My friend Jerry is doing some research on gay bars in Vegas. I am disappointed to report that most of these bars are either located in strip malls or dark alleys. I don't think most gay men that I know would be caught dead anyway near these places (although should they venture out to any of them, it's likely they will be dead, as some of these places look like murder scenes.) Take a look and see for yourself.

http://www.vegas.com/nightlife/gayclubs/

Please, someone, send us some better ideas. Jerry's plane leaves tomorrow. Our request is urgent.

Attached is a movie “review” that was written by a man that is married to a former coworker of mine. A short introduction to the couple is necessary in order to accurately convey the absurdity of the situation at hand.

About Bobby (The Author) & Missy (The Wife who apparently forced him to view the "Mainstream" Film, which is the subject of his essay.)

1.He is a short, unattractive, Italian man who thinks he is the second coming of Martin Scorcese. He has actually used the word "genius" when describing himself to others. She is a tiny little blond woman who actually uses the word "genius" when describing Bobby.

2.He writes these letters (at least one of these per day) from his office at home. (Read: Tiny, bug infested, one bedroom apt on the Upper East Side where he cohabitates with his young wife Missy.) Missy thinks he is at home working on a script that is to become the Next Big Thing. He doesn't forward these messages to Missy, and she appears to be completely unaware of what he actually does throughout the day.

3.Bobby disappeared for an entire week right after they got engaged. Missy spent most of the time he was missing very upset and trying to contact him. When he returned (with no explanation) she took him back with no questions asked.

4.Bobby has no income.

5.Missy basically funded his last movie.

6.His last movie showed only once at a tiny theater downtown. The audience consisted of mostly friends and family who were more or less coerced into attending. The film was not picked up by a studio.

7.Bobby refuses to take public transportation because he doesn't like to "mingle with the commoners." (Exact quote)

8.In an effort to disguise her identity and protect her "reputation" Missy changes her shoes when she has to go to the restroom to relieve herself. God forbid someone think that she is human and actually would do something as horrid as going to the bathroom.

9.When I was Missy's assistant a few years ago, I asked her if she could possibly give me a little more responsibility. Some of these new and exciting tasks included: Making copies of a textbook for Bobby so he didn't have to pay for it, getting coffee and a bagel for her in the morning (one time I accidentally got regular milk instead of skim, and had to go back to the deli), and covering for her when she called in sick and was actually at a wedding in Cape Cod.

10.Missy’s car caught on fire once when she was driving to “The Cape.” She pulled over to the side of the road and ran out of the vehicle. Upon realizing that her fur coat was trapped inside the car, she risked life and limb, re-entered the burning vehicle, and pulled the dead animal pelt out of the car right before it exploded. (The car, not the fur coat)

11.In an effort to trick Bobby into marriage, Missy threw an incredibly expensive surprise birthday party for him. Missy hoped for a marriage proposal by the end of the night. What she got instead was a drunken Bobby who forgot so say thank you, and was actually angry at the extravagance.

12.A couple of months later. Missy proposed to Bobby, and gave herself her Grandmother's wedding ring.

And now the review: (I’ve left all spelling and grammatical errors intact)

Ben and Company,

Friday night I attempted with all my heart to watch a mainstream film with
Missy called "The Contender." It was brought to my attention by the
Charlie Rose Show during an interview with one of its stars Gary Oldman.
Gary was politely trying to avoid bad mouthing the films producers Spielberg and Katsenbaum totally disagreeing with the heavy handed politics behind the filmmaking.

Aware that Oldman is one of "three" living conservatives in the American
film scene, I expected him to have some what of a reaction to the typical
feminist revisionism-of-male-perception "thing", but this was a bit much.
It was difficult to watch the film because of the one-sided nature of the
content. Some one once said that a one-sided drama is actually propaganda
and that is exactly what this was. On top of that, this film was made
during the election with Al Gore and directly paralled the sexual exploits
of Bill and his trials.

One thing this showed was once again Hollywood is from Venus and doesn't
understand Mars. The constant barragement of claims as to a woman's right
to choose without ever considering how the other side might honestly feel
compelled to protect an unborn baby is preposterous! The constant
separating of character from government service as if they could be
separated is beyond naive: a great writer once said character is destiny.
Also, the belief that the only way to exact change on your world is
through politics. Politics are the answer to the human condition--politics
to reshape public opinion. This is a sign of what many including
Toqueville and later Carl Jung called America's "effeminization."

I think people generally mean well, but at times are misguided, but I
think the politicking in this film was over the top. It showed that
Hollywood is another mouth piece for the democratic party and
unfortunately for a lot of bad art. Fortunately, we have Ridley Scott and
Gladiator to remind us once again, why we are artists and human beings!

Oy. Please.

Nocturnal Admissions – 3/5/02 …...

We were living in a small farming community in the Midwest. “We” being Gina, myself, and a large group of unnamed hangers-on. Oddly enough, Gina and I were the proud owners of a sizeable dairy farm. We lived on some land with a magnificent farmhouse, a barn, several silos, lots of hay, and cows as far as the eye could see. There wasn’t much to the town other than our picturesque little farm…not much, that is, except for a GIANT nuclear power plant. The nuclear power plant was situated on the outskirts of the city limits, but was so large and obtrusive that you could see it from anywhere in the town. We had an especially good view of it from our cute little wraparound porch. One evening after a hard day working the fields, Gina and I were sitting on the porch swing sipping lemonade. All of a sudden there was a blinding flash of light and atop one of the cylindrical towers in the center of the Nuclear Power Plant there was a glowing red orb. It appeared to have sprouted out of the center and was growing ever larger by the moment. All of a sudden, all of our cows began coughing and sputtering and falling to the ground. Moos could be heard for miles around. One cow remained standing however, and Gina ran into the field to save it. She led the cow up to the house, and the three of us went immediate inside and turned on the TV to find out what was going on. The talking head on the TV screen told us that the Power Plant had been taken over by Russians. The Russians had planted a nuclear bomb inside of the power plant and were threatening to set it off if we didn’t meet their demands. (Their demands were never stated…it was just made clear that we should meet them). For some ridiculous reason, the Russians had implanted the trigger to set off the bomb in two unnamed people who resided in the town. One of these residents had already been kidnapped and was being held in the power plant. The other resident was currently being sought after. (Please note that this doesn’t make any more sense to me than it does to you. I’m simply reporting the craziness that my subconscious created.) According to The Russians, in order for this bomb to go off, the two carriers of the trigger had to hug each other. Upon hugging, the bomb would go off and destroy the world!!! True, it’s an odd and somewhat unreliable way to set a bomb off, but Russians are unconventional people, and they felt it would really make a statement.

Gina, the cow, and I, all looked at each other with tears in our eyes. What would happen to us? Why were the Russians picking on the residents of this sleepy little town? Who is the carrier of the second trigger? Why were we sitting in our living room with a very large dairy cow? At that very moment, there was a knock on the door. I looked outside and saw several imposing black sedans, and a large man in a fur hat standing on the porch. “Oh god…it’s one of us. One of us has the second the trigger,” I whispered. Gina and I frantically searched our clothing and bodies for this “trigger.” While searching, a flashing red light caught my eye. I looked up and realized there in Bessie’s cowbell was some sort of electronic device with a flashing red button. “NO!!! Not Bessie!!” Gina whispered loudly. Without another word, Gina selflessly slipped the cowbell off of Bessie’s neck, and hung it on around her own. “I won’t let Bessie be a part of this. I WON’T!” she said, and took off running out the back door toward the Nuclear Power plant. I followed quickly after her, leaving a very confused Bessie sitting on our living room floor.

I caught up with Gina about halfway across the field. She was quietly weeping next to one of her precious cows…now passed on to that great pasture in the sky. She gently patted its snout, and vowed to get the bastards who did this to her herd. I pledged my loyalty to the “cause” as well. We both looked back longingly at our quaint little farmhouse, now swarming with men in fur hats, and set off toward the Power Plant, the red orb growing bigger and bigger by the moment.

As we neared the power plant, we realized that in order to get to the plant itself, we had to cross a raging river. Weighing all the options, we decided the best thing to do would be to steal the boat that was sitting at the dock. Granted this was the only option available to us, but seemed to be a good one regardless. We hopped onto the boat, which conveniently had the keys in the ignition. Gina, claiming to know how to drive a boat, plopped down in the captain’s chair and started the engine. She started out onto the raging river. Clearly her skills at the helm were quite exaggerated, as we immediately capsized and found ourselves heading quickly down the raging river, flailing and kicking all the way. All of a sudden, Norm Macdonald from Saturday Night Live appeared at our sides. Strangely enough, he was swimming along very smoothly and was able to give us instruction on how to maneuver to the shore of the river. With Norm’s guidance, we smoothly made it to the other side. He pointed out that HE was the owner of the boat, and had been watching us all along. He had originally set after us in an effort to stop us from stealing, but after we capsized, decided to save our lives. You see, there was a Niagara Falls Sized waterfall directly in our path, and we were headed for a sure death. After explaining to Norm why we had stolen his boat, he forgave us quickly and gave us directions to the power plant. As Norm’s curly head faded into the distance, we realized that there was a beat-up red Camero coming down the road from the other direction. Figuring that no respectable Russian Soldier would be caught dead driving a beat up red Camero, and realizing that we were very tired and needed a ride, we figured it was safe and we flagged the car down. It came to a stop about 100 feet from us and out stepped what can only be described as “Hippie Teenagers.” “Oh god….its hippie teenagers,” Gina gasped. “They’re bad news for sure.” The Hippie Teenagers explained that they were in cahoots with the Russians and that they had been sent to take us prisoner and deliver us to the power plant. I began to walk toward them, and quickly realized that we could most likely escape with relative ease. Granted, there were three of them and only two of us, but since they appeared to be armed only with dreadlocks, hemp necklaces, and a mellow attitude, we made a run for it. Seeing that it would take a concerted effort to follow and capture us, and remembering that large bell-bottomed jeans make running difficult, the “Hippie Teenagers” retreated to their Camero and dejectedly drove off. (Russian Soldiers take note for future reference: Hippie Teenagers are NOT the best employees, especially when the job in question is “Kidnapper.”)

We trudged along for quite some time, and finally made it to the entrance of the Power Plant and went inside. Directly inside the door was the second person that carried the “trigger” to set off the bomb. He was tied up with thick rope, and was wearing a bag over his head. He was also holding in his hand a white flag. I ran over to the captive, and pulled off the bag, revealing Nathan Lane of “The Producers” fame. He thanked us profusely for saving him and wept as we untied his hands and feet. He handed us a note that his Russian Captors had given him. It said simply, “We Surrender.” Shockingly, the trauma appeared to be over. It was never explained exactly why the Russians had surrendered. It seemed to me that they had given up rather easily. I mean really….How could Russia have been intimidated by two pretty little dairy farmers like Gina and I? Why would we intimidate them? It seemed to be quite an elaborate scheme to hatch, only to surrender right away. Regardless of the motives behind the surrender, it was evident that we had won the day.

As I’m sure you can imagine, Nathan Lane’s fame reached a pinnacle following the kidnapping. One of the big networks even awarded him his own talk show. Naturally, he asked Gina and I to be his first guests. Instead of filming his show in a traditional studio in New York City or LA, Nathan decided to broadcast from the very town that had catapulted him to super-stardom. He came to us when it was time to build the studio, and purchased one of our dilapidated old barns. He quickly renovated it and turned it into a high tech set, with the nuclear power plant as a backdrop. We used the proceeds from the sale to purchase a new herd of dairy cows. We were back in business in no time at all.

Gina and I arrived at the studio on the day of “The Nathan Lane Show’s” premier excited, but quite nervous. There was an odd foreboding feeling in the air. We both sensed it. The show began quite innocently. Nathan filled his audience in on what he’d been up to, told a few jokes, danced a little dance, and then promptly introduced us to the audience. We chatted amicably or a few moments, Gina told everyone how well Bessie was doing, how our business had revived itself despite the death of our entire herd, and so on and so forth. It was when Nathan asked Gina why she was wearing a cowbell around her neck that things turned serious. Gina had taken to constantly wearing the cowbell around her neck. She felt it brought her good luck and its presence would always remind her of her own strength and determination. (It also made a terrible racket, but I let it slide, as she was very emphatic about her desire to wear the bell.) The interview came to a close and Nathan bid us adieu. I stood up, gave him a hug, and began to walk off. It was at that point that I realized that it was very likely that no one had removed the “triggers” to the nuclear bomb from Nathan, and Gina was still wearing that stupid cowbell. (Quite an oversight by the US Government I know, but hey…what do you expect from such a organization?) I turned around slowly, only to see Gina and Nathan reaching towards each other for an embrace. “NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!” I screamed. But it was too late. As Gina and Nathan embraced, there was a loud rumbling noise. The red orb atop of the Power Plant once again began to grow and before we knew it, the Power Plant was engulfed in a giant Mushroom Cloud that was rising towards the sky. Lucky for us, when renovating the barn into a TV studio, Nathan had built it to Bomb Shelter specifications. (He was understandably paranoid, having gone through what he did.) After the Mushroom cloud subsided, we looked outside into the pasture. It was barren, and it appeared that the whole town was gone. Naturally, the cows were dead once again. (Poor cows can’t catch a break here.) Luckily Bessie was in the studio with us, and her life was spared again. I looked over at Gina as she was slowly removing the cowbell from around her neck. I think it goes with out saying that she felt slightly bad about this unforeseen turn of events. I tried to reassure her that it wasn’t her fault, that she should have been warned that the bell was still dangerous. Her response to me was: “Damn. Do you know nuclear winter lasts for 6 years?” The End.

March 4, 2002

It took 3 years before I caught wind of the High Times annual entertainment awards, but last night I was finally able to participate in the extravaganza that is the Stony Awards. The event was held at B.B.King’s Blues Club on West 42nd Street, in that neon-sparkled monument to consumerism, the avenue-long stretch connecting Times Square to what is apparently becoming the New Times Square, a shit hole of a neighborhood formerly known as Port Authority. It was on this sensory-overloaded patch of urban ground that my friends and I waited for nearly an hour and a half to gain entrance (apparently behind hordes of people who arrived later than we did) to the event of the season in the lives of pot smokers everywhere. Some attendees traveled as far as Boston to honor their idols of pot culture, and some recipients such as Snoop Dogg and Ice T left the west coast for a night of east coast props.

As a novice to the Stony Awards, I wasn’t entirely sure of what to expect. Part of me envisioned a ghetto-style Oscars night, where bejangled rap artists and hangers-on gave acceptance speeches in front of an adoring crowd. But the fact that it was an awards show dedicated solely to pop cultural drug references gave me another visual image altogether, one in which boisterous drunks and the smog of the billowing joints overwhelmed any attempt to distribute awards. I pictured the whole thing dissolving into a very large college party, one in which Snoop Dogg may or may not join (knowing Snoop’s history for the no-show, I didn’t really expect him to be there.)

Tickets were $50, which translates to $59, for those of you who don’t speak “Ticketmaster.” It’s a pretty penny to pay for the possibility of an evening with Snoop, but with the allure of free drinks and food for 3 hours and the promise of being in the room with someone, anyone whose name started with the letters LIL (the possibilities were endless), my attendance was a no-brainer.

I was standing at the doors of the club, attempting to resolve a ticket discrepancy with a marijuana leaf wreath-clad bouncer, when two high-topped black vans with Jersey license plates (MUSICG and its partner MUSICK) pulled up to the curb and a buzz infiltrated the crowd. I knew enough to sense that something big was about to go down, and in a matter of minutes the doors of the vans opened and a cape clad, pimp hat-topped Snoop emerged with an entourage a dozen or more people strong. Among these people were a man in sparkle sun glasses and a lime green suit and matching hat, and an older man in a tiger print leather suit. In the confusion of the moment Snoop made his way towards the wrong door, and was led by the bumbling bouncers and posse to the entrance of the club, where I was able to snatch an image of His Dopesty as he sauntered in, late, but at least he made it.

This sighting gave me newfound hope, and I rejoined my friends in one of the two long lines of anxious attendees, representing such walks of life as Long Island high schoolers, dazed hippies, gangstas and glamsters. Minutes passed like hours, as we challenged ourselves to recall the last time we waited in line for anything. These moments of frustration were interspersed with moments of hope that kept us from going home. Ethan Hawke and a slew of messy-haired Gen Xers stumbled out of a cab, and George Clinton emerged from a large silver bus adorned with a badly air brushed Marilyn Monroe. Apparently B.B. King’s doesn’t have a “back door”; either that or this was their weak attempt at the red carpet entrance of Oscars fame. Either way, the end result was that those of us waiting were able to catch fleeting glimpses of the stars as they swaggered into the event.

We were constantly reminded of the long, painful passage of time by the computerized screen situated between Madame Toussaud’s wax museum and what appeared to be a multilevel food emporium with such palate pleasing restaurants as Jody Maroni’s Sausage Kingdom and Chili’s. A press conference was under way inside the club that needed to wrap up before we could be let in. Because all of the celebrity guests were running late (presumedly smokin’ up?) the doors did not open until about 8:30 pm, an hour and a half later than scheduled. Somehow my friends and I in spite of being among the first to arrive ended up being quite possibly the last people to enter the club.

Because of the poorly managed waiting process, we were among the slew of $59 ticket holders who didn’t actually get a place to sit. Still, that put us closer to the bar, where we continually refilled our house-vodka-drinks, beer, and wine in an attempt to make up for lost time. We were pleased to note, that true to what the suit from NORML and his Libertarian gubernatorial candidate friend had informed us before the lights went down (yeah, they were an interesting bunch), that as long as you brought your own, there was an all you can smoke policy as well. In no time we were toking in the hallway in front of the bathrooms (where an Mtv-VJ-Jessie lookalike told us he saw “Ethan Hawke take a piss”) and eventually smoking in the middle of the club, leaning against the wall for support. We snatched free cocktail weenies and mini egg rolls as they passed by on trays carried by the apathetic servers. I think I consumed 59 calories, not $59 worth, but oh well. That’s what you get for not shoving everybody in front of you in line in a mad dash to enter the club. Assholes.

The award show was somewhere in the middle of the scenarios I had expected – there was a host and awarders and acceptance speeches, but it all seemed so, for lack of a better term, half-baked. Jim Breuer, known for his Saturday Night Live character Sheep Boy, hosted the event, and was either very intoxicated or just not funny (or both). But as the bouncer had explained to me earlier in the night, it was a “mellow crowd”, and most people were satisfied enough with a pot reference a minute and the occasional sound of a bleating lamb from our evening’s host. Personally I couldn’t stand him, and soon understood why my roommate would leave the room whenever his sketch came on tv. That, and pot jokes, and a flagrant attempt to amuse us with his large belly, appear to be Jim’s schtick. Next, please.

To be frank it didn’t seem that the people in attendance paid much attention to the awards—this includes the awardees themselves. When Daniel Franzese (I think that's his name - the "fat" kid from Bully) was called to the stage to accept the best actress award on behalf of Bijou Phillips, a good minute or more passed before he actually made it onto the stage. If the front of the house was having as much fun as I and my friends were, I can only imagine what was going on behind the scenes. When Snoop accepted one of his two awards, he brought Ice T and the green suited man (apparently a famous pimp of sorts – and when I say that, I really mean pimp) and other members of his entourage. He gave an acceptance speech that was punctuated with a toke from a huge joint, and he thanked High Times and gave props to the night’s event, where he was “hanging and smoking” and generally being Snooper-cool.

I know that Ethan Hawke looked pretty messed up when he accepted his award, that the Bully kid had to come up to the stage something like three times (he was guilty of some-look-at-my-fat-belly nonsense too), and that Snoop won two awards. For the first I think he won best actor, which is likely, mainly because he was in about three films last year, thereby increasing his chances dramatically over the competition. For the second, the coveted Stoner of the Year award, he was awarded by George Clinton, and I was especially excited to see Atomic Dogg and Snoop Dog on the stage at the same time. So excited that I made my friend take a picture of me and another friend in front of the stage (which was really far from where we were standing, so we’re not expecting it to turn out) where George and Snoop were standing. I have a feeling the photo is going to be a lot of smoke and not a lot of Snoop. Not unlike the award show itself.

I did get my own personal hint of Snoop, or something akin to Snoop, when the tiger-leather clad older gentleman approached me as I lounged against (read: was held up by) the wall near the bathrooms. He identified himself as Snoop’s uncle and invited me back to their hotel. In spite of the SRO turn out the awards show had an air of intimacy, and with the warm glow of a good buzz coursing through my veins, I actually imagined that my friends and I would adjourn the Stony Awards in a miniature after party at the Omni Berkshire Hotel. In a logistical snafu this didn’t end up happening, and in the reality of sobriety I realize now that’s probably a good thing.

All in all the Stony Awards tickets were expensive, food was scarce, seats were limited, and the host was almost unbearable. For those who were not in a cab in search for the Snoop party during the performance following the “ceremony”, they may have felt they got their money's worth. For me, the evening was fun but something I need not repeat anytime soon. Thankfully they only come around once a year.

A dream I had a couple of months ago....

It was late on a rainy Monday Night when I got the call. I winced when the phone rang. When you've been doing this as long as I have, you begin to *know* when it's going to be bad news. You see, being a private investigator gives you instincts that the average Tom, Dick, and Harry just do not possess. The voice on the other line was my friend Beth. She was a cub reporter for the local daily rag and always had the hot scoop. "Jen," she said with a sigh, "he's struck again." "He" was a criminal that we'd been chasing for months. "He" was an unknown who had evaded the cops with such cunning and skill that they had turned to me: Jennifer S., Private Investigator.

The attacks began several months ago when a little girl was found whimpering underneath a twisty slide at the local playground. She was scared, but basically unhurt. The attack was unique in that the only injury to her person had been to her hands. You see, her fingernails had been bitten and chewed on just enough so that they looked ragged. Almost as if a mouse or a small woodland creature had been nibbling on them. Her cuticles had also suffered quite a bit of damage. No doubt, it WAS a puzzle. No one had seen a crime like this, well, ever really. The young girl was naturally traumatized, but through her pain she was able to give a basic description of the assailant. It wasn't much to go on, but she told the cops that the attacker was old, had chubby cheeks, and incredibly bushy gray eyebrows. It wasn't much, but it was a start.

The attacks continued to happen as many as 3-4 times a week. The victims were males & females of all ages and all races. The police searched in vain for a pattern of any sort, but came up with nothing. The description of the attacker was the same from every victim: Old, chubby cheeks, bushy eyebrows. It wasn't until the assailant attacked a harmless 80-year-old woman that the police finally got the lead that broke the case wide open. It seems that the victim was an avid fan of the well-known and much loved news magazine "60 Minutes." She was overcome with emotion when giving her statement, but she eventually was able to utter the two words that would bring this case to a head. "Aaannnddy Rooonneeey," she croaked. She swore up and down that her attacker was none other than Andy Rooney himself. It was shocking to think that the gentle face and tender voice that we associate with that sweet little man could be some how messed up in this kooky case. How could the author of such notable works as "A few Minutes with Andy Rooney," "More By Andy Rooney," and "Sincerely, Andy Rooney," commit a crime of such perversity?? It just didn't add up. Nonetheless, the search for Andy began in earnest. It was quickly determined that for all intents and purposes, Andy Rooney WAS missing. According to the producers of "60 Minutes", Andy was on a sabbatical. Unfortunately no one could locate him. Andy remained on the lam, and the vicious attacks continued.

Up until about a month ago I was not directly involved with this baffling mystery. I had been following what had been dubbed as "The Hunt for Andy Rooney" mostly on TV. Without a doubt it was a case that intrigued many citizens of this fair city. We all had been walking around like scared little rabbits, fearful of every dark corner and alleyway. We had been reduced to a society that was distrustful of old men with bushy eyebrows...it truly had become a sad state of affairs. It had gotten to the point where you could feel the tension rise every time a man fitting Andy's description entered a room. Old, bushy eyebrowed men were being needlessly persecuted everywhere. I could hardly even look at my own Grandfather without feeling a panicky feeling in deep in the recesses of my chest. It wasn't until this horrible monster victimized a close friend of mine that I began to work closely with the NYPD and the FBI in an effort to catch the criminal.

Gina Perino was a minor celebrity in the big apple, a media darling if you will. She hailed from one of the city's wealthiest families. Famous for her ostentatious wardrobe and outlandish dancing, she frequently swanned about the city with a large posse of fabulous people, causing no trouble, but entertaining those who were fortunate enough to be in her presence. I was lucky enough to be one of those people. She called me one night sounding very distressed, and begged me to come over as soon as possible. When her butler showed me to her study, she was hysterically crying. I knew what was wrong just by looking into her eyes. Andy had gotten to her. She hired me immediately to personally represent her. From that day forward it became my sole mission in life to bring Andy to justice.

This brings us to this Monday when I received Beth's call. Not only had Andy struck again, he had struck GINA again. THIS was unprecedented. The attacks had become more and more frequent, but he had yet to repeat a victim. According to reports, Gina had been found by a policeman in the back of a large Uhaul truck and had been taken immediately to a hospital. He found her sitting in the back of the truck, rather leisurely reading a People Weekly magazine. She had apparently summoned him there via cell phone. Beth told me that she was refusing to talk to the police until I had arrived at her side. When I got to the hospital I was told that she had barricaded herself in a private suite of rooms and was being heavily guarded. I was led there by an extremely large policeman who bore an uncanny resemblance to Andre the Giant (may he rest in peace.) The look of horror on her face was almost too much for me to take. I knew though that I had to remain cool and collected in order to take in and process all the evidence. Little did I know we were all in for the shock of our lives.

Unbeknownst to me, Gina had been doing a little private investigating of her own, and had tracked down a man whom she thought might be hiding Andy in his apartment. She took a deep breath and began to solemnly account an incredibly upsetting and tragic tale. Upon her arrival at the aforementioned apartment, she was roughly pushed from behind into a dark hallway. A large brawl quickly ensued. Well, actually, a rather small girlish brawl quickly ensued. There was a lot of hair pulling, scratching, bitch slapping, and the like. Mid-slap she realized that the person she was fighting appeared to be Andy Rooney. In a desperate attempt to fight him off, she grabbed hold of one of his excessively bushy eyebrows. Instead of inflicting hair-pulling pain on her attacker, much to her surprise, she found herself holding in her hand a rubber Andy Rooney mask. She glanced up at her assailant, and realized in horror that the person she was sparring with was NOT in fact Andy Rooney. She was staring directly into the face of Danny Pintauro, former child star of Who's the Boss. (I must digress for a moment, as it was at this point that I lost my cool. At one time in my life I was very close to Danny. We met in the spring of 1990 in Washington DC at the Respecteen National Youth Convention. He was the celebrity guest and I quickly became smitten. We enjoyed an abbreviated but passionate romance. Okay, maybe not passionate per se, but we did spend one glorious afternoon at the Georgetown Mall, walking the near empty corridors together…his father following close behind in a red leather “Who’s the Boss Jacket.”)

After I recovered from the initial shock of the news, Gina bravely continued on with her story. When she discovered that her foe was a tiny little man who in all likelihood could be defeated in any sort of physical altercation, all the fear left her body and she began laughing. Unfortunately the laughter and mockery really pissed off little Danny P., and he began to chase her. The chase didn't last very long as Gina was quite a bit faster than he was. She ran nimbly down the street while he clumsily followed. She noticed an open Uhaul truck and quickly ducked inside, closed the door, and sat quietly in hopes that she had lost him. Not surprisingly, she had easily outrun him and was safe and sound. Unfortunately the door was locked, and she found herself held captive by the very Uhaul truck that had provided her sanctuary. She quickly called the police on her cell phone tried to explain what had happened. Fortunately she had the People Weekly magazine in her bag to help pass the time, as it took the police some time to find her.

Danny Pintauro was found very quickly. After he lost Gina in the "big chase,” he went on a crime spree of sorts, unabashedly attempting to bite and chew the fingers of everyone he ran across. Robbed of the anonymity that the Andy Rooney mask provided, the police had no trouble locating him. A media firestorm quickly erupted and brought on the trial of the year. Though there was much speculation, the motivation behind these senseless attacks was never made clear to the general public. Danny is currently serving 3 months in a minimum-security psychiatric ward. It was Gina's testimony that put him away. Andy Rooney was located a week later. He was found at a private Swiss hospital recovering from a facelift. He has since decided not to sue Danny for defamation of character.

From: GXXP
Sent: Friday, February 01, 2002 1:20 PM
To: Showban
Subject: RE: you not on IM yet..

hey babe

you missed a good one. all i can say is the highlights are as follows:

-scott, the friendly neighborhood gay straight bartender who i made out with the last time i saw him, made us delicious drinks, played with our plastic jesus statue, and allowed me, at the end of the night, to recite shakespeare with him (he's auditioning for the tempest). i waltzed behind the bar, grabbed his, er, "package", and made out with him shamelessly. the customers were ignored for quite sometime, until eventually, one of them beseeched my beloved Scott "bartender, praythee may i have a drinketh? i am dying of thirst." scott also happens to have a crush on jen and called me after his shift, but i was passed out on the couch and didn't want to answer my phone.

-jerry, my lovah, hit on my friend heather. i called him a whore. he knows i was only kidding. i also introduced him as "my gay boyfriend" to scott, my "other gay boyfriend." jerry tried to light my hitter box - not the hitter, the actual BOX, at the bar, and doesn't know how he got home.

-reza, our beloved sales engineer, at one point of the evening, quit. he just fucking quit his job. he nearly did the same thing at the christmas party, but didn't leave as he did last night, hugging us and bidding us farewell. he is working from home today and apparently waiting to hear from HR on monday about his "status". he does remember how he got home, and apparently got into a fight with his friend. a knock down drag out fight that has left him bruised and pained, but as he says, they "cool" now.

-stevie also confessed to having a crush on jen and admitting that he wants to have sex with women. he invited me to a superbowl party on sunday given by his friend whose mom is an ambassador in the dominican republic. i am supposed to act as if i don't realize this and drop into conversation that i am going there in april. apparently he is a generous man and will likely invite me to stay in his mom's palatial estate. stevie, like jerry, does not remember how he got home last night. i was the last one to see him, belly up to the bar, talking to a misogynist englishman that verbally attacked me a number of times, at which point he would apologize, but 5 minutes later say something rude about women again.

-heather cried.

-jen had a merry band of onlookers, the most appalling of which was frans, who apparently told her she was hot and grabbed her ass. last night i found this funny and called frans at home to harass him about it. this morning i took it all in and got very upset about the whole thing. i pounded my keyboard in an IM rage, told frans his band sucks and that i support him anyway and don't appreciate him hitting on my friends, who all think he's a big jerk anyway. i marched over to his cube, which is one row behind mine, with my headset still attached to my head. i bungeed back for a second, threw it off my head, and then asked him, in front of the whole office (well, the only people who had made it in by 10 am, that is, which is not many) "who the fuck do you think you are?!" he conceded to talking it out downstairs. he claims to not remember much, and denies malicious intent, and also does not remember how he got home last night.

-jen left with her new russian, to go to scores. jen apparently looked like hot shit last night. good for her.

-jayme was not there but had to get her two cents in and sent this missive to frans:

Franz,
In light of recent events, I feel as if I can at long last confess my true feelings to you. It has come to my attention that you have no ethical qualms whatsoever, with propositioning your recent ex's nearest and dearest friends. Everyday I pray to sweet Jesus in heaven that one day you will grab my ass in public.
Jayme

i live a fucking funny life. i have rockstar stories too. the email flirtation is reaching climactic proprotions. we must see one another soon. jen and i have concert tix tonight, would you like to meet us after?

Are YOU Ready for Mush Hour??

(Disclaimer: This “review” was written based solely on a single viewing of the trailer of the film. I am in no way implying that the information in this “review” is accurate in any way whatsoever. In addition, please note that NO stunt huskies were injured in the process of formulating this trailer review)

I was innocently watching TV the other day, when I was involuntarily thrust into the cruel world of anthropomorphically-oriented inter-species cinema. My “Real World: Back to NYC” marathon was rudely interrupted by a trailer for a movie starring Oscar-Award-Winning-Actor Cuba (pronounced: Kooba) Gooding Jr (of Jerry McGuire Fame). It seemed innocent enough at first, although it looked rather appalling. Cuba (Kooba), was basking in the sun on the shore of a magnificent beach. He was clearly well off and accustomed to “the good life”, a fact not stated clearly, but instead made apparent by his leisurely attitude and frothy drink in hand. Suddenly, and seemingly without any explanation, Cuba (Kooba) was all wrapped up in a fluffy parka and assorted snow gear. As the camera panned away from him it was revealed that he was definitely NOT on a fancy ski vacation in Aspen as one might expect. He was instead standing at the helm of a dog sled, with 8 beautiful huskies harnessed and ready to pull him smoothly over the icy tundra...or so we were made to think. The camera once again closed in on Cuba (Kooba), and he said something to the effect of, "This has gotta be just like driving a snowmobile." Just after he made this foreboding remark, there was a close-up on the lead sled dog who winked mischievously at the other dogs, and took off running. Naturally Cuba (Kooba) was not ready for this and tumbled comically off the sled. The voice boomed again: "Are YOU ready for Mush Hour." (It was at this point that I began to get flashbacks of a similar movie I once watched on a flight to Seattle called MVP: Most Valuable Primate. MVP: Most Valuable Primate told the story of a plucky little chimpanzee who took a liking to ice hockey, and helped a rag tag group of kids win a championship.) Perhaps I was in shock that this movie wasn't a joke (I checked twice that I wasn't on Comedy Central and was mistakenly viewing a back episode of SNL), but it wasn't made clear at all exactly how Cuba (Kooba) came to be the driver of a group of sled dogs. I'd be willing to bet a pretty penny on the fact that he inherited some shack in this undisclosed snowy locale, and had somehow gained custody of said team of sled dogs. More likely than not, this team of sled dogs was a champion team of sled dogs. This is all, of course, merely speculation on my part. We were then introduced to the dogs (I was frantically scribbling this down, so forgive me if they are incorrect): Deisel, Scoop, Nanna, Yodel, Sniffy, Mack, Duchess, and Demon. Demon appeared to be the leader AND the troublemaker - go figure. As one might expect, the personality of each individual dog was directly related to the NAME of each individual dog. Diesel appeared to be fast, Nanna - the voice of reason, Duchess seemed rather regal, and Sniffy...well, you get the picture. The rest of the trailer was rather unclear, but as you can imagine, the dogs were trouble from the word “MUSH”. Cuba (Kooba) was not a natural sled dog racer and went through the standard trials and tribulations that one might expect a man to go through when faced with the challenge of learning to race sled dogs. The dogs definitely had it in for Cuba (Kooba). They were constantly rebelling and being exceedingly wild. I MAY have even seen one of them smoking a cigarette while attending a raucous party that one of the dogs was hosting, but I'm not quite sure. It seems a bit far-fetched, although after MVP: Most Valuable Primate, nothing really surprises me anymore. I suppose it could have been one of those horn-type things that you blow on at birthday parties, but a cigarette just seems so apropos. I do have to note that throughout the trailer, we are treated to snippets of the dogs actively plotting against their intrepid new sled driver. Playing tricks on him, driving him off cliffs, wearing funny hats, that sort of stuff. I've never seen such a spectacle. In addition to having to constantly combat the plotting and scheming of the sled dogs (especially Demon - he's particularly naughty), Cuba (Kooba) also had a rival in an old curmudgeonly fellow that was apparently trying to take the dogs away from him. Towards the end of the trailer, it appeared that the dogs had begun to take a liking to Cuba (Kooba), and all had become ostensibly hunky dory. I don't know exactly how the movie ends, but we all know that this ain't rocket science, and once again I'd be willing to make bets on what happens. Perhaps there is a final sled dog race that is very important. Perhaps Cuba (Kooba)'s ownership of the now beloved group of dogs, Diesel, Scoop, Nanna, Yodel, Sniffy, Mack, Duchess, and Demon, rides on this race. Perhaps, he will lose his dogs and sled to the old man if he doesn't win. Perhaps. Regardless, I'll wager that he DOES win; as the final shot of the movie is of Cuba (Kooba) and his team of 8 huskies leisurely sunning themselves on the very beach that Cuba (Kooba) sunned himself on at the beginning of the trailer. The dogs, of course, were all wearing matching bathing suits and visors. Despite the fact that they had obviously been ripped out of their natural habitat, they seemed rather happy. One can only hope.

Are YOU ready for Mush Hour?? Are you???? I know I am.

Our first submission from Mark, our Paris correspondent! Read on...

00.47, June 21st 2002, Paris, and the city is on fire. I have to share this with you.

Taking place outside my bedroom window as I write this, is La Fete de la Musique, an annual music festival that takes over the streets of Paris, takes over the pavements, the squares, the boulevards and avenues, in a melee of seemingly uncontrolled musical hysteria that brings out the wild and life loving side of everyone around.

I have enjoyed many nights out in this amazing city, but this evening has been special.

A night of constant and ever changing beats, pitches, tones and tempos, that on almost every corner manifests itself as the best night out in Paris.

Walking, no dancing through the narrow streets, I have come across such a tapestry of sounds as to be uncertain as to which I like best. The roughness of the Indy band with its lyrical and fresh, though inaudible rhythm; the just-as we-like-it romance of the jazzy quartet with their homely and innocent look; the two little girls, no more than 12 years old, playing the flute to perfection; the fantastic color of the Gay jungle sound, surrounded by hoards outside the Open Bar in the Marais where, the street packed with chanting boys, all whooping at the heavy dance music, a sprightly young lad dances provocatively up a lamp post, suggestively wiggling his bottom.

Black, white, homo, hetro, young and old....who gives a damn, the streets are packed, the drinks are flowing, the air is filled with a hint of grass and hardly a policeman to be seen, this truly must be the best music event ever held outside of a field.

The only people having a nightmare of course are those driving. They can't move, and we pedestrians love it. Honk your horn all you like because we aren't moving, at least not out of your way. This another of those beautiful Parisian nights when anarchy takes over and 'the sensible' be damned. If you have somewhere to go, go tomorrow. Tonight it's about release, and in Europe anyway, no-one does release better.

June 2003. Make sure you are here.

Mark

We just received the following Very Important Memo in our inbox.....

From: 4 Star Vending
To: Customer
Due to an equipment malfunction, the dollar and change intake slots of vending machine VS-B12-1196-F7, are not accepting amounts being distributed in paper, dime, or quarter form. The problem is tentative at best, but for the moment, vending machine VS-B12-1196-F7 is only accepting nickels.
Again, we apologize for the inconvenience, and hope to have the matter rectified as soon as possible.

Sincerely,
4 Star Vending

Per chance, does anyone have any nickels I can change for my dimes, quarters, and "paper" money? Please!!! I really need some pretzels.

It’s happening again. Someone has invented a completely superfluous product and has purchased air time on Animal Planet to entice me to purchase. Although I had the volume off for the duration of the mini-informercial, it is clear to me what PILLOWREST is, and what evils and annoyances it has been created to destroy. The 30-45 second clip is replete with examples of people with incredibly frustrated expressions on their faces as they lay back in bed onto two flat, unruly cotton slivers of pillows, or those pesky cumbersome armed reading pillows, ala those covered in brown courderoy and impossible to find in any home furnished after 1979. But soon these offensive excuses for a pillow can be purged from your life, for with two simple down paymentsof $19.95 + shipping and handling, the PILLOWREST and its alluring satin sheath (a $20 value, but yours free!) can be yours. The PILLOWREST can be manipulated into an upright or slanted position, and judging by the faces of the people on tv, will rid you of fitfull sleep at the hands of badly constructed pillows forever. Or at least until the day that you donate them to Goodwill after taking a look at your bed, a very long hard look at the PILLOWREST, and realizing that you must have been pretty stoned when you ordered it. Either that, or very, very tired.

Someone on tv is trying to sell me an automatic butter spreader – the Butter Butler. The commercial shows bumbling, disgruntled cooks and eaters slapping chunks of cantankerous oleo on their corn (a red slash slices through this image in the event that we didn’t realize what a BAD thing butter chunks can be) and mauling a slice of white bread while trying to spread more disagreeable blocks of bad better. An offensive butter dish on which rests a yellow chunk coated in crumbs and one with dark congealed corners are thrown in the trash. All this to sell me a $19.99 contraption that makes spreading butter EASY, PAINLESS, and APPETIZING. I thought the epil-stop-n-spray was scary, I found the abdominzor too good to believe, but this – this is just downright insulting. Butter Butler and the evil mastermind behind your existence – be damned!

Yogaholic- One who is addicted to the art of yoga. Manifestations of the syndrome include rearranging your entire schedule around class and thinking about yoga all the time (when am I going to go this week? when? when!)

Seatus Interuptus:

There is this odd phenomenon that has been taking place on the subway these days. For the 3rd or 4th time in the past month or so, I have been physically forced out of my seat on the train. I completely understand the desire to acquire a seat on the subway, especially when your commute is quite long. Nothing is more frustrating than being beaten out in a race for that last coveted seat. Countless times I've intensely studied the spaces between all the "sitters" on the train, trying to figure out precisely how much space is cumulatively available between all the people sitting on the seats. I find myself having an angry and somewhat desperate inner monologue that goes more or less like: "If all those seat hogs just scooted right next to each other, SOMEONE ELSE COULD SIT DOWN. It's not fair! I want to sit down!! Scoot over. PLEASE!! I beg you. PLEASE!!" My point being that I clearly understand the desire to sit down, yet for the rest of my days I will never be able to figure out the motivation behind what happened to me yet again this morning. I was innocently reading a book, minding my own business, and all of a sudden there was an ass right in front of my face. Now, often on the subway you look up to find an ass in your direct field of vision. However, THIS ass was a different type of ass. It was an ass with a purpose, an ass lookin' to cause some trouble, an ass that has one goal and one goal only: To SIT DOWN. So there I was, minding my own business, when this ass began to move. Sensing what was about to happen, I knowingly gave a frightened look to my right or my left and realized that there was only a miniscule bit of seat available between the man sitting next to me and myself. It was quite clear that the space was about 1/10 of the width necessary to accommodate said ass. The person wedged one cheek into this sliver of space and wiggled around a bit. This tactic got her nowhere, and as one might assume, something had to give. This “something” that gave was not the intruder as one might naturally expect, it was instead the poor individual that was sitting next to me. The kind gentleman sitting to my left was forced out of his seat, narrowly escaping a fall to the floor. He shot the woman a nasty look, and walked quickly away from the scene of the incident. Unfortunately the vacated seat still did not afford enough room to accommodate the intruder, and I ended up wedged between this incredibly rude woman and the very hard, very cold railing that was to my right. I was so startled and so uncomfortable that all I could manage to say was, "Um, Okay. That's one way to do it." She replied by simply throwing her arms up in the air as if to say, "I had no choice,” and began doing her needlepoint...jabbing me with her elbows the rest of the ride on the train. I have a big bruise on my right arm where I was smashed up against the rail.

Seatus Interuptus: An interruption that occurs while sitting in a seat on any form of public transportation. This interruption is caused by rude individuals who have a skewed perception of their body size, and attempt to fit into spaces that are too small to accommodate their girth. The act of seatus interruptus results in either the relinquishment of your own seat to the intruder OR a very uncomfortable sitting situation for the remainder of your time on the train/bus/subway.

Word! Bitch-Sessions in da hizzy!