " Dominique Strauss-Kahn charged with sexual assaulting junior partner in American law firm." We could diminish all rape victims, if the old "she had it coming" defense won't stick, then how about, "dude, she is only a maid." That seems kind of OK. Right?

Then all we have to do is really define the value of the victim. It seems the media has determined that a maid is probably OK to rape, so I called a friend at Fox News to see if I could get some information on just how rape victim's are valued.

Me; So, tell me again how this maid woman was devalued.

Fox; Are you recording this? You know it's illegal to record anyone without their permission.

Me; Dude, you work for Fox News.

Fox; So?

Me; Right. So, why is this woman always described as a maid, and not, you know, the woman who was allegedly raped by Dominique Strauss-Kahn?

Fox; Well, first, she is a maid.

Me; Right, but I can not remember the last time a rape victims occupation was her sole description.

Fox; Our policy is never to name the victim.

Me; Right, but in this case, all we hear is that she was a maid.

Fox; So?

Me; Well, every day in this country, there are a lot of women who are raped, and there are sometimes news stories about them, they may have been jogging, or walking in a park, or home alone, they are always described as "the victim in this case" or "a woman who was..." but this case is different, the suspect is always described as the IMF leader and all this other wonderful stuff, and the victim is always described as a maid.

Fox; And?

Me; And? And I say fuck you. I think you are trying to devalue this woman.

Fox; No, we are pointing out how they may have had contact.

Me; Bullshit. A rapist has contact with their victims where ever the crime takes place. Just because a woman was raped in her workplace does not mean that is how you should describe her. What if the maid was raped on her way to work, in the subway, would she have been described as a maid in the subway?

Fox; Possibly.

Me; Who makes these decisions?

Fox; I do not see your point.

Me; You media fucks have devalued this woman. A powerful man is accused of rape and all I keep hearing is maid this, maid that. The problem is, if she were a doctor, I am not sure you would not have been describing her only by her professional name.

Fox; I am pretty sure if the head of the IMF raped a doctor, that is exactly how we would have reported it.

Me; I wonder.

Then I hung up the phone.

Here is what I hate about our media. First, there will be a trial, so the media should leave this alone. Instead, from a quick google search, the media is digging into the background of the maid. Now, that does not happen often. It is frustrating to witness this particular crime, because what we are seeing is wealthy white man possibly taking advantage of his position, while a poor woman with no option is being made to look evil.

What I would appreciate from the business community, especially the raping banker community, is that from now on, before they rape their maids and other lowly staff, maybe they could rape one of their lawyers, hopefully a junior partner type, just so I can sit back and watch my Fox News TV device and listen as they describe the new IMF president, who has possibly been accused of somehow raping a lowly ivy league educated married mother of 3 junior partner at a law firm in a major city. Or they could just call her a victim of sexual assault.

The monkeys did it

I did get your email.

Yes I did.

See, here is what you may not understand. It's not always about you. I know, I get it. You have expectations. I understand. Yes. Let me sit down. The thing is, right now, it can not be about you.

As I'm sure you've heard, and since the vast majority of the people who read this blog do so in foreign countries, I will remind those who may not follow American news or Fox News as much as we do here in the states, what you have probably heard is that a group of fairly sophisticated monkeys, 17 of them, escaped from the local zoo and have just been running roughshod over the region.

It's true, that is all true, it's in all the papers. I'm serious.

Last week, I think a week ago today, no, make it two weeks ago, the plan fell into place. Now, the amazing thing, at least for me, some people have differing opinions, but for me, the most amazing thing is the relentless planning the 17 monkeys have been going through to not only escape all at once, but to also have created fake identities, rented a car from Admiral and even started running a card game in the Strip District. Many people, mostly the people I have been hearing calling conservative talk radio shows, have expressed the opinion that this is exactly what happens when you have a muslin liberal communist Kenyan running everything, or something like that.

My friend Becky called from the Space Station Felix to ask about the monkeys. Her first question? Tell me about the poo. That's the other thing, aside from the daring daylight escape, the rental car, the late night card club and bordello, oh shit, I forgot about the bordello, yeah, the monkeys are running a hugely successful bordello, brought in a lot of real good looking women from Cleveland. Again, that is just what I have heard on the local Public Radio station, which for the most part has terrible news coverage, but even a blind and deaf man could make an interesting story of 17 brilliant monkeys running roughshod over a city, taking up in the strip district of all colorful places. My lord, the story seems to write itself. The bordello was apparently incredibly successful and even more beauties from surrounding communities are right now on buses on their way here.

That's what I hear, any way.

A few of you might remember the story from a couple of years ago, the anti-gay right crazies were all over it. Seems that two monkeys at the zoo had been friends, then became friends with benefits and over time developed what was pretty obviously a relationship. The problem for some people was that the monkeys were named Bruce and Eric. I think it was Erick with a K, but I can't bring myself to spell it that way. Sue me.

Anyway, for a couple of weeks, there was all this talk from intellectuals, using Eric and Bruce as an obvious example that not only is homosexuality something that occurs naturally in nature (everyone then said, gross), but that long term committed love is possible in any relationship, or something like that. I found the story adorable because Eric had a belly. He looked like a middled aged bald man with a belly and I thought he was just adorable and if Bruce could find such a specimen attractive, then I say, more power to them. Of course they could not marry, not because they were gay, that was the least of the issues, I think the biggest problem was they were monkeys. Yeah, that was the real problem.

The city had a terrible debate about whether the zoo should have a wedding for Bruce and Eric. In the end, fall came and we all seemed to forget about it. Fall is not a good time for any sort of wedding, much less a gay monkey wedding. I would have gone though, just for the spectacle, because we can all agree the gays know how to do the wedding thing, one can only imagine the crazy shit in store for you at a monkey gay wedding.

No wedding ever happened and at some point, Eric and Bruce just kind of faded into some hidden area of the monkey pen. No one really talks of them, I can not remember the last thing I heard about them, until the escape, of course.

For the last two years, the long term, committed lovers have been creating all sorts of documents for the post escape life. They would need some sort of wallet, and inside would need to be some sort of drivers license, just in case. Credit cards were stolen from unsuspecting zoo watchers. The lovers spent months creating auto insurance forms, credit history for a created monkey person named Jupiter Meesvian. They were even able to get a credit card in Mr. Meesvians name sent to the zoo. Late one night they broke into the main zoo office and took it off a desk. That was 18 months ago. So think about that, over 2 years ago, these two brilliant gay monkeys were planning the details of life after escaping the confines of the zoo.

Of course, once people realized that 17 angry and bitter mistreated monkeys would be shitting any where they damn well pleased, the excitement of monkeys running freely around society became a distant memory, replaced instead with armed mobs of people wearing plastic suits and carriyng shot guns and other weaponry.

The first battle was all monkey shit. There were about 7 men in plastic suits, the had formed a line, probably not a wise thing to do. While they had cut holes in industrial trach bags, and wore these as ponchos covering their upper bodies, for the most part, their heads were open targets. Looking back, most people had not really expected the monkeys to have prepared with shit slinging devices of such accuracy and velocity that the hunters, in a matter of seconds, retreated, screaming, rubbing the shit off their faces and out of their eyes, shooting their guns in the air in a futile attempt to regain just a sliver of their manhood. Complete failures have more pride.

After that first encounter, the posses grew larger and better prepared. Which was wise, because the monkeys had made it quite clear, this particular battle was being played on completely different terms. One night, a band of monkeys broke into the most popular Starbucks in the city and spent the night urinating and defacating into the coffee machines. About 100 people were happily served their morning coffee before someone noticed the monkey turd in his latte.

The mayor gave a late night speech and said any monkey could be shot on sight. He even said people could keep the dead monkey as a prize. It was a weird speech really. I mean, looking back, it was hard to stomach, the mayor, asking his citizens to take up arms against 17 smart assed monkeys. Two of whom were out homosexuals. It all seemed so tragic.

And then they were gone. Over the weeks there were monkey shit storms that closed bridges. The postal service found mail boxes filled to the brim with monkey poop. Starbucks was not the only fast food restaurant that found monkey droppings mixed with the food, but as I write this a federal judge who was nominated to the bench by George Bush, has issued an injunction that will not allow me to mention the burgers at Wendys, McDonalds, Burger King, Sandys Shack, Colonel Flemmer and Maxines Hair Pie. Not one of them was mentioned. Although most people suspect each and every one of those restaurants has served and may continue to serve burgers filled in part with monkey poop.

The posse finally figured out that the monkeys had taken over a building near downtown. They set about mounting a 100 man contingent of drunks, crazies and right wing whackos with weapons to turn the place into a shooting range. They showed up at 9 at night and no one was there. The 100 men kicked in the door and rampaged the entire building, firing shots just to do it and making a complete mess. Since that night, there has been no sign of any of the monkeys. Investigators estimate that in the 2 weeks of freedom, from gambling, bank robbing, prostitution and meth making, they probably made close to 10 million dollars, and the mayor is always quick to remind people that the monkeys did at least that much in damage to the city, to personal and public property and to the entire image of the region.

It's really kind of sad. I was at the zoo this morning and the monkey cage is empty. There is a sense that one of those once in a lifetime moments has just passed. Then, while cruising the internet, I saw this. Wedding