Blog about a dog, a log, a hog, a clog

Reggie had a little dog who dropped not so little logs

Because the little dog ate like a great big hog

One day, Reggie found some in his left clog

stupid dog

Outta' Work, Outta' Luck and Outta' Time.... Getting Spaghetti-Faced in the Boot's Heel.

101 and degrees outside and probably more inside this aluminum tomb. Even though I'm nobody much anymore -- I still thought the distant memory of who I used to be -- along with a massive snit fit on the set this morning would have managed at least some sort of effort to fix this antique window unit ac barely hanging on to the window. When a slight northerly wind does manage to find its way across the mediterranean and into this Italian snithole; I hear the window unit hang on for dear life -- clawing its way out slowly. Patiently waiting to make its escape from this aluminum box of failure.

I look around. It's only 3pm on my second day and you'd think I'd been here for a month. I have managed to soil this box with every kind of sin and careless trace of manhood a fella' my age can muster. You name it, dirty socks, booze cups and bottles, white powdered fragments of a broken mirror from the wired night before, a bloody hanky documenting my habit.
And most despairingly of all - a plate of spaghetti in my bed. My brain starts to piece it all together when the door starts rattling off the hinges.
"Senor Goodpenny, eeez time for you to get ready for jer scene senor."
I start to answer, but only hear a hollow wheeze from miles away puff and squeak its way up my chest. What comes out isn't close to the message my brain sent down to the boys in control of my tongue.
"Sure, come on in Johnny." I call him Johnny, only then remembering the thirty mnute conversation on how to pronounce Gianni.

Gianni enters and looks around at the disaster that perfectly reflects my life. Remind me never to play poker with this Sicilian, because he never even flinches. "Ciao Jake, ciao. Eets time for jour beeg scene senor."

I tell the boys down in control of linguistic dept to tell Gianni that there's no way in hell I can do the scene. But what comes out is again is entirely misrepresentative. "I've been waiting for this scene all week. Can't wait to do this." My brain shrieks in abject horror at the thought of going through the scene with a dozen Italian B level hacks for a director whose biggest claims to fame are for banging a former Miss Italy and a VW commercial (in that order.)

Gianni tenderly cupped my elbow and lead me into the bathroom. I grabbed a half bottle of warm red off a coffeetable on the way. "Ju want to step into the shower senor." It was not a question. As I passed the mirror and glimpsed at my bare wire torso; I took in the image of the remains of angel hair pasta and marinara splattered about my chest and neck.

The water came down on me with an unconditional hatred -- spitting and sputtering juju bead droplet sized dragon tears. The water wasn't just warm, it was dank and it smelled like rotten eggs.

"Eeeets normal in small villages such as this. It's the well water, sulphur springs. Is good for the skin."

"If I cared about my skin, I wouldn't make a living shooting westerns in the desert for the past twenty years." Gianni tossed me a towel that rally didn't qualify as a towel -- more of a meaty dishrag in my humble opinion. As he went on about how the dailies were looking better than any other filml shot in Italy as of late, my mind drifted off to the laundry list of mistakes I made that got me booted out of fancy hotels in Beverly Hills and into this crap box on the other side of the world. I didn't miss fame, I didn't even miss the money, I missed the flexibilty. I am a whore. A whore available to the highest bidder. The worst part about being a whore isn't the whoring... It's the lack of options. All actors are only as good as what's offered them, and all actors are used to settling for scraps. But, the good thing in my life up until now was the flexibility. I used to be able to choose my scraps. Now, my scraps choose me.

"Really Mr Goodpenny, you need to put on your shirt now,' Gianni coaxed as he effortlessly snuck the wine bottle out of my hand and led me to the trailer door.

Suddenly the sun was on me like an angry cat. I staggered into the desert and tried my hardest to pry my eyes open just the tiniest bit. As I did, I saw the set was peppered

Hey,

I don't feel that anyone really can find the time to read these blogs.

It's too much -- really. Blah, blah, me, me, me. Thsi is what happened to me today. Here's how I feel about George Bush -- BARF!

Truly, boring.
So, I've decided to lie.

This morning I awoke to the sight of Jacob, the ghost that lives in my closet. Ironically, he informed me this morining that he is gay. "I'm gay Jeff, and you're just going to have to deal with it!"
"Gay?"
"Yes Jeff, I am tired of living this lie and hiding from who I am."
"Jacob, you're not really anyone, you're an apparition; a shadow of your former self."
"I knew this would happen. Jeff, you don't have to be so defensive. Just because your ghost is gay, doesn't mean you are."
"I know that. I just didn't know ghosts had a proclivity one way or the other."
"Sista' please, Casper? The friendly ghost?"
"Good point. Well, feel free to be who you are Jacob."
"I will."
"Good"
"Fine"
It was fine -- for awhile. Until, Jacob's newly liberated lifestyle began to get in the way of my life. Particularly the late night activity. Don't get me wrong, I was quite used to Jacob stirring in the attic at midnight. Chains would rattle, some moaning, creaking floors; I accept all that without any griping. In my opinion, that all comes with the ghost -- if you want a ghost in your life, you have to make allowances. Besides it was never that intrusive to my lifestyle. Occcasionally, if I had company and Jacob really wanted attention, maybe a picture would come crashing off the wall. Some guests would run out of the house screaming in terror, se la vie when you have a ghost.

But now, instead of chains and the occasional poltergeisting. Those rather standard activities were replaced with techno music at four in the morning and the overwhelming smell of petruli oil. And just when the rave would thin out; it was time for Sunday brunch with Cole Porter, Truman Capote and Rock Hudson. Other times, Liberace would drop by and play piano for what seemed an eternity. That was particularly annoying because he was going through a Belle and Sebastian phase. Not to mention the "American Idol" parties. You thought that show was annoying, try watching it with thousand year old fop Brit royalty.
"Who's Elton John?"
"Only the greatest performer to come out of Britain since the Beatles, your lordship."
"Who are the Beatles? Make me another one of those delicious apple martinis."

I tried very hard to accept Jacob and his new friends. I did. I'll tell you what, it's not easy explaining away the rainbow sheets flitting by my window to nosy neighbors. Not to mention my bathroom is now a bath-house.
I tried to define some boundaries, but that's never easy when dealing with the dead. Let alone the gay-dead. They always over-react in fits of rage.
"Jacob, I'm just saying that maybe happy hour for ghosts is a little bit of a contradiction in terms."
"I knew it. I knew it. You're a ghostmophobe!"
"I am not!"
"Oh, it's all fine and dandy when you wake up to a clean kitchen and and organized shoe rack. But, the minute you see two ghosts showing affection for eachother -- it challenges your manhood."
"It does no such thing. I just think I should be able to take a dump without having gettting spalshed by the boy's apparition water volleyball team. And will you ghosts please stop throwing out all of my bread and pasta."
"Dr Atkins says carbs are bad for you."
"Yeah, I see it worked great for him."
"You are so hateful."
Now all of the gay ghosts start adding thier two cents.
"You need to get out now and stop this cycle of abuse Jacob."
"That's ridiculous, I am not abusing Jacob. If anything, you all are abusing me. You think it's easy living with the cast of Queer Eye for the Dead Guy?"
"Boooo!" They all gasped, in the gayest way possible.
"It's just a matter of time before the ghost-bashing starts." I'm not sure who said that, but I have an inkling that it was Anthony the Great. FYI; he prefers Anthony the Fab. Well, that started what can only be described as the world's first Gay and Lesbian Afterlifepartners Rally. Thousands of the dead, undead gay ghosts and even some Bi... ...(they're gay, but just comatose; not officially deceased) stormed my house in a fit of unity and protest. It became ugly, quick.

But instead of destroying precious family photos or jewelry -- they poo ectoplasm on my wingtips and cut the sleeves off of my oxfords. Singing "I'm not leaving" from Dreamgirls hours upon hours at a time.

After my third glass of Absolut Citron, some of the lesbian ghosts start to look a little too good. At the last second, I realize she's not a lesbian ghost at all. She is a transcendatal/transexual. The near miss is the deciding factor. A homosexual encounter might be something I could live with - but necrophelia is too much for my mortal mind to risk.

I hop on my computer, delte all cookies with the word "Leather Man" associated and Google "Gay Excorcists." A man on the other line says he is the best gay excorcist in the world. I hire him immediately. FYI; gay exorcists only take American Express Gold.

The Gay Exorcist shows up the next day in a hot pink spandex jumper. Within minutes hordes of ghouls are doing step aerobics to the thumping beats of Justin Timberlake. Sure, they're still haunting my house, but you gotta' admit they are the most fit dead people you will ever lay eyes on.

I would like to give Aaron McGruder the benefit of the doubt.

However...

I was reading in the Sunday LA Times a nice piece about the young cartoonist/social satirist and creator of "Boondocks." The first few paragraphs were a brief background on the comic strip. They detailed how the strip is held in siimilar regard to Trudeau's masterwork. But then the writer of the piece glazes over a very important tidbit. McGruder was on his way to oversee the final animation for the pilot he created. The animation was being done in Korea.

RECORD SKIPPING

Aaron, say it ain't so. How can you call yourself an activist. Especially one that so clearly fights for racial equality and send your animation work over to Korea? Please, please tell me they are getting paid fair wages. Aww man. This is truly depressing. Farming out animation to an inderpriviledged country that we exploit for cheap labor. Even worse, cheap SKILLED labor. I'm sure it's all kosher -- at least I hope it is. But man, it don't look too good on paper.

I know everyone does it. But in 2004, it just seems sad that we can't figure out a way to produce cartoons in our own country. Especially with flash animation, etc.

I really hope they are getting paid.

It's just so hard to be an idealist in America. I know, I know.

Jeff