Inglourious Basterd

I am big fan of the cinema. But I must say that I was very, very disappointed by the new Tarantino war epic.

I mean, I'm all for revisionist history. (See my holocaust denial blog!) And I love it when I see Nazi's wearing their uniforms, in full glory, long before the Zionists shut down their fun. Oh, to view a man in uniform. The regalia! If I didn't hate gays so much, I'd probably be one.

I digress... This film by Mr. Tarantino is an abomination. Firstly, Goebbels looked nothing like the actor who portrayed him. Nothing like him! I should know -- his face is tattooed on my knee.

And what a one-sided point of view! Nazis are bad. Jews are good. Where's the objectivity? Nazis did a lot of good things: They built highways, lowered unemployment, lowered the crime rate, encouraged a strong family. C'mon, Quentin, do some research. (Again, see my blog!)

When is Mel Gibson gonna make another flick, eh? He gets it.

Happy Holidays

Yes, indeed, happy holidays. But really, are you surprised to be taking my photo this Christmas morning? Me, Mr. Sitcom star, son of Martin, brother of Emilio, executive producer of "No Code Of Conduct", noted cocaine enthusiast and lover of love, arrested for domestic violence. It should be more befuddling that I haven't been pinched for this yet. Wait, shit... I was. In 1996. Strike that previous point.

Let's just say that I'm a very complicated man. I gamble incessantly, I've been with whores in the past, I'm a firm believer that 9/11 was a inside job, I've been known to act from time to time. You need to see the man as a whole; not just the sum of his many, many arrests.

And yes, I will be the focus of the media's scrutiny. It's the end of the year, not much going on, something about health care happening but hey, look, Charlie Sheen's in trouble again. Let's drag him through the mud. Get some whacked out interviews with his dad who'll probably quote Jack Kennedy and Elia Kazan to try and defend his beleaguered son. And the there's Denise -- I'm sure Oprah will book her ass on the next show, squeezing out ever embarrassing detail. So I love internet porn. So does Christie Brinkley's ex-husband, but it's not all over "Access Hollywood"!

So, in this holiest of seasons, let's learn to forget and forgive, focus on family, happiness and good health. And the fact that Tiger Woods is still cheating on his wife with some nasty-assed looking hos. Still!

Merry Christmas!

Hmmm.

Yes, yes, I know!

My head looks like a penis. That was a conscious, aesthetic decision. You see, when I'm out with a woman, and she looks at my head, which looks like a penis, she can't but begin to wonder what my actual penis looks like. One things leads to another and wouldn't you know it, I'm getting deep into that steez.

So, go ahead, Mr. Policeman, take my photo, mock my phallus-like-dome.

(BTW, have you noticed my thick, coarse beard hair? Again, no accident. I mean, the carpet and drapes have to match, right? Just getting the ladies ready for my 'Mighty Boosh'. Ya feel me?)

Cultivating the Dan Haggerty look

When I was a kid, I would beg my parents to let me stay up late so I could watch "Grizzly Adams." Clearly, it had a big effect on me. I live in the woods (Well, in a car parked near the woods.) My best friend and lifelong companion is a 'bear' named Ben. (Met him in my car parked by the woods.) And I've got a beard. Not your average 'Van Dyke' or Goatee or even one of those ironic 'hipster' beards, like you see on Jason Lee or Brad Pitt. This thing is the real deal. Thick, bushy, uncombed, lice-riddled.

And the best part -- I shaved yesterday. Imagine what three days of growth looks like? Eat your heart out, Jim James.

Who's that? I cannot see without my spectacles.

Good sir, could you please come a bit closer. My vision, in my advanced years, has ebbed. What was once a bounty of color and shapes has withered to a fuzzy, Manet-like view of the world. Curse these worthless eyes!

It seem that you have pointed your finger at me and begged a question. Alas, my ears have fallen quite deaf, a condition brought upon me during my incumbency as a traveling musical technician for the minstrels Megadeth.

Oh, you wish to know what happened to my incisors? Ah, a previous encounter with a constable wherein I let loose my wicked tongue proved to be a most foolish advance on my part.

Now would be too forward to beg of you a simple cup of tea? It calms my jangled nerves whilst I await my solicitor.

Crying on the outside

I knew when I got those ironic tattoos done they would serve me well one day. And that day is today.

They laughed at me when I asked for two tears on my fingers. Sure, they said, get a silly mustache on your index finger -- that makes the girls go crazy. But tears? It's too maudlin, they said.

Who's laughing now? Or who's crying now?

I got a boo-boo...

And then I go fall down..

I'm not sure what's more humiliating: Being beaten-up by a chunky waitress at Hooters or the fact that the police dispatch gave me blue bandages with ducks printed on them and then took my picture.

She was brutal. I guess I sort of had it coming. Throwing an onion ring at her cleavage, trying to lodge it between her perfect bosoms, isn't exactly appropriate restaurant behavior. Especially after I was warned twice before to stop it.

I had no idea that tray they use to transfer drinks to your table could be used as such a powerful weapon. Good thing she didn't have that Bic pen with her -- she might have opened my jugular with it.

I'm going to say that my eleven percent tip was not enough to patch things up with her.

And next year's birthday lunch for my mom is going to be at the Cheesecake Factory...where she wanted to go to in the first place.

Look into my green, green eyes...

...and ask yourself this question: "How could this man be accused of drunk driving?" Drunk driving an ATV. With my eleven year old cousin/common-law wife riding on my lap. And a five gallon water bottle filled with 200 proof home-made spirits in the back.

I was on my way to the market to purchase some badly needed Grecian Formula -- Auburn Sunset is my color -- and some very badly needed beard conditioner. That moonshine still dries out my hair something fierce.

I won't dignify that question with a response...

Okay, just this once. No, I am not Salvador Dali. Or Ron Jeremy. Or a Latino Fred Goldman.

I'm just a man, who enjoys a well-waxed mustache. And drinking in public. And embroidered birds on my collarless shirt. And the occasional run-in with the law whilst drinking in public.

You think you're pretty clever, with the surrealist artist reference? Let me tell you, I've heard it before. You're not as clever as you think you are.

Latino Fred Goldman? What does that even mean? Fred Goldman isn't a Latino, so why would there be a 'Latino' version of him. And let's be honest -- hasn't he suffered enough?

I have no idea who Ron Jeremy is, but I'm sure he's as dashing and handsome as I am.

Please, just leave me be!

Happy Halloween!

Yes, I know it's November, but I can say it anyway: Happy Halloween!

Sometimes the party you're at goes on a little bit longer than you had expected. Forty eight hours longer. Thank you very much, Red Bull, vodka, yerba mate, oxycontin, and some strange blue pills a cute guy gave me. I need a vacation from that party!

And only three weeks til Thanksgiving. I should be stockpiling coke for the big day, shouldn't I? I get so tired after eating turkey. And horny.

I'm sorry -- I mustn't be making any sense. A three-day bender has rendered me somewhat incoherent. As soon as I post bail, I'm returning to my apartment, putting my weary head on a pillow, and smoking a big 'ole rock.

Will I ever meet Mr. Right?

They say you'll find love when you least expect it.

Well, this is me, least expecting it. C'mon, I know there's knight out there who wants to sweep me off my feet. I'm young(ish), I'm attractive, I'm covered in homemade tattoos. What's not to love?

Sure, I'm a bit much to handle, getting arrested and all. (BTW, that bitch had it coming, looking at me like that. I put a screwdriver through her Achilles like a hot knife through butter.) And yes, 187 isn't my IQ. It's cop-code for murder (and a helliva movie starring Sam Jackson).

But I'm also a girl, standing in front of a boy, asking her to love him. (Top ten fave Julie film for sure!). So, what do you say, police dispatch photographer?

Why not take a chance on me?

Did I go too far?

And I don't mean about hitting that reporter at last weekend's Tea Party. That greasy East Cost liberal had it coming. Hit the road, "The Weekly Standard"... sell your commie wares someplace else!

No, I meant the tattoo. Sure, it's not my first. (My entire back is a kaleidoscopic rendition of Iron Maiden's "Piece Of Mind" album cover.) And I'm planning on several others, including Glenn Beck on my elbow and a silhouette of a lynching on my inner arm. I know... pretty damned cool.

But my forehead. Nazi flag. Strong imagery, for sure. But let's just say that it has hampered my professional pursuits. In fact, the nursery school I applied at showed me the door sans any actual interview. Heck, I couldn't even get hired as a waiter. I offered to wear a headband over it. Truth be told, the headband had a Swastika on it as well, just smaller. And pink. (I'm very concerned about breast cancer.)

I know my hatred of others is an intrinsic part of who I am, but with the Nazi flag emblazoned on my forehead, I might be showing my cards a little too much. I guess there's always work as a pundit on Fox.

Do you want to party with me?

I got my drinking shirt on, my hair's looking good, I'm feeling good, I mean, c'mon, let's get this thing on.

My current incarceration -- a momentary pitstop. A bald dude in a Jager shirt does not muck about. After my solicitor has been dispatched and my bail posted, I shall return to the bar, wherein I was originally 'pinched' and resume my consumption of tasty beverages.

First rounds on me! Per chance I will get change for the jukebox. I'm feeling some Loverboy or REO Speedwagon coming on.

Huh... wha?

Where am I and what is that smell? Is that me? It's like BO and the scent of fresh cat shit had a baby. And it died.

Perhaps my bi-annual beard washing should be upped to tri-annual.

And no, I'm not Sib Hashian. Or Rob Tyner. Stop asking for autographs.

Please scratch my head. I've got an itch something fierce. Or take off my handcuffs and let me do it. Okay, so you're not going to remove my restrains. That's probably a good idea, since I've got a fresh BM in my pants and I'm ready and willing to hurl it at you like I'm a crazy, circus monkey.

So if you do scratch me, you might want to put gloves on. I've been known to chigger-up in the summer months.

As soon as I get out of here, I've got a twenty-four ounce Budweiser & Clamato Chelada chilling in a dumpster behind the supermarket with my name on it. You should try it. After test-marketing it in Arizona, Bud has widened distribution to include California and Texas. And you know, after a hard day of rummaging through trash cans, yelling unintelligible gibberish at tourists, and standing by the highway off-ramp with a "Will Work For Drunk" sign, a gentleman can find true relaxation in a cold, beer and clam-juice cocktail.

Beats drinking anti-freeze like in the old college days.

What, me worry?

Yeah, I got arrested. So what? Do I look like I'm vexed?

Do you think this is my first time at the rodeo? Negative. Getting arrested is a quarterly event for me. Like my taxes.

And spending a night in a holding cell -- do you wonder if it frightens me? Not. At. All. Just take one deep, ponderous look into my white supremacist face. Put me in, coach. I've got enough hate to get me through an evening with any race you can throw at me.

Just tell me why am I here? So I was standing outside a town-hall meeting with an 'Obama is Hitler' homemade poster. (I just got Photoshop 8!) Any maybe I screamed a few racially sensitive about our 'alleged' commander-in-chief. (Let's see that damned birth certificate, right?) A few off-color remarks about the president and his 'ilk' taking, er, stealing the country from us and the next thing I know, I'm getting my handsome mug photographed by John Law. He and Rahm Emanuel should go back to Kenya!

But I'm not worried. White people have faced this kind of adversity before.

Now I need to see a doc about a pre-existing condition -- you get free health care in prison, you know.

Sunblock is for pussies

Here I was, sitting out in the back of the truck, ten deep into a twelve'r of 'Natty Lite, blasting Brooks & Dunn, minding my own business, when a lady-cop asked me to take off my sunglasses. She looked deep into my eyes -- told me I looked intoxicated. Windows into the soul or something.

This is 'Merica! I'm a taxpayer. It's my G-d-given right to sit in my F-250, put in a cassette of some country music, and drink myself into oblivion. If it ain't in the constitution, it outta be.

I work hard all week. (I manufacture those plastic balls that hang from the back of a truck hitch.) If I wanna get my drink on and soak up the hot Florida sun on my day off, that's my prerogative.

I was looking a little fair, so no, I didn't put on the Coppertone spf 5 I keep in the glovebox for when it's really sunny. And now I've got that 'bedroom glow' I was lookin' for. When I post bail and git outta here, I'm goin' over to the Pink Pussycat and see if I can git me some.


Wanna a mustache ride? You got it. Just be gentle, the face is sensitive right now. You have any bactine?

Hi there! Good to see you!

Hiya, schnookems! Snap that photo and let's get this road on the show! Ha!

Why am I so happy? Two words: Why not?

The sky is clear, the air is crisp, I'm currently being arrested and yes, I have a big 'ole smile on my mug. I call it "Smile Power." You should try it, too, officer. You, with your gruff, mustache-laden frown. If you smile, the whole world smiles with you.

Or it could be the massive amount of crystal meth I took three days ago. My stars, it really lasts and lasts. And what happened to my shirt? And pants? I don't remember having these tattoos earlier this week. Hmmm. You have some 'splainin' to do!'


Toodle-oo!

White Devils!

Do you know who I am? Seriously, I live here. I own this peace, bitch. This is my house. That I own. And yet you're here, arresting me.

This is Cambridge, not Boston. We got MIT, Harvard, The Coop, T.T. The Bears, hell we got more used bookstores than anywhere in the world. I can understand being a racist cop over in Boston. I can see it -- growing in Southie, hating the blacks living just below you in Roxbury, joining the force to help channel your building rage, beat up a few innocent black teenagers so you won't hit the wife -- I get it. But, bitches, we're on the other side of the Charles River! Cambridge cops eat falafel. They donate to NPR. Cambridge cops write poetry.

I bet this shit doesn't happen to other 'rock star' professors teaching over here in the greater Boston area. I mean, you don't hear that Elie Wiesel got pinched for shoplifting. Noam Chomsky isn't pulled over for a 'broken tail light' and beaten about the face and neck with a club. Spike Lee isn't... well, he's a bad example. He's probably takes an exorbitant amount of shit from the cops. Hell, I've even slapped that tiny bitch outside the JFK school of government for torturing me with "Girl 6", but that's not the point.

But just look at me. I teach at Harvard. University. I ain't no shitbird associate professor teaching those cro-mag hockey-scholarships at Boston College or Northeastern. Bitch, I teach in the big leagues. It don't get more crunk than Harvard. And I got cred. I was listed in Time magazine's "25 most influential people" in 1997. (Though Don Imus was listed as well.) I do not break into people's houses, let alone mine.

But you, a Cambridge cop, saw me and thought -- here's a mid-50s professorial-type with a polo shirt and tiny glasses and he is forcing a door down so he can get inside, steal everything in sight... so he can buy crack and the latest Doris Kearns Goodwin treatise on Lincoln. Shit, beatch, get transferred to over to the Boston police, where you belong, you racist pig.

Now where's my phone call? You know I'm callin' Obama, cracker! Your ass is gonna be transferred to Mattapan.

Tears of a Clown

How could this happen to me? To ME?

Here I am, tears welling up in my eyes, arrested... and for what? How did I get here?

Well, my neatly shaved head might give the impression that I'm a military man. But the five days of beard growth on my chin suggests that I'm never far from a cold beer and a Camel Light and perhaps some WWE. Sure, I look a little sketchy and am definitely not a dude you want to be trapped in an elevator with, but c'mon, give a guy a break.

How was I supposed to know that whore was an undercover cop. She had all the trappings of a lady of the night: frosted, pink lips; a powerful rack; six inch clear heels; a thin veneer of desperation. I was drawn to her...something about the way she smacked her cheap gum and looked me up and down with her powder-blue lidded eyed. At no point did I think -- "Hey, let's ask her if she's a cop. I know it's not really entrapment if she says no, but it can't hurt, right?" No, I went for it. "How much to get a nob job? I know where an ATM is right around the corner." Oh, her salty disposition turned right then and there. A smile crossed her lips, she spat out her flavor deprived gum, and smacked those handcuffs on me; done with such glee and merriment, as if she couldn't wait to scream those terrible words: "You're under arrest."

Now how did I get here? I had such promise at one point in my life. A top learner at my parochial school, I was told by the nuns that I could do anything with my life, just as long as I applied myself and stopped masturbating. I had two good, loving parents, an older brother acting as a guide and a sage as to how to negotiate the road of life, and healthy head of hair: I should have had it all. And yet I find myself weeping like a girl, as they snap my arrest photo.

Perhaps it's society to blame. If, along that road of life, there hadn't been all of those distractions, I might have yielded myself a doctor, a lawyer, a statesmen. Instead, I am meager box monkey, toiling in the bowels of a UPS shipping center. And what about those distractions -- was it I who make the sip of wine so available? Or pumped broadband internet into my studio apartment so that all flavors of pornography could be viewed? And that devil weed...oh how she tempts me.

This is truly why I cry. Not for the impending day that I will stand in judgment, and the requisite community service. No, I fear not the Saturday I will spend on the side of the highway, picking up litter, enduring the honks and catcalls of my social betters as they speed by in their autos, but I do weep for the road that has been traveled by me. I am truly lost.

Now, who's got a smoke?

Why arrest me?

I am angry...an angry man. My freedom was taken from me...and for what? Could be it my unruly hair? Be that a crime? These wispy tendrils growing out of my head cannot be tamed...like my love of Grindcore... or my need to collect glass pipes in a drawer... or my tempestuous relationship with the films of Hal Hartley.

Or was it my lack of a complete set of teeth? When did it become a crime to have one of your teeth rot out of your head? So I chose not to replace it. What if I was a hockey player and after receiving a powerful cross-check, my tooth was released from its perch in my gum line. Maybe, when I went on sabbatical from my job at the gun rage (where I sweep up exhausted shells) I lost my insurance and Cobra didn't cover my dental needs, so I was forced to let nature take its ugly, cruel course. Find me the crime in that! I dare you!

And so I scream; for the injustice that has been done to me. Yes, I was arrested. And yes, they fingerprinted me and took my booking photo. And yes, when the civil servant working at the police dispatching center told me they were going to snap my picture, a powerful roar erupted from within me. Imagine Roger Daltrey hitting that primordial scream at the apex of "Won't Get Fooled Again" and mix it with the sound a child makes when he accidentally steps on an exposed nail, running on a porch in Cape Cod while on vacation with his family, ruining their summer fun with a trip to the hospital and a dreaded 'tetanus' shot. My word, I hated those summer on the Cape.

Let my call not go unheard.

As they wiped the spittle from my lip, rapped my temple with a club, and took their rubber gloved hands to my torso, forcing me into a dank, miserable holding cell, the words of Dylan Thomas echoed throughout my methamphetamine and Coors Light riddled brain:

"Do not go gentle into that good night,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light."


Rage, indeed!