Five happinesses

Caprica. Holy crap, what good stuff! BSG fans, if you haven't seen this -- a prequel to the rebooted BSG series -- you are missing out. AWE.SOME. Incidentally, it contains not only Trixie from Deadwood, but also Eric Stoltz, who has aged quite well (though not as well as his silvering fox castmate Esai Morales, hey now!).

Organix Teatree Mint shampoo. Get you some at Target. It’s, um, organic, and sulfate free and all kinds of good stuff, plus smells like Andes Candies, and gets your actual head clean (not just the hair). Which reminds me:

Andes Candies. Love these things. Such a satisfying tactile thing they got going on, like tiny little gold ingots (in green paper). And they’re delicious! Just don’t give me that auslander shit with those other flavors. Mint or die. And speaking of delicious:

Bourbon pecan pie. Made it for the first time ever, for Thanksgiving. Home run, y’all. Bourbon bourbon bourbon. I love bourbon. And pie.

The Whale That Ate Jaws. Fuckin Great White shark cruisin the Farallones for easy-peasy sea lion snaxx, thinks he’s the shit and ain’t nobody can step up on him. Fuckin killer whale’s all, hey man, I just ate like four sea lions already, bro, but guess what? BOOM! She T-bones the shark, flips him & puts him into TONIC IMMOBILITY, carries him around in her jaws for fifteen minutes while tourists are all OMG did you see that? Waits till shark’s dead, rips out its liver, leaves the rest of it to the gulls! And just like when Omar’s back in town, all the lil stoop kids clear out … sharks left town and didn’t come back for YEARS. Fucking AWESOME!

She’s changing her name from Kitty to Karen / She’s trading her MG for a white Chrysler LeBaron

Monday Salad
Try it, it's tasty.

1) OK, what the F is Jimmy Jo Cameron up to with this Avatar thing? This guy knows. “Fuck it Cams, they're pretty much all Legolas already."

2) Question, Internets: Why do people continue to allow Sandra Bullock to be cast in speaking roles in televisual/filmed entertainments of any sort?

3) Yeah, you know what, Ticketbastard auto-email – I’m gonna go ahead and skip the upcoming Larry the Cable Guy show. It’s just, you know, babysitters are SO expensive, and besides all my Palin 2012 and "Pray for Obama: Psalm 109:8" tees are at the cleaners. Good read on my tastes, though. Real good read.

4) I miss New York a lot this time of year.

Sometimes Mr. Gleemonex is a little slow with the goddamned TiVo remote.

OK, so this fucking awful Kohler commercial with the hot lady plumber. It has to die, and whoever “concepted” and storyboarded and sold and produced the fucking thing has to die with it. Hopefully in a bonfire that I set.

Here’s why.

--The story is, guy walks out of his house in the morning, sees hot lady plumber going in the house next door. She gives him the eye, he thinks he has a shot. He runs back into his house, starts flushing stuff down his Kohler toilet: a hand towel, his wife’s cute lingerie, a bunch of travel-sized toiletry bottles, and finally a 50-lb sack of dog food. Joke’s on him, because the Kohler swallows it all and asks for more. KILL KILL KILL STAB STAB STAB.

--Hot lady plumber? Where do they have those?

--You’re married, dickbag. And your wife is home. What kind of action do you think you’re going to get?

--Especially when the thing is, the hot lady plumber would have to come over because YOUR TOILET IS CLOGGED. Do you really want the kind of action that would ensue if the hot lady plumber is in fact turned on by unholy and unspeakable things blocking up the shitter?

--What is the message here? “If you regularly take massive, horrifying shits that back up the plumbing of your whole goddamned cheese-eating neighborhood, then by Jimmy, this is the can for you!” Because: nice. Real nice.

--The very CONCEPT of a toilet commercial. GOD.

Son ...

I am holding my temper very carefully with both hands. If I trip, or you trip me, or the wind shifts or there is a tiny tiny little earthquake in Aptos or one of the dirtbags next door plays his shitty music just a smidge louder than usual or even one extra seagull shits on the Farallones, well, I might lose my grip on it. My temper, that is. And please let me assure you: That is not a sight you would like to see. I lose my temper, I drop it to the floor, and the motherfucker will burn a hole through the fucking linoleum, react chemically with the subflooring, and erupt in a volcano made of MELTED YOU.

So: Back off now, Chuck. Right motherfucking now.

TAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAME!

Back to back nights of rocking the fuck OUT is hard on the old bones, y’all. I don’t know how Pixies do it – they’ve all got ten years on me, and they’re out there DOING the actual rocking, night after night for weeks and months in a row, and all I did was stand in the audience and scream my face off while they did it for two of those nights and I am ready to RETIRE to a goddamned NURSING HOME.

Which is to say: If you have the chance to see Kim & Joey & Frank & Dave on their Doolittle tour, I fucking insist that you do so. Do it twice, do it three times – life is too short not to rock as hard as you can.

Also: You sure do spend a lot of time churchin. Like, more than most, is all I'm sayin.

Further Things I Wish I Could Have Told My Sixteen-Year-Old Self, Not That I Would’ve Listened to Me

--Andre Agassi is not going to marry you.

--Nor is Charlie Sheen.

--Or River Phoenix.

--Definitely not George Harrison.

--And not John Lennon even if he were still alive.

--Sassy magazine is not going to pick you for their Reader-Produced Issue. Don't waste your time. Buncha too-cool-for-school bitches up in there, for real.

--You could do worse, wardrobe-wise, than the Heathers/Twin Peaks thing you got going. Actually that's pretty cool. Would you mind telling me where you stored that awesome green plaid miniskirt? Just, like, write a note or something. Put it in the top dresser drawer.

--There's a career, or at least a serious hobby, in writing those ad-hoc screeds of yours, which currently find outlets in more or less inappropriate places (the US Mail, the high school yearbook, the letters to the editor of the Hometowne Newspaper, actual essays for actual grades in school, etc.). It's called the Internets, it's a series of tubes, and despite your initial WTF? reaction to the very concept, and your failure to get an email address until 1997, you are going to LOVE IT.

--No, that Roxy Carmichael movie didn't make any sense to anybody else, either. Oh well, Winona looked good in it, and you got a lot of quotes out of it that you'll still be using, apropos of nothing and to absolutely NO ONE'S understanding, 21 years from now.

--"I didn't promise. I said I'd TRY NOT TO." See? Nobody on earth got that one, not even Winona. Heh.

Harry, I have no idea where this will lead us, but I have a definite feeling it will be a place both wonderful and strange.

A Few Things That Are Fucking Awesome

--Friday Night Lights. It’s back, y’all (if you have DirecTV), and OMS – how something this big a king-hell bummer could possibly be so fucking good is a mystery that I hope they never solve. It’s hooked into that same vein of secret super-pure crystalline awesome as The Wire, Deadwood, and Mad Men – who knows where the juice comes from, just as long as it keeps coming.

--Oscar Mayer Fully Cooked Bacon. You assholes – you kept this from me, deliberately. OK, maybe you didn’t – maybe YOU didn’t know about it either. But – where has this stuff been all my life? I am the only bacon-eater in my household (so far), and no way am I going to the trouble of frying that stuff up just for me. But now, a few minutes in a toaster oven to heat and crisp it, and BAMMO! Bacon. Tasty, wonderful bacon. Fuck yeah, bacon!

--This list from 11 Points (because as you know, ten-point lists are for cowards): 11 Things You Did in High School That You’ll Still Talk About When You’re Thirty. He’s 11 for 11 on this one, kids.

--This, from my girl uncouth heathen:

It would be many years before the stars of Hollywood would shine on this face, but shine they did and old Ginger and I danced the shit out of that place. We could have tapped the hell out of every one of those Dancing with the Stars professionals, including that Derrick Hough who thinks he’s sexy with his smooth hairless chest, but let me tell you something. If you’re going to dance, there is no time for waxing and shaving and sneezing and pussyfooting around. That wouldn’t have cut it on the studio lot when we were filming for 36 straight hours a day. There were no bathroom breaks or lunch breaks or dinner breaks. The only breaks we got were leg fractures from tapping the living daylights out of Puttin’ on the Ritz. You think that I did that healthy and in my prime, Derrick Hough? You think I was a spring chicken with my whole life ahead of me and no ailments to hold me back? THINK AGAIN! I had shingles, the trots and a burst appendix. I was half dead. They had to shoot me up with liquid cocaine for the last half of that number. It was all they could do to keep me on my feet and that’s how things went back in the day, when I was on Dancing with the Stars. And you know what? I was so fucking good that the only star was me, Mr. Fred God Damn Astaire. I could top spin and fish tail and kick ball change before you knew what hit you, motherfucker. That’s what happened back in my day.

I tried to do a shorter excerpt, but I couldn’t. Go, read it all, laugh till you can’t laugh no more.

--And finally: THE YANKEES WIN! THAAAAAAAAAA YAN-KEEES WIN!!!!!!! Oh, kids – there is joy in the Gleemonex household once more, with the World Series championship back where it belongs, Derek Jeter getting back what is rightly motherfuckin’ his, Matsui-san showing that he really is part radioactive dragon-beast and also a very polite young man … and with my boy Mariano’s smile lighting up the universe, I didn’t even begrudge sharing the trophy with A-Rod or Damon (much). Holy elephant-eared SHATNER, does it feel good to win this thing again.

Fuck.

Oh, Maine.

How could you? Seriously, guys. What the fuck.

Also, what I have decided to believe was a father & teen daughter. Yes, I'm sure that was it.

People In the Scotts Valley, CA, Starbucks between 6:30 and 7:30 a.m. on Sunday, Nov. 1

--Four ladies on their way to church. One had a pair of absolutely killer fireapple-red patent heels on, but I know Church People and their flowerdy-dress Church Outfits, and these ones were heading churchward, F-me shoes notwithstanding.

--Two separate late-40s parent + young teenage son combos. Parents looked rumpled but pleased to be hanging with the sons; sons looked cheerful. It was weird.

--Gaggle of hungover hipsters. Why they bothered to get up that early, I could not tell you.

--20-ish soccer hottie, his petite Asian girlfriend, and her seriously old-school mom. I guess the ladies were planning on a fun 90 minutes on the sidelines. At 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday. Ugh.

--Late-30s dad with 4-year-old girl, wobbly toddler boy. Gave me the old “So you got the early shift today, too, huh?” look of pained but rueful resignation.

--Adulterers, who arrived in a Porsche. Fiftyish guy, thirtyish blonde. Waiting for their order, they browsed the mugs n’ whatnot. She picks one up and says, “These are like the ones your wife has.” He confirms.

--At least half a dozen trim mid-30s/early40s women dressed as if they were on their way to or from one of those “Awake and Refresh!” type bullshit yoga classes, where they will see other women just like them who will recognize the fact that they paid probably $350 for the outfit they’re about to lie around on mats in.