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REFLECTIONS -
The Criminaly Insane Confessions of a
Morally Ambivalent Acid Casualty
By Jim Stiene
Unfortunately, the finished paper bears an eery resemblance to an episode of 'Charles In Charge'. I wasn't even aware they used the Socratic method.
Note to self - How am I supposed to get anything accomplished if my work keeps being undermined by Scott Bao?
The futility of it all. It's back to the drawing board, I suppose.
I just saw a documentary on Scott Bao. It turns out that, in addition to acting, he has tried his hand at playwriting without much success. He staged a production of Miltons' 'Paradise Lost' at the Kurt Waldheim Theatre, using a cast made up entirely of cornish hens.
The show only ran for three weeks before closing to hostile reviews. Closing night was a complete disaster when the cast retired to Sardis, where the shows' romantic lead was accidently eaten by a dermatologist from Weehawken. Serves him right.
I just got the new spring catalog from JC Pennys. Why are male fashion models always smiling? Or leaning on something with their sweaters thrown over their shoulder? I don't mind someone like Fabio, because he seems to understand his limitations. I get the feeling he's the kind of guy women will have sex with but make sure they use birth control. Their thinking being, 'Sure, I'll fuck him. But I don't want offspring that's still fascinated by shiny objects at thirty-five.'
I don't understand those commercials where they claim 4 out of 5 doctors recommend a product. What does the other doctor recommend, smoking crack? What's his problem anyway? Is he an elitist? Is he just trying to be different? He probably needs a major attitude adjustment.
I also get annoyed with actors playing doctors who are always pointing at things with their glasses to stress a point. Why would I take medical advice from a guy who got his job because he has nice hair?
I've been reading about a man who can predict someone's death within five minutes. And all he requires for this feat is an accurate watch and a forty five calliber pistol. He attributes this unique ability to 'an animal-like ruthlessness and a complete indifference to human suffering.' He's currently working for the New Jersey Division of Motor Vehicles.
I see the troops in Iraq are now being attacked by men dressed as women. As one soldier put it, "I was a little shocked. Not because we were being assaulted by crossdressers. It was the shoes they were wearing. Very 80's. I mean, please. If you're going to do it, show a little style. You gotta work."
I stopped watching MTV about 8 years ago. Eventually you get tired of watching semi-retarded millionaires whine about their girl problems. Tell it to someone who gives a shit.
I do wish I could make albums as good as Blink 182, though. Their 'Enema of The State' CD rules. And if you don't like it, you don't even deserve to live. I'm sorry, but that's just how I feel.
I never really liked those grandiose singers who sing in a really deep voice. Eddie Vedder did it and then everyone immitated him, like The Stone Temple Pilots or Creed. I guess it started with Metal bands like Ronnie James Dio or Metallica. They sounds like the announcers for horror movies or monster truck rallies.
Are they trying to sound menacing? What's Ronnie James Dio, like four feet tall? It's hard to be intimidated by a guy who could go down on a woman without actually going down.
My niece could kick his ass. Christ, he could have been in the Wizard of Oz.
I mean, I wouldn't laugh in the guy's face, he was good on the Mob Rules when he was in Black Sabbath. But I don't know. There's just something about a three foot bald guy in spandex trying to sing like Satan that rubs me the wrong way.
I was just listening to Kim Carnes, 'Betty Davis Eyes.' I knew a woman who had Betty Davis eyes.
She got them off of E-bay for $180.
The Davis estate wants them back.
Wouldn't it be ironic if Dr. Kevorkian got the dealth penalty?
They say you can only get by on charm for 15 minutes, but after that you better have a big dick. So last week I enrolled in charm school.
Hi, my name is Jim Stiene and I have no penis. No, I'm kidding.
My name is John Wayne Bobbitt.
I keep wondering what meetings have been like in the oval office lately:
Bush: Okay, we're the good guys, and they're the bad guys, right?
Cheney: That's right George.
Rumsfeld: They're bad men, George.
Powell: We can't just invade countries without a reason.
Bush: Why not?
Powell: It would be a diplomatic nightmare. It just isn't done.
Bush: But they're mean people. Mean people suck.
Someone has to stand up for the good guys. Like Captain Marvel.
When the going gets tough, the rough...
Rumsfeld: The tough get going.
Bush: Don't mess with Texas.
Powell: This isn't a Ninja movie, George. This is real life, with global implications.
Bush: But the bad men are hurting people. I'm an American, Colin.
Cheny: We're all Americans, George.
Rumsfeld: Born and Raised.
Powell: No one's questioning your citizenship, George. I'm just worried about taking a wrong course of action.
Bush: Look, it's like my mother always said, 'Life is like a box of chocolates, you never...you never...help me out here.
Cheney: I didn't see that movie, George.
Bush: Don't mess with Texas.
Why do we criticize other countries for being un-American, as if they had a choice? If they were America, they wouldn't be other countries.
I was in New York the other day trying to hail a taxi, when some Englishwoman beseeched me for my cab.
I don't know why she needed the cab, or, for that matter, what beseech means. I didn't think people still talked that way, unless they were in some fruity Shakespear play, back when beseeching was still legal. But this is New York. You shouldn't run around beseeching people you don't know. Have some self respect.
I've even been thinking of having a T-Shirt made that says, "I beseech no one" or writing a song with that title to the tune of the Stone's 'Ain't to Proud to Beg.'
I can't think of anything interesting to write today, so I'm just going to fill this space with a reminder to brush regularly and never take the advice of someone who lost their arms in a farming accident. I mean, if they're so fucking smart, why do they need someone else to help them pee?
I'm beginning to think the smaller the penis, the bigger the prick. I figure Saddam Hussein must be sporting about three inches.
I woke up in a cold sweat again, terrified that I've become too sexy for my shirt. It's not really a bad shirt. I got it at Pennys. But I probably have to face the fact that a national celebrity like myself has to dress for success if I plan on doing any more Letterman appearances.
I went on 'Live with Regis and Kelly' Friday morning. Regis was being a total douche bag, and Kelly Ripa kept trying to hit on me, but I did get to do a version of 'Incontinent Cheerleaders' which came out pretty good. And Kelly is pretty hot. So I took her to a Brian Fitzpatrick show, then boffed her in the back seat of my limo. Pretty good night overall, although Brian seemed pretty jealous. Tough titties. Kelly needs a complex man. One who's unencumbered by things like gainful employment or personal ethics. That's why she wants me.
I had to leave Kelly off on the New Jersey Turnpike. She kept trying to play some Bon Jovi song on the radio, and I lost it. Yea, she's attractive and all. But someone touches my car radio and they can walk home as far as I'm concerned. I have my limits.
I'm thinking of having one of my thumbs removed so I can play the accordian better. I'm not sure what kind of fashion statement that would make though. And how would that effect appearances at record release parties or fancy events? "This is Jim Stiene. He only has one thumb, but he's really good on the accordian."
I'll have to give it some more consideration.
It just occured to me, that if I'm going to do a diary, I shouldn't make entries for dates before they've actually happened. But I don't know. I think it has a certain flair to it. I could say I have one thumb and have psychic powers as well.
I just sold some of my 'Best Of' CDs at an open mike in New Brunswick for $10 dollars each. Man, those people were gullible. I'll have to go back there next week.
I've been thinking of starting a religious cult, but I hear your hair doesn't always grow back after you shave it. And I don't know how I would look with a shaved head, anyway.
Those cult leaders are always getting a lot of money and free sex so it can't be that bad of a gig. As long as no one committs suicide. Like Jim Jones, Waco or Heavens Gate.
It seems kind of self defeating. You get all this money and free sex and then go and kill yourself? What's the point of that?
They say Charles Manson was a country and western artist. What they don't tell you is that he was a really BAD country and western artist, although I realize that sounds kind of redundant.
I didn't have much to do today, so I went out to the highway to shout insults at passing motorists, then went home. At least I got something accomplished.
I talked with Mattell today about making a Jim Stiene action figure. They said it would cost at least $50,000 to manufacture, $75,000 with 'Kung Fu Grip'.
I tried to get them to make some on spec but they didn't go for it. They said there just isn't a market for Jim Stiene action figures. I begged to differ.
Now, if I can only figure out how to get my hands on $75,000 dollars.
I had a meeting with a loan officer at my bank today about borrowing $75,000, but the woman I talked to was very rude.
I had to stop my business proposal at least four times and wait for her to stop laughing.
She claimed she had heard a funny joke that day, but I don't know. It still seemed pretty unprofessional. Doesn't the bank screen people for emotional problems before hiring them?
The meeting ended when she had to rush to the ladies room after I brought up the Kung Fu grip. Incontinence is a terrible thing, but I still left feeling a little dejected.
I was wearing dress socks the other day when a friend told me they were 'totally gay.' So I started to deny the accusation when I had to stop and think about it.
Can socks even have a sexual preference? If I were wearing two different socks, would they be bisexual? And what did he mean by 'totally gay'? Are there socks that are only 'partially gay'? How does one measure the totality of their gayness?
Note to self - Stop arguing with crazy people.
I've been thinking of changing my name to Amelio. So many artists use single names as monikers these days. Elvis, Yanni, Cher, Fabio. If I'm going to be the sex symbol for the new millenium I have to think about the entire package. Not just action figures and stylish clothes. Kung Fu grip is all well and good, but I've got to think about the fans.
- Amelio Fortunado
I got a call from Kelly Ripa last night. It came at the worst possible moment. I was in the sack with Leeza Gibbons when she called. I should have told Leeza not to answer the phone. Kelly was crushed. I told her it wasn't her. It's me. They always seem to buy that one.
Leeza didn't seem to mind. We're basically just friends. She just stops over when she needs a little extra cause she knows I can deliver the goods.
She did, however, seem a little vexed when I insisted she to refer to me as Amelio from now on. I told her that life is a struggle. If it were easy we wouldn't need to see the dentist.
I don't really know what that means, but it sounded pretty deep at the time. Now I just have to think about getting my hands on $75,000.
I've been seriously considering investing in a gecko. They seem like affable enough pets. They certainly wouldn't leave the big steamers Saint Bernards are reknown for. Nobody needs that. I'll have to find an association of lizard owners on the internet to inquire about feeding. I'd imagine you can't just give them macaronni and cheese.
I found a place online called GeckoRanch.com. They confirmed my suspicions about the dietary habits of these wonderful lizards. Maccaroni and cheese is definitely out. They even offer a dietary supplement called 'Gecko Gourmet,' which comes as a relief. I'd hate to have to catch flies and feed them to my lizard myself. I'm a little squeamish about things like that. I think I'll name my Gecko 'Pricilla' after Elvis' child bride. I don't know if the King would approve, but it seems like a good name to me.
I just got a call from my attorney. He told me to stop sending threatening letters to Scott Bao. He also outlined some of the disadvantages a name change would entail. Bummer.
I talked to my doctor today. He lectured me for 30 minutes on the benefits of opposable thumbs. Why does everything have to happen to me? So far I have no action figure, no gecko, two thumbs, a crappy name and Scott Bao's lawyers breathing down my neck. When will it stop? When?
I'm at the tail end of a downward spiral today. I think I've finally hit rock bottom as I come to the realization that I'll probably never be able to afford my own action figure. And even if I do, it will be without Kung Fu Grip. I know I shouldn't be bitter, but sometimes I just can't help it. It doesn't seem fair to me.
And I know there are people worse off then I am. I'm almost certain of it. People in India or Bangladesh, living in grass huts, half starved, wandering the disease ridden streets of their village begging for food. If I had to venture a guess, I would bet that most of them will never have their own action figure.
I feel your pain. We know what it's like. We know something the Schwartzenaggers and Hulk Hogans of the world will never understand. What it's like to suffer.
I can't write anymore today. I'm sorry. I'm just too overwrought with personal suffering. Too wrapped up in my own pain. I know it will get better. It has to. But right now things look pretty bleak.
I've never understood the Village People. I don't care who people sleep with. That's their business. I don't even care that they dress like they're posing for a Billy Joel album cover. But what do they mean, 'It's fun to stay at the YMCA'?
What the fuck are they talking about? Are things that bad? I have to admit, if you've been eating out of a dumpster for two weeks, the YMCA might seem attractive. But Christ, get a decent place.
It doesn't have to be a brownstone. Or a co-op. But they could get a place in one of the boroughs, like Brooklyn or Queens. They've got to have some money left from all those records.
I wish I had saved up more money over the years. And I know what you're probably saying, 'Jim, you've sold twelve billion records. Where did it all go?' But the truth is, I've never been very good at budgeting my money.
I'd walk into a record store and buy five CDs at a time. That stuff really adds up after a while.
But don't get me wrong, I'm not broke. I still get royalties for inventing cottage cheese. But that doesn't really go that far these days. Maybe I'll take on a second job.
I was doing my taxes the other week when I got one of those things you get when you have a teenager in the house. What do they call them again?
Oh yea - A nervous breakdown. I don't think it's fair that I can't write off go go bars as a business expense.
I was coming out of the bathroom in a movie theatre tonight when a bunch of teenage girls giggled when I went past them. Sometimes I forget my power over women. I guess I should take it as a compliment. If I were the insecure type I would have thought they were laughing because my fly was open and I had about four feet of toilet paper stuck to my shoe, but I'm pretty in tune to my effect on people. They wanted it bad.
Sorry, ladies. No can do. I'm flattered, but you're a little young for me and I don't want to spend the next ten years being gay raped by some guy that steals cars for a living, thank you very much.
I got a call from a telemarketer today. It was pretty annoying. I was brushing my teeth and lost count of how many strokes I was on, so I had to start all over.
After I instructed the telemarketer to perform what might be considered an obscene, illegal and possibly dangeous sexual act, I washed my hands 25 times, then flicked the light switch on and off for ten minutes, so it was pretty much a normal day.
I saw my shrink at two. He tells me I'm doing just fine for someone with an obsessive compulsive, manic depressive, paranoid, attention deficit, narcisitic, borderline personality disorder, but my delusions of grandure need work, and I've got dandruff.
Damn. I showered with Head and Shoulders exactly 8 times today. What's the dilio?
My doctor also refused to validate parking and suggested I see an good periodontist, but I told him to talk to the hand.
I've been reading a book called, 'Think on These Things' by Krishnamurti. It's an interesting book. He talks about things like ambition, success and happiness. And why our ultimate goal should be happiness because without it, 'success' is questionable.
I wonder if he has his own action figure.
I've been thinking about the concept of 'Us vs. Them.' It's a game we all play: Good guys and bad guys. We learn it as children, playing Cowboys and Indians, then later when we get involved in sports. As adults people apply it to political parties, entire countries or even races, species, etc.
It's always a drastic simplification because 'Us' is always comprised of various individuals with good points and bad points, as is 'Them'.
What if there was no 'Them'? What if there was only 'Us'?
Of course, without Us and Them, how would you get a decent football game going?
But more importantly, how do I get my hands on $75,000 so I can have my own action figure with Kung Fu Grip?
I mean, why should some other asshole get all the cool assessories?
I wrote a song yesterday called, 'Love me, Martina' only to find out that a song with that title has already been recorded by Scott Bao.
I started work on my new CD, 'Love Letter To My Gynocologist.' I guess it's what you'd call an ironic title. I don't actually have a gynocologist. I'm one of those guys that believes if you don't have a car, you don't need a mechanic, so call me crazy and paint my ass red.
And don't get me wrong - it's not that I don't appreciate the vaginal arts. I think they've been a real boon to mankind, and certainly a great source of personal pleasure to millions, if not billions around the planet.
But let's face the facts, without the proper hardware, calling technical support would be pointless.
And while I'm here, I'd also like to take this time to offer $17 dollars in cash to the man, woman or child that brings me the severed head of Scott Bao, child actor, hopeless degenerate, and albatross around my neck. I'll even pay $18 dollars if he really suffers.
I had another nervous breakdown yesterday after trying to open a CD I bought. I don't think you should need anti aircraft weapons to open a CD.
I went to a music store to buy a B# minor Kazoo, but the store clerk claimed they didn't make them in any particular keys. I told him that I've been playing music over 20 years and would stage a boycott of his store and report them the IRS if he didn't sell me one, then knocked over a store display and stormed out of the store when he persisted. Who do they think they're fooling anyway?
I went to another music store today. It turns out they really don't make B# minor Kazoos. Oh well. You live and learn. My bad.
Kathy Lee called again. Every time Frank Gifford is out of town she asks me to cover her in honey mustard sauce.
It started, innocently enough, with cool ranch dressing. But I've been watching my calories lately and have been having second thoughts about the whole deal.
Last time, Cody was having some kind of asthma attack, rolling around on the floor, claiming he couldn't breath, with me in the next room with Kathy Lee and the mink handcuffs.
It's no big deal. I just get tired of wearing the cowboy hat and singing showtunes with a holster around my waist. A man has his limits.
I got a lecture on the content of some of my songs the other day.
Sometimes I forget the rules set up by the behavior police:
It's all right for a woman to be attracted to, or joke about a man's ass.
It's all right for a homosexual to be attracted to, or joke about a man's ass.
It's sexist for a heterosexual man to be attracted to, or joke about a woman's ass. Or to joke about anything involving sex, for that matter.
In fact, it's sexist for a heterosexual man to use any words besides penis or vagina. Or to even think of sex in any way but serious and respectful.
Obviously, there are practical rules for the workplace involving language, subject matter and behavior. But how far does this extend outside of the workplace?
20,000 years ago in a large village, lived Nigel and Steve.
Nigel was a quiet unassuming man, who eventually married, had two kids, and cultivated a garden.
Steve, on the other hand, was a loud, obnoxious braggart who screwed every other woman in the village. Excuse me, 'Made Love' to every other woman in the village.
Not surprisingly, in thirty years the village was filled with loud, obnoxious braggarts, who eventually populated the village with more loud, obnoxious offspring.
There were a few in the village who did a lot of reading who's father, Nigel, taught them manners and proper behavior.
That village is called 'Earth.' If you don't like the base nature of men, blame mother nature. Or Darwin.
I've been thinking about survival of the fittest lately.
The 'fittest' can be defined as guys with the best pickup lines, and
indescriminate, irresponsible behavior.
Or rock stars and athletes. Face it, Albert Einstein never toured the country with a trail of paternity suits following him like David Lee Roth or Micheal Jordan.
In 15 years we could have a super race of athletes and rock stars.
The Einstein's and Steven Hawking's of the world are sitting around watching 'Revenge of the Nerds' and masturbating to Britany Spears videos, while used car salesmen are hitting the club scene with silk shirts and gold chains.
Meyers-Briggs estimates that there are twice as many extroverts as introverts in the world.
No shit. Who do you think is getting all the tail? Extroversion is an inheritable trait. And social ineptitude gets bred out of a species.
If only we could figure out how to turn MIT graduates, Noble Prize winners and Neurosurgeons into sex symbols, have them tour the country screwing everything in sight indescriminately, without birth control. Oh well. A man can dream.
I was talking to someone about the 'Origin' of the universe tonight.
According to the laws of thermodynamics, matter can't be created or destroyed. In other words, it always was, and in fact, in the exact same amount, although the shape of matter can and does change.
It also means god couldn't have created anything. It was always there.
Empty space is infinite. There is no brick wall at the end of it.
There would have to be something on the other side of the brick
wall.
Time is eternal. Something had to happen before the big bang, or god, saying 'Let there be light.'
If god said 'Let their be light', obviously time passed between 'Let' and 'Light' much less before he formed the sentence, made the decision, came into existence, etc. So time couldn'thave begun when he said it.
In fact god is an impossibility because nothing can create itself. Something needs a precedent. God would need a god to create god. And so on, for eternity.
All the matter that exists in the universe, which is comprised of infinite empty space, with some stars and planets, always existed in one form or another.
The Big Bang would still require all the matter in the universe existing in one place at one time. I doubt it.
It's similar to Black Holes, which are supposed to contain a singularity: Something containing zero volume and infinite density, which is impossible, because zero volume implies, it's not fucking there, and infinite density means, the atoms or subatomic particles can't move because there's not room. No motion, no heat, no energy. An impossibility.
Besides, when a big star implodes isn't it bigger than a small star?
How can it be if it takes up ZERO volume and is infinitely dense?
In fact, if it takes up zero volume and in infinitely dense, how is
there room to suck up a few more planets?
The score -
God - 0 : God's impossible. Nothing can create itself. There was
no beginning of time because something always precedes something else,
eternally.
Time doesn't stop or start. It's impossible. It's an
arrow pointing in two directions eternally.
The Big Bang - 0: We can only observe a portion of the universe, and
can't say for sure that it's been expanding for billions of years,
that it is expanding, that the parts of the universe we can't see
are expanding, or that it won't also contract.
Nor can we say for
certain that all the matter in the universe existed in a subatomic
particle, that accidentally exploded, for god knows what reason.
Jim Stiene: 1
Take that St. Thomas Aquinas! Take that, loserboy, Stevie Hawkings!
The universe has no origin. Matter ALWAYS existed in the exact same amount as it does now.
Space is infinite. There is no brick wall. There is no shape to the universe (empty space). It would imply something outside the shape, which would be, of course, EMPTY SPACE.
Time is infinite. It never 'started' and it can't 'stop.'
Zero volume, means nonexistence. Infinite density is impossible. Without motion, there is no heat, energy, light, motion. Everything moves at the atomic level.
Then who created the universe? Matter can't be created or destroyed. It always was.
I finally decided to stop wearing shoes. It only makes my socks stink.
These dogs have got to breath. I hereby set them free.
I see they made a sequel to 'Charlies Angels.'
Man, people must be bored silly.
Someone told me that the 'Matter can't be created or destroyed' laws depend upon the space time continuum and doesn't make the Big Bang a contradiction.
Sure. Just because they took some classes in science in school or have fancy jobs, I'm supposed to believe them. If they're so smart, then where's their action figure, huh?
Okay, technically, I don't have one either. But it's just a matter of time, Kung Fu grip or not.
And as far as god, I'm an agnostic, my beliefs change regularly, usually depending on whether I'm gettting it regularly, mysteriously enough.
On some days, I believe in god, but I believe he's a misanthropic god. I mean, if he created the universe, he's a deadbeat dad.
Actually, I believe in god, but I believe he's incompetent.
The world doesn't seem fair some days. Jesus, Budhha. They've all got their own action figures. Even Gene Simmons does. The other day I heard him claim he invented cottage cheese. Man, he's got a set of cajones. Him and Scott Bao.
I've been getting behind in writing. While I'm saving up for an action figure, I took on a second job pimping myself out to needy housewives. It's a thankless job, but someone has to do it. Maybe I'm too soft hearted. That's my problem. I'm a romantic, deep down.
Me and Kathy Lee have been in relationship counseling. I guess the guilt was getting to her. The counselor suggests we try to back away from the Honey Mustard Sauce. Maybe try something a bit milder like Dijon Ranch or even a nice vinegrette. I don't know. He's no Doctor Phil, I'll tell you that much. It's just a feeling I get. That and the fact that he got his degree from the Ponds Institue.
I saw an article from Kelly Ripka giving her secrets to a 'sucessful marraige'. What a scam. I haven't talked to her in a while. Last time I saw her she was thumbing a ride on the New Jersey Turnpike.
I just got fined $1,000 dollars in the Stiene vs. Bao suit. I also got a restraining order. I guess it comes as no surprise. I suspect a payoff.
Why are people always saying things like, 'It's been a long day'? What the fuck does that mean? Is there a day thats MORE than 24 hours on the planet you come from? Is it daylight savings time or something? But maybe I'm wrong. I suppose in the sense of days vs night, there are longer days, as far as sunlight.
I've been hanging out with Jewel lately. Shes always talking about love and the beauty of our relationship. Which is okay, I guess. I just don't see why the leather underwear and nipple clamps are necessary.
Jewel got a call from a Hollywood producer today. They want her to play Pinky Tuscadero in a screen version of Happy Days. They're going to get Emo Phillips to play the Fonz. They wanted to get me but I turned them down. It's too 70's. I hear Stalone turned them down as well. I guess they wanted him to redo the kind of character he portrayed in 'The Lords of Flatbush.' You can't possibly expect a big movie star to play some goofy television character on the big screen. The guy's got his own action figure, for gods sake.
I had to kick Jewel out of my apartment on Lexington Ave last night. She just kept reading these horrible, horrible poems about dying, or menstration, I wasn't really listening. I was trying to watch the Three Stooges at the time. I finally told her to shut up and get out. She was ruinning the movie. If they want her to play a TV character they should get her to do that girl on 'Friends' who does those terrible folk song. Jenifer Aniston, Lisa Kudrow. I don't really watch much tv.
I got voted People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive again. After three years in a row it's starting to get embarrassing. Brad Pit even called to congratulate me, which I thought was pretty big of him, being a loser and all. But I guess he has Jennifer Aniston, which some people might consider a consolation, in a kind of sick, pathetic way.
So if I seem to be combing my hair, or even bathing regularly, you'll know the reason why. I've never been one to shirk responsibility, other than a few paternity suits from Cindy Margolis and Jennifer Love Hewitt. And I consider this an honor.
I'm representing People now. And not just the magazine. The people who voted for me. And the people who didn't. The little people. The weak and insignificant. My public. And if, for any reason I can't uphold my duties, someone else will have to take over, be it Brad Pit, Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney or someone else of that caliper.
It's a humbling experience. I was just thinking the other day, as I was being chased down the street by adoring fans in Japan, how lucky I am. How truly blessed.
I mean, okay, I still don't have a fucking action figure like Stallone, but I've got millions of loyal fans who have stood by me through thick and thin. Through countless obscenity arrests, paternity suits, and even a few embarrassing run ins with the law for public urination. But I'm a star now. And it's my time to shine brightly. Like a comet. Like a candle in the darkness.
And I realize there are others who will never be voted People's Sexiest Man Alive. I feel for them. I really do. But they have to face their own limitations and accept them. But more importantly, to learn to work with what they have. With what god gave them. Even if they don't have drop dead good looks or their own action figure.
I was on a usergroup where we were discussing mythology in stories amd heroes/heroines. I don't identify with heroes. I identify with antheros. Yossarian, or Inspector Clouseau, not James Bond.
And we seem to admire people for what they can do, instead of what they're willing to do. Like athletes or rock stars. A hero isn't someone who makes 14 year old girls wet by singing a song. It's someone who runs into a burning building they know they'll never come out of. It involves doing something good at great personal risk.
It does not really involve, Maddona, Micheal Jordon, William Bouroughs, Robert Deniro, Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, Shirley McClean. If it can't kill you, it doesn't make you a hero. There is talent, and then actual heroism. Some can be great, but anyone can be noble. Admire talent, thank, heros, but worship no one.
Right now there's some fireman's son with pictures of Micheal Jordon on his wall. A guy that makes 100 million doing sneaker commercials for throwing a ball through a net. It's a neat trick. I can't do it. Or maybe he has a poster of Bono. Bonos not paying the mortgage. Or running into burning buildings. Kid, heros don't get posters made of them.
I've been reading Robert Anton Wilson lately and getting a bit paranoid about conspiracies. So I thought I would post something I wrote a while ago about power in America:
Our President can start a war, veto or pass a bill, appoint an administration. But that's about it.
The media can destroy him with a few innuendos.
The people can vote him out of office.
Corporations like Microsoft can donate to his campaign.
The administration can take Microsoft to court for improprieties.
The Catholic church, teachers unions, civil rights groups, Association of Retired Persons, can affect anyone's politicial aspirations.
Only Congress can put forth a bill.
The courts can rule on the constitutionality of a law.
A rock band can influence the popularity of drug use.
Law enforcement, the FBI, CIA, can prevent some drug use.
The church can influence people to get married.
'New Woman' magazine can tell people to stay single.
And the one thing you can count on is that everyone complains about everyone else's power as if it were absolute.
There is no real center of power. It's spread far and wide. That's why the idea of socialism is crazy. Why would anyone want to put the government, media, education, personal property all in the hands of a government that can't even be voted out of office?
No, as fucked up as we are, we have the power to change things. A Chinese citizen doesn't. Democracy has it's faults but nothing an election can't correct.
Then again, I plan on writing in Marion Barry in 2004, so what do I know. I'm still smarting from the fact that Mayor McCheese lost in 96.
I've been reading about people like Timothy Lear, Carlos Cateneda and Robert Anton Wilson contacting god or extraterrestrials under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs, and how they suggest using them to communicate telepathically. But isn't that kind of like having a dream you communicated with Barney the Dinosaur telepathically and then telling people if you want to communicate with a purple dinosaur you should go to sleep?
I mean, they're called hallucinogenics for a reason. They make you hallucinate. Should it come as a shock, these guys took massive doses of Mushrooms, Peyote amd LSD and then hallucinated? Does the word, 'Duh' mean anything to you?
Maybe they do unlock doors to parts of the brain or subconscious that are unused, but thinking something doesn't make it true. If it did, I'd be married to Britney Spears, Salma Hayek, Sandra Bullock, and Cindy Margolis simmultaneously, make ten million a year from downloading pornography, have 'Dirty Sanchez' on heavy rotaion on MTV, and play it live for the queen of England with my back up band, made up of Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin, and Jimi Hendrix.
I was listening to people complain about cafeteria food the other day. I don't think it's as bad as people say. And I've been in a lot of hospitals. Although they always seem to catch me and bring me back.
I get tired of people asking 'If everyone jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you?'
How would you get them all on the bridge in the first place? Is there really enough room? Wouldn't it collapse? How would you even get them there? Or provide food and lodging, for that matter? And would they even be jumping or climbing off the Brooklyn Bridge? Wouldn't The Hudson River clog up after a few billion people, until there was this really large pile?
So, the answer is no. I wouldn't jump off the Brooklyn Bridge. I'd be like, 'What was that noise? HEY! WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? YOU JUST FLOODED NEW YORK AND PARTS OF NEW JERSEY! ARE YOU PEOPLE RETARDED OR SOMETHING? YOU JUST WOKE ME FROM A DREAM ABOUT BRITNEY SPEARS AND SALMA HAYEK! AND YOU KNOCKED THE PLANET OFF IT'S AXIS SO NOW IT'S GOING TO BE 90 DEGREES IN THE WINTER AND 20 DEGREES IN THE SUMMER...Fucking people. They're like cows off of a cliff. At least Scott Bao was crushed to death...STOP FUCKING AROUND AND GET BACK TO WORK, OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU PEOPLE DO WHEN YOU'RE NOT JUMPING OFF OF BRIDGES! Idiots. All of them.'
If someone takes mind expanding drugs will they get a swollen head? If someone uses a penis enlarger will they get an enlarged prostate? And where do Chinese take their laundry? Oh, the ironing of it all.
I get tired of people talking about the differences between men and women. If there was any difference in abilities it would show up on SAT or IQ tests. But the variations between sexes are so slight they are statistically irrelevant. If men are good at math and women good at English, they why do the tests people in academia create demonstrate that there is no difference?
And even if someone said to me, 'You know Italians are 5% better at art and music' am I supposed to say, 'Okay, I'll quit drawing or writing songs then, since there's no point.' No.
So if a 5% average difference was irrelevant a 1 percent difference in men and women's SAT scores, that changes from year to year is completely meaningless. We're the same species. Deal with it. If you think your genitalia makes you smarter you have your head up your ass.
I just read about a game in Las Vegas where guys pay between 5 and 10 thousand dollars to hit naked women with paintballs. This is, incidentally, in a state where prostitution is legal. For ten thousand dollars you could probably LIVE at the Bunny Ranch for a week. Who are these guys?
Marv Glovinsky , a clinical psychologist says 'Hunting for Bambi' is every man's fantasy come true'
Uhh, not really. If I was going to spend ten thosand dollars on naked women, it wouldn't be to hit them in the ass with a paintball.
Could this country get any more warped? What goes through these guys heads? "Let's see, I could put some money down on a new car or...woah! Whats this? Hunting For Bambi? Oh man. I could dress up in camouflage and run around shooting paintballs at naked women. Where's my checkbook?" Idiots. Total fucking idiots.
Why do people dress twins alike? They think it looks cute, but it looks like something out of a Steven King movie.
When I see them I half expect blood to come out of an elevator or someone to yell, 'REDRUM!'
I don't understand people's nostalgia for 80's music. Just when The Clash and Elvis Costello were going strong, in comes Men at Work and Flock of Seagulls. Then came the hair bands like Quiet Riot and Motley Crue, who were okay, if you didn't mind watching a bunch of functionally retarded crossdressers with guitars. I personally found it a little confusing to watch guys in spandex and eyeliner singing about 'Girls, Girls Girls.'
Then in the 90's the really famous musicians complained about being really famous. Okay. So somebody twisted Kurt Cobain's arm to sign a record contract and make music videos?
Then around 1995 I started getting into the alternative bands that have come out. Matching Pumpkins. Green Bay. John's Addiction, The Red Hot Chilly Papers, Ten Inch Nails, Sole Asylum. Lenny Gravitz, Butch, Twelve Thousand Maniacs, The Food Fighters. Terri Amos, Whole, Liz Fair, Alanis Morrison, Blink 184, M&M, Sarah Mclaugh-in. I'm no fool. You have to know these artist if you want to be a musician.
I see Gray Davis' election is coming under fire in California. His opponents are supposed to be forming an exploratory comittee. I don't know about you but I wouldn't want to be part of a committe that sounds like they're going to shove medical instruments up your ass, but then I'm no politician.
They say the earth spins about 1,000 miles an hour. You would think it would be a lot windier. Or that if you jumped in the air you would land a mile away from where you jumped. Or if you fired a gun in the wrong direction it would come back and hit you in the face. Bullets don't even travel 1,000 miles and hour. If I could travel 1,000 miles an hour just from jumping in the air I bet to God I'd have my own action figure. It's food for thought, although it's probably junk food.
There are times when I really regret being a rock star. To most people it probably seems like all fun and games. The money. Hanging out with U2 or the Rolling Stones. Nailing teenage fans.
But some days I'd just like to go to a mall without people screaming for autographs, or being chased down the street by adoring women trying to tear my clothes off. Actually, that's not that bad, but being hounded for autographs can be a drag.
I was in the food court the other day when some girl asked if the seat next to me was taken, but I knew she just wanted an autograph, although she acted like she didn't when I offered it to her, but I insisted. It was the least I could do for my public. Nobody likes a snob.
But there is a downside to being a rock sensation. I've even considered running for President of France. Their president can be a real asshole sometimes, and I've been talking with someone on the web from Paris. He asked me about my thoughts on freedom, so I said that 'Only a man with clean shorts can really feel free' although, I have to admit, I couldn't think of anything smart to say at the time so I just paraphrased a Tampax commercial. It must have gotten lost in the translation because he thought I was joking, sadly enough.
My first decree as President of France would be to make women shave their arm pits, unless they were already old and hagged out. The women there are supposed to be real loose, which is to their credit. But hairy underarms are a real turnoff in this man's army. I'm sorry. If I want to date Sasquatch, I'll move to Seattle, although I'd probably have to quit being President of France if I did.
Sometimes I wonder what it would sound like if a Shakespearian actor went through the drive through window at McDonalds.
"Yes, Kind Lady, if you could provide me with one of your Egg McMuffins, I’d be profoundly grateful."
"We stopped serving breakfast two hours ago."
"What’s that I hear? What darkness has descended upon me? What cursed demons conspire to thwart this gentle soul in search of simple nourishment, fine sustenance, a large coffee to go?"
"You can still get a big Mac with Fries."
"Can you double size that?"
I've never really understood Hitler. Here is a guy who, if he had succeeded, would create a race of humans that looks and thinks aproximately like the cast of Baywatch. I can't be the only one who finds that a little frightening.
A man who would kill Albert Einstein and Steven Hawkins in favor of Pam Anderson and David Hasslehoff is clearly misguided. I guess you would have to define a master race and what you expected it to accomplish. A race of people capable of understanding the enigmas of existence, or a race that looks good in a Speedo. Apparently he never heard of dumb blondes.
Steven Hakwings. Steinmetz. A brilliant, but deformed dwarf with a limp and a bad eye. If you took a group photo of the most brilliant minds of the 20th century it would probably be hard to distinguish from a shot of the contestants in the Special Olympics.
The reason we don't kill people with genetic defects is not just out of a repulsion to cruelty and unfairness. It's because of the potential they hold in other areas. And because people with severe limitations often make up for in other ways.
Had Hitler succeeded in creating the master race in Europe, we would have wiped the floor with the resulting product. A race lacking genetic diversity without the freedom to express their individuality would be fair game. They would have failed because they would prove, ultimately, mentally weak, inferior and unfit to compete except for JC Pennys Fall catalog.
I don't know if Jim and Tammy Faye Baker have ever had children, but I wouldn't suggest using them as a template for the human species unless you were specifically trying to breed intelligence out of it. Master race, my ass.
I got stopped after a show again and hounded for an autograph after someone mistook me for Puff Daddy. The first few times it's funny, but after a while you tired of being mistaken for P-Ditty. Yes, I have skills and my music is phat. But I have my own style and my own persona. When will people see that? When?
I don't understand the concept of toothpaste. Isn't it filled with sugar? If sugar is bad for your teeth, why would you intentionally work it into your teeth? Is this something dentists tell you to do so they'll have more cavities to fix?
I've begun to worry that I'm just too funny. I always find young women laughing at my jokes. Well, not really at my jokes, but I find them laughing at me a lot. I guess I shouldn't let it go to my head.
Chippendales has been bugging me to become an exotic dancer again. Just as soon as I lose 50 pounds, get contact lenses and become gay. I hope they're not holding their breath.
I've been reading up on string theory lately and have been working on my own theory called silly string theory. It won't explain how the universe is organized but might explain why pasta often sticks to the pan.
I got in a brawl with P-Ditty last night. I was escorting Britney Murphy to an awards ceremony when one of his possey called her a dumb ho. It got pretty ugly, but I tried to stay calm and avoid busting a cap in anyone's ass. I have my public to think about.
Tori Amos asked me to tour with her, but I don't know. I'm getting kind of tired of hearing about the 'godess.' As if organized religion wasn't preposterous enough.
Besides, I think people should worship quietly. I don't see why a drum circle is really necessary. And I don't know what an omiscient being would need a penis or vagina for anyway. To screw his wife, Mrs. God?
No, I'm sorry. If I believe in anyone, I believe in Alec Trebec. I can actually see him when I turn on the television, and if someone's asks him a question he always answers, although usually it's him asking the questions.
I mean, the man is obviously confused about things. When he says 'I'm sorry the correct answer is, 'What is Maryland' he's claiming a question is really an answer.
But I'm pretty sure he exists. I don't think he's omniscient or anything, or even all powerfull, but he does seem to know pretty much, although that could be his cue cards.
I've been trying to console a friend who lost an advertising contest for his entry, 'This is not your father's penis enlarger.' He says his pump action display was probably a bad idea in hindsight. Some of the judges were violently ill. At least he got some coverage on C-Span.
I'm really surprised we haven't found any weapons of mass destruction in Iraq. I was sure we would have planted some by now.
They could even call in experts from the LAPD:
"What have we here? Processed urianium!! Now how did that get there?"
I was watching tv last night when I saw a commercial for Red Lobster and wondered who came up with that name. I mean, has anyone ever seen a blue lobster? Or a green one? Do lobsters really come in a variety of colors? If it's a lobster, can't you safely assume it's red?
I wish Sam Ash would stop sending me catalogs of musical equiptment. It's like pornography to me. "Ooh, look at that. Oh my god. Wow. Man, I'd like to get my hands around one of those!"
I should join a support group.
"My name is Jim and I'm adicted to gadgets."
"Hi Jim!!"
"It started years ago when I first walked in to a music store and realized I needed 99% of their inventory but couldn't afford it."
Guitars, drums, bass, PAs, Effects boxes, keyboards, recorders, mikes, stands, chords. If I were a theif I would back a truck up to Sam Ash and load their whole store into the back, then bring it home and lock myself in the basement for a year refusing to bath or answer the phone.
If anyone stopped by and tried to reason with me I'd scream, "CAN'T YOU SEE I'M BUSY!!! JESUS CHRIST, WHY WON'T PEOPLE JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"
I wonder what ever happened to Guns and Roses. Maybe people just wized up to the fact that Axle Rose sings like Katherine Hepburn.
I've gotten to the point where I've begun to question my own fabulousness. I mean, is it too much to bear? For others, maybe. But certainly not for me.
Why do fools fall in love? Because they don't know any better. You have to remember, they're fools. Duh. Decission making isn't their strong point. Playing with shiny objects is their strong point. That and running for office.
I've never understood the concept of 'Junior Mints.' Is there such a thing as Senior Mints? Is that what happens to Mints when they're promoted?
I had an epiphany the other night while watching The Gilmore Girls. Unfortunately I can't remember what it was. Something about Bronson Pinchot or the Mexican Hat Trick.
I've come to realize what my life has been building up to all these years. It came unexpectedly from a television show, but it was a real awakening. We all have a purpose, I suppose. Some never realize what it is. Others, the fortunate ones, discover their calling. It is a life affirming moment. A kind of spiritual awakening that leads, ultimately, to personal growth. For me, it is to do The Forbidden Dance.
I don't know who invented the Lambada. Whether he was a madman or a genius. I just know that it feels right. That it is what I was intended to do. Others find meaning or solace in music, poetry, religion. But for me, it is the Lambada.
How do I know this? I just know. You will have to take my word for it. It is what I was meant to do. And now I can truly live. Like a man. Like a spirit. Like one who moves with the wind and crys with the wolves. It is love and it is life, my friend. It is that which can only be known as THE FORBIDEN DANCE.
I've never understood women and fashion. I mean, if someone asks me what the fall colors are, I'll say orange and yellow. The winter colors are white, depending on how cold it is where you live.
Most men's fashion decisions are based on a very complex formula, women would never understand, based entirely on aroma. As in, "Does this T-shirt stink? I had it on twice this week. You can barely see the beer and coffee stains. I mean, nothing's growing on it yet. It hasn't been terraformed or anything, although I suspect if you sent it to Mars something might grow."
I've never really been into progressive rock bands like ELP, Yes or Rush. It's not that they aren't good musicians. I guess I'm just put off by the fact that they sing like they've been neutered.
Most of the time it seems like they're having a contest to see how many notes they can put into a song. Like how many keyboard solos you can throw in behind a vocalist. Yea, it's fast.
But I'd still rather listen to Pink Floyd because the notes they play seem to actually mean something to them. David Gilmore and Rick Wright are not Steve Howe or Rick Wakeman, fortunately. If the latter are so great, then how come they sound so bad?
"I'll be a ROUND-A-BOUT..." Would somebody please smack that guy upside the head?
If space is a vaccum, then where do you plug it in? Okay, I know. That sucked.
I doubt I watch more than two hours of television a week. It's that bad. Reality television. Game shows. Mind numbing sitcoms with annoying characters and plots they stole from the Brady Bunch. I can't believe people actually get paid to write that crap. Someone should revoke their creative license.
I've been thinking of giving up music entirely so I can devote my time and efforts to becoming a professional wrestler under the name, 'The Exterminator.' I've considered various costumes like dressing up as a rodent or a cochroach, but have settled on a bee costume with a black cape for wings.
I'm not sure how a 5'7 man in a bee costume would go over in the World Wrestling Federation, but I have a dream to follow and I'm not going to let naysayers rob me of my dreams. The fact is, America needs more superheros. People to look up to. I know it's hard for some people to look up to someone who is 5'7, but in the ring of life, we are all giants. And if I can't create a physically imposing figure in my costume, I can shock them into submission with my yellow tights and black antenae hat.
And I realize we can't all be champions. Someone has to lose, and if it's me, I can live with that. What I can't live with is walking into Wallmart and seeing an action figure of The Rock, when deep down, I know that could be me. That one day children will know me by name. And ask for my action figure. Or wear a bee costume on holloween. That is my dream. That is what it's really all about. The children. I don't do it for myself. Well, okay, maybe I do it for the ladies. But if there's one thing I learned in life, it's that a man in a bee costume comands respect, even if it's respect through fear.
Because one day, children will love me, women will want me, and men will fear me. That is not a threat. It is a promise. So deal with it. Just fucking deal with it.
I don't know why women are into Kid Rock. I liked him better when his name was Joe Dirt.
I was chillin with Bill Gates last night. He asked me to rewrite Windows XP but I told him I was too busy. He offered me 74 million to do it but I told him I just don't have the time, between practicing wrestling moves and my job as a male prostitute. Yes, I could get an action figure for 74 million but that's still not the same as inspiring fear in wrestling opponents. He seemed to take it pretty well but I think he was a little disapointed.
It's not an easy decision, but no one said life was supposed to be easy. You've got to make choices. It's a bitter pill but one you have to take.
It's strange how most guys can turn any occupation into a crude joke. It doesn't even have to make sense. We'll do it to anything and people will know exactly what we're talking about.
I'd like to Bake HER cookies!
What? What the fuck does that mean?
Of course, you know what it means, it just doesn't really make sense.
I'd like to be accountable for HER receivables!
I'd like to pick HER tomatoes!
They should have a contest for the dumbest euphemism.
Whoopty fucking do. Does anyone give me credit for saving the planet from aliens playing 'Redneck Rampage'? No. No fucking way. It's not right.
Okay, it was just a video game, but they could still give me a ribbon or something. It doesn't have to be a Noble Prize. Just some recognition. Is that too much to ask? Is it?
I'll have to put that on my resume:
Jim Stiene is a consultant who's opinion is highly valued by The Nobel Prize Committee, The New York Times...
I wrote the New York Times an angry letter once after the delivery boy threw my newspaper into dog crap. So they wrote back telling me how much my opinion was valued. It made me feel kind of special, the way I did growing up when I got to ride my own bus to school. In fact teachers were always telling me how special I was and giving me extra stars for my drawings of Marlo Thomas in French underwear. But that was years ago and I was only 35 at the time.
I know when I sent manuscripts to publishers and agents they took the time to send back letters personally apologizing for not being interested in my work, but telling me how valued my contributions were, though they didn't have the time to answer each inquiry personally. Yet they took the time to send ME a letter.
I guess, deep down, I know the nominating committee is probably resentful of the fact that I've sold roughly 12 billion records and get to sleep with Britney Spears.
It's true what they say - It's lonely at the top.
Anyway, moments like those last a lifetime. Candlelit dinners with all the trappings of a romantic evening - caviar, oysters, a fifth of Grain alcohol, the cheerleader outfit, some light music or 'When Animals Attack' on the VCR. You treasure those moments for years. You really do.
And does improving customer satisfaction mean they've upgraded their computerized answering system? When I hear about customer satisfaction I think about a Tiajuana whore house, not some insurance company that asks if grandma really needs that costly life support system.
Let's face it, the goal of most businesses today seems to be to make products for as little money as possible, and sell them for as much money as they can, to as many people as they can get to fall for their misleading, self congradulatory advertisements.
I have no problem with capitalism. I have a problem with being insulted and lied to.
Can I help you with anything.
Yeah, you can start by wiping that smile off your face, remove the 12 pounds of makeup you have on, and go make me a fucking cheesburger. Then we can talk business. Otherwise, get out of my face. You're boring me.
I don't know who my enemies are yet. I suppose anyone who pisses off the French, which could be just about anyone. But I'm prepared for the worst. Harsh climates, mindless bloodshed, asian women saying, 'Hey Joe. Sucky sucky?'
It comes with the territory. You keep your head down and do what you can. I'll have to get a book of recipes for things to do with spam. Maybe I'll ask Martha Stewart. She'll probably have a lot of time on her hands when she's doing time. Maybe I'll rent a women's prison movie next week.
Yea, I had a thing for Rachel once, but I got over it as soon as I caught her humping my dog.
Her I could forgive, and write off as another drunken episode of a mentally challenged halfwit. But I never got over the betrayal from Hildeguard, my Doberman Pincher. Man's best friend, my ass. I took him to the 4H and never saw him again.
I've never told that story to anyone. It was too painfull. I told people Hildeguard got killed in a hunting accident. Et Tu, Hildeguard? Et Tu?
If I have enough leg strength to jump in the air and counter gravity why is gravity so strong it makes jumping in a given direction irrelevant despite the fact we're standing on a ball that is spinning at 1000 miles per hour?
I mean, if she can say, 'Oh, yea, give it to me. Harder. Oh, you're so big' she's probably faking it. If a woman can carry on ANY conversation while making love, you're not doing it right.
If she's saying, 'IIEEEEAAAGH! UGH! UGA, UGGA, OHHH, OOOOH. ARGUUAHEEOOH!' you're in the general vacinity. If you can get insane animal noises, spastic epilectic fits, violent convulsions and massive releases, you're doing your job.
I don't make the rules, I just follow them. If you can't reduce a woman to a sweaty, howling mess, you just haven't done your homework. I'm sorry, but that's just the way it is.
Everyone's a critic.
Last thing I heard he had joined the circus and is running around in a little elf hat. Times are tough all over.
I argued that it wasn't really shoplifting because the poster wasn't even for sale, but was just hanging on the wall, but they didn't go for it.
I'm a condemned man. 12 billion records sold and now the money's gone, my dog has joined the circus and I'm facing prison for stealing a Willy Wonka Poster. Why does everything happen to me?
I think I can fake most of it by telling Star Trek jokes and cramming the night before, but I'm a little nervous. Maybe I shouldn't have claimed to graduate top of my class from MIT. I did graduate in the top ten percent of my community college in humanities but somehow I don't think that will go over with world reknown physicists. Maybe I'll just goof on Steven Hawking all night and show slides of Britney Spears in the raw.
Thank god for hidden webcams. You never know when they're going to come in handy.
Undettered by having done all that work without finding any coal, I got work with a real coal mining company. It was pretty hard at first. I would come home with soot all over my face and hands callused. But it got easier after about a week, once I realized I should probably wear a mask and gloves like everyone else in my work crew. There's really no teacher like experience. Or coworkers laughing at you, calling you 'Dusty.' You live and learn. You live and learn.
"Don't mind Lee, he's a feeb."
"Feeb?"
"Feeble minded."
"But the guy knows calculus."
"Yeah, but he can't even master quadratic equations."
"Well I never even mastered Algebra. What does that make me?"
"The Feebmaster."
What are these older women doing with those expensive clothes and perfume? Going clubbing? Do they have their eye on a Chippindales dancer or something? And if they do have thier eye on one, he's probably gay anyway, and if he does seems interested, the only smell he's interested in is the smell of money.
"Do you want a grapefruit?"
"No thanks."
"How about a hot dog?"
"No, I'm fine."
"Then how about some spam I have left over from the 1950's?"
"No, really, I'm not hungry"
"I think I still have some leftover macarroni."
"No, I'm full. Really."
"I can make you some tuna."
And you can't stop them once they're on a roll. It's like an obsessive compulsive disorder. That's how crimes of passion happen. Their husband is deep in concentration cleaning his toenails or watching The Price is Right, and he just loses it. Goes out, buys a handgun, and it's all over with. Then he uses the 'I've had food pushed on me for 70 years' defence, and the judge rules it justifiable homicide.
That's probably how most domestic disputes start. "Step away from the pantry, Mrs. Johnson, and no one will get hurt."
"You look starved officer, can I get you some meat loaf?"
At first I was skeptical, since most people on Broadway are completely tone deaf and wouldn't work a day in their life if not for sexual favors, but my agent convinced me the publicity would be good and that the advance on royalties would be substantial.
The only reservation I still have is that she wants to include 'Dirty Sanchez' in the show, which is not from my newest CD. Admittedly, a song about a petting zoo might fit into a musical called Fucking a Dead Camel but I'm not sure I want that song performed on Broadway, and even told Celine that performing it onstage would probably break several obscenity laws, but she insisted they use it.
I suppose I should be honored such a fabulous star wants to perform my songs, but I still feel like I'd be compromising my integrity as an artist to let her do Sanchez. Rumour has it that other Broadway songwriters are getting nervous and Andrew Loyd Weber has even considered writing a song with a hook in it. Its something he's never done, but anything is possible.
And I don't know the man so I'm not even going to dignify the rumor that he hangs around high school locker rooms offering guys money for their old socks so he can sniff them.
Anyway, my lawyer wants me to meet with Celine tomorrow, but I'm not looking forward to it. Several people who know her have said that she doesn't clean herself very well and suffers from terrible body odor.
I suppose I could show up with a clothespin on my nose, but I'm afraid it would be rude. She's a fabulous, fabulous celebrity and I wouldn't want to insult her. But I am looking forward to the $25,000 advance.
I just pray to god they get someone good to do the choreography.
http://www.gospelassemblyfree.com/facts/hell.htm
I believe that when you die people know everything you've ever done, thought or said, not in a physical or metaphysical location called Hell or Hades. Just a state of embarrassment, regret or remorse depending on how naughty or nice you've been - Someone who was rude, or lied occasionally, would be embarrased. Someone who was a mass murderer would really feel those eyes upon him. Maybe you even attain complete understanding or empathy in death. You can read the minds of the people affected by your actions.
But who the hell knows? I'm not even sure there is an afterlife.
But I definitely don't buy into the Catholic concept of hell. I have a lot of trouble taking the advice of guys who consider Toys-R-Us a meat market.
It's still hard to believe I sat in church and listened to lectures on morality and eternal damnation by an organization that used to hang, jail or burn people at the stake for saying the world was round, but shuffles child molesters around from one parish to the next without blinking an eye.
"But doesn't Hutzpa count for anything?"
"If it did, I assure you, you would have the job, Mr. Stiene. In fact there are plenty of employers looking for unmittigated gall. Telemarketers. Bait and switch electronic stores."
"I don't think it's really necessary to call my gall 'unmittigated'."
"Perhaps you're right."
"Would the job require morning hours? I'm not really good in the morning. You know, you're out late drinking, the last thing you want to do is perform back surgery at 9 in the morning, hungover, smelling like some smoke-filled go-go bar."
"The hours would vary. Some would include mornings, but the question is pretty much moot at this point."
"I see. First you accuse my gall of being 'unmittigated', then you refer to my questions as 'moot'. I'm not sure you're the kind of employer I would want to work for."
"I don't think that will pose any problem. We were really looking for someone who doesn't lie on his resume. An internship at Johns Hopkins? Educated in Switzerland?"
"Okay, so I added an exaggeration or two. A few minor embellishments."
"Mr. Stiene, your resume reads like cheap fiction."
"Look, I'm a busy man. I really don't have the time to listen to this. You've wasted a good part of my day on this interview as it is, between traveling to New York and listening to you drone on about professional standards and malpractice suits. Or your organizations policy against hiring lunatics. There are more important things I could be doing. Do you know how much pornography I could have downloaded in three hours? The beer I could have consumed? This is unacceptable. I should report you to the labor board."
"You send us a resume with all the authenticity of a professional wrestling match, and you want to lodge a complaint against US for wasting YOUR time? That's rich."
"I guess I can see your point."
"Any more questions, Mr. Stiene?"
"Uhm...When do I start?"
Okay, I'm arguing with myself again. That's not a good sign.
NOTE TO SELF: It's not unusual for people to talk to themselves. Many people do it on occasion in traffic or hearing important news. It's when someone gets into violent arguments with themselves that you have to wonder if they're not wrapped too tightly. As for me, I'm the picture of mental health. Unfortunately the picture is Edward Munch's 'The Scream.'
The special was loosely based on Jimmy Osmonds autobiography, "Devil Child in Overalls' in which the youngest Osmond recalls the personal torment he went through as a young child and the disturbed individual he grew into: "It started with jealousy over Donnys success, but specifically the song, 'Puppy Love.' For years I would go into a homicidal rage at the sight of puppies. Destroying mailboxes, stealing candy. Pleasuring myself to episodes of 'The Golden Girls.' It went downhill from there"
The book later goes on to tell the chilling tale of Jimmy Osmonds obsession with canibalism, devil worship, heroin addiction and his long road to recovery after experiencing a spiritual awakening while watching a television commercial for Chuck E Cheese. "I found my way back to god," the youngest Osmond recalls "It was either that or die a broken has-been, alone in the gutter, sleeping in my own vomit and robbing video stores for drug money."
Osmond is now traveling the country as 'Jojo the Clown' and entertaining children at birthday parties and Barmitzvahs. "I made my peace with Jesus," Osmond proclaims, "Before it was too fucking late."
My lawyer advised me against it, saying it might cause public outrage, potential litigation and even health risks. He suggested I put a warning sticker on it, saying it's not for the weak of heart.
I guess I see his point. I'm no fool. God knows, I wouldn't want someone's grandmother going into cardiac arrest while masturbating furiously to my calender. I could never live with myself after that. Maybe I'll make it smart but mildly alluring, like a fine wine. I have a responsibility to the public to think about.
"Jack must really be serious about getting that report done. He's talking with his glasses again." Just once I'd like to see a commercial where some guy in a $1000 dollar suit is talking with Elton John glasses in his hands.
People are so cynical. I'm just trying to do my part for humanity. And show those bastards at Mt. Sinai. "Our hospital frowns upon hiring raving lunatics as orthopedic surgeons."
I'll show them. I'll show them all.
But they can drive you nuts with simple things like giving you driving directions. And I actually had a conversation like this asking for directions when I was late once:
"Do you know how to get to 287?"
"Sure. You go about a mile till you see a Dunkin Donuts on the right, then a Amoco on your left."
"So I turn there?"
"No, then you'll see a school. I can't remember the name. The Watkins Middle School? Warren Middle School. Darn, I know what it is..."
"Okay, so do I turn at the school?"
"No, after the school you go about 3 and a half miles and you'll see a turn. Just ignore it. Then you'll see a Barber shop on the right and a Shopright on your left. About 2.7 miles more and it turns into Green lake road. You'll see a Midas Mufflers on the left. Then about another mile, you'll see a baseball field on the right. Take a right turn there. Then you'll see a House with green shutters. A dog with three legs. A green Camaro. An old lady with only one shoe and a limp. A seven eleven. A autobody shop on the right. A Staples on the left. About a mile down the road you'll see a bridge. Go under it. Then you'll see a Walmart on your right. Take a left there. 287 is right after that on the right."
After thinking about it for a few minutes I said,
"So you're saying take a right when I see a baseball field then a left when I see a Walmart. 287 is after that on the right?"
"Yeah."
"Thanks."
But I must have looked at him like he had an arm growing out of his head.
Cause what I was thinking was, "If I can repeat the directions in two sentences, what the FUCK did you give me all that information for? I just spent ten minutes trying to memorize information I have absolutely no use for. If I had written it down it would have taken more time then actually driving the four miles to the fucking highway. Are you out of your fucking mind? 'Take a right when I see a baseball field then a left when I see a Walmart.' Why the fuck do I need to know every landmark for the next thirty miles? I didn't ask for a history of the business district of this town, or what color the shutters were of every house I'm going to pass. I think I'm having a brain anurism trying to remember all that. People have to memorize less to pass the bar exam. CUT TO THE FUCKING CHASE!!"
Calling complete strangers while they're eating dinner. Asking what their children would do if they suddenly died in a firery auto accident or got hit by falling debri from a communications satellite that broke up on re-entry.
You're either selling insurance or your dying. Little by little. Piece by piece. Until something deep inside of you just dies.
So you wind up old and alone telling people what you might have been. Telling complete derelicts in public parks,
"You know I had a chance to sell Omaha Mutual Life once and I blew it. Showed up drunk for the interview and goosed a secretary. Got sick in their lobby. Next time you get one of those calls around dinner time, just think, that could have been me. If you had a phone out here in the park. Or under the bridge where you live. I'm just saying, lifes tough. And filled with broken dreams. Ahh, I'm boring you. I can see that. And you've got your hands full, what with peeing on yourself and stealing bread crumbs from the pidgeons. That's okay. I'm an old man now. Too old to fullfill my dreams. But you're still young. You still have time. To get off heroin, get yourself some nice clothes, and make those sales pitches. Meet those quotas. Let me just leave you with a piece of advice before you go back to running dishrags over windshields, wiping your nose on your sleeve and sleeping in a carboard box. Always be closing, my friend. Always be closing."
Something tells me it's not good for a music legend to be mistaken for a building superintendent on a Seventies sitcom. Oh well. I guess if I can't sell life insurance I can become a handy with a mop.
I know I shouldn't let it go to my head, but when a counterperson at Sears asked to see some ID when I gave her a personal check I did some Kong Fu moves. In hindsight, it was probably a poor decision. I think I injured a groin muscle. Ouch.
I've been thinking of asking Mattel to have my action figure in a bee outfit to go along with the WWF persona I've been working on, but I don't know if they'll go for it. Besides, even though most of my audience is composed of professional wrestling fans, there is still a large segment who are winos and crossdressers, and I don't know how they would feel about purchasing an action figure of a rock legend in a bee outfit.
And I'm still not sure the WWF is right for me. Okay, I've been known to open up a can of whoop-ass on the occasional bouncer after being cut off and asked to leave an establishment, but that's just the alcohol talking, even if the words are slurred and difficult to understand.
Besides, why pursue a career as a professional wrestler when I already have an action figure in the making? Thank god for the Indonesians. I don't even know where Indonesia is, but I think it's somewhere near France. I just know that when christmas rolls around there will be a Jim Stiene action figure on the shelves. Tickle Me Elmo can blow me.
"Is there a brutal dictator in your life who's starting to look a little scraggily? Bring him on Rikki Lake for a fachist makeover and we'll have him looking like a new man in no time.
So if there's someone in your life with a Napoleonic complex, who's been living in a rat hole, sleeping in his own filth, just let us know his whereabouts and we'll send someone right over to have him cleaned up, fingerprinted and deloused.
COMING UP - Grandmothers who are intimate with their cats."
Obssesive compulsive disorders, parnoia with delusions of grandeur, narcisistic borderline personality disorders, attention deficit, who can decide?
But everyone talks about the struggle, pain, difficulty of creating. It's basically self agrandizing nonsense started, shockingly enough, by writers, who consider themselves artists. How convienient.
A friend of mine is a roofer who lugs around 50 pounds of tiles in 95 degree weather. That's struggle. His brother, who was working with him, shattered most of the bones in his leg falling off a roof. That's pain.
It's neither difficult, painful, or heroic to paint a picture or write a 3 minute pop song. It's not going to save the world. It's not going to save any lives. Get over yourself. I did long ago. All entertainment is a narcisistic attempt to draw attention to oneself, otherwise we would not bother showing anyone our work.
Van Gogh was an exception, but he wound up cutting off his ear, so what does that tell you about taking yourself too seriously?
Art is easy. Succeeding at it is hard. Or trying to stop creating it. It's an addiction. Being a failed artist has become a tedious cliche:
"No one understands me. How I suffer. If only the world would recognize my genius so I could go on Jay Leno and talk about all the important 'work' I've been doing. And candidly discuss my influences, philosophy on art, but specifically my art, not for me, mind you, but for the benefit of all humanity, and to help them understand my 3 minute pop songs, or the fabulous new movie I'm in with Martin Short, the 17 year olds I'm shagging, my adoring fans, but more importantly, my art."
Go to an art opening, open mike, poetry reading, and ask the most hideously talentless, semi-retarded, painfully dull, unoriginal hack their philosophy on art and they could talk, uninterupted for days without sleeping.
In fact, I've begun to suspect the less talented an artist is the more they have to say on the subject. That's why I've decided to write a new book, 'Art and my personal philosophy on it.' It will be a fabulous, important work, that will no doubt change humanity profoundly, and probably even save the human race from extinction. Maybe then I can get laid again.
I'd offer to take you out on my yaht but I'm scheduled for penis reduction surgery in the morning.
Look, why don't you put down that machete so we can talk.
Yes, I once killed a Chinese operative with a McDonalds french fry, and yes, I killed a KGB agent by passing wind in an elevator. But the KGB agent wasn't even intentional. I had just had one of Taco Bell's Beef Gorditas and the agent happened to be in the same elevator. But some legends die hard.
Fine, I'm a black belt in Karate, have won international competitions in Kung Fu, Tai Kwon Do and Feng Shui, but I'd like to get on with my life.
I hear they've approached Emo Philips for the role but he had a prior commitment to portray Thomas Jefferson in an upcoming Andrew Loyd Weber musical.
I was reading about autism the other day.
Those people really need to get their shit together. Mumbling to themselves all day.
They're never going to get any tail that way. And staring at their feet? It's just not happening anymore. Maybe when Rain Man was big, but it's totally passe' these days.
They need to get some new threads and gold jewelry. Maybe start a hip hop band. If you're going to mumble, at least have the class to do it to a decent beat.
But I shouldn't have to tell anyone that. It's painfully obvious. I mean, duh!
Parents are so full of it.
They're like, "We just want you to be happy."
Yea, well verbal abuse doesn't do it for me. If you want me to be happy, take a vow of silence for a few months. That would make me estatic.
Ozzy called and asked me to play saxophone in his band. We haven't spoken since he tried to molest my cat. He still blames it on drinking, but until you admit you're a cat fucker, you can't get any better.
And to be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely happy with the direction his career has taken lately.
We've seen some really disturbing things lately. 911, the Iraq conflict, Carrot Top's Live In Las Vegas video.
But what rational person can honestly turn on a family oriented reality show starring Ozzy Osborne and claim it's not a sign of the apocalypse? I'm sorry, but there's something fundamentally wrong with that, and I'm not just talking about Kelly Osborne's singing career.
We're doomed. Just yesterday, I read in the Weekly World News that Satan just got a job with the William Morris Agency. He's trying to set up a deal to do the 'Alec Trebec Story' for A&E starring Tony Danza and Cher, so things are looking pretty bleak.
Anyway, I told Ozzy to talk to the hand. Or at least Clarence Clemmons. I want nothing to do with that foul mouthed cat molester.
I was just listening to a cool song called, 'Don't Die' and thought it was sound advice. Too many people die without considering all the negative consequences.
Granted, to anyone who's ever had points on a New Jersey Driver's license or sat through a poetry reading, death might seem like an attractive alternative.
But one should consider the pros and cons before having a heart attack, gettting hit by a car, or contracting some fatal, disfiguring disease. For many death is a double edged sword.
Yes, the hours are good, the work is easy and the privacy is great. It's also one of the most effective dieting techniques. But the pay sucks, the sex, if any, is horrible, and it's terrible for your complexion.
All things considered I would advise against it, unless you work as a telemarketer, are married to Liza Minelli, or have offspring like Ozzy Osbourne's.
Life is a gift. People should enjoy it and not run out and get cancer or aids, develop a heart condition, or use the 'N' word at a Wu Tang Klan concert, just because every one else seems to be doing it. If everyone jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge, would you (provided it didn't collapse under the weight of all those jumpers)?
There's so much to look forward to in life to squander it on death: Coffee breaks, pay day, fornication, Harry Potter movies, sleep, music, fornication, and of course, my new book, "Life - It's not that bad once you get cable and a high speed connection."
I saw this movie the other day with Kevin Costner and Rene Russo. It's weird how painfully shy his character was asking her out, but I can totally relate to that. I've always been really bashfull.
It's hard walking up to a woman you don't know and asking if she wants to ride the baloney poney. I'm even starting to consider finding a new opening line.
I've been working in product development and marketing lately. I’m trying to develop a brand of menthol flavored crack. Phillip Morris is already interested.
But the initial market research was a little disappointing though. It seems customers smoke the product entirely for the effect, not flavor, strangely enough. So we decided to reposition the product towards a different market segment, renaming it Crack De Mint and trying it out in a few nursing homes. It tested well among our focus groups, with subjects coming back for more.
Unfortunately they got violent when the samples ran out. Still, that’s the kind of product loyalty and repeat business Phillip Morris is looking for. In fact the advertising department even started coming up with slogans like, ‘Flavor to kill for.’
But ultimately Phillip Morris decided not to market it for health reasons. They simply didn't want to market a product that might pose some health risks, considering it socially irresponsible and greedy. Maybe I’ll talk to the people at R.J Reynolds.
I saw a show on television and have been thinking about the most effective way to get prisoners to reveal information:
"Bring him in...Good to see you again. I see my associates were unable to secure the location of the uranium mine."
"And you never will, Zitface."
"We have a marvelous week planned for you. At noon we will be presenting a 12 hour lecture series on Yugoslavian literature, hosted by Ted Koppel."
"You're insane."
"Maybe so, Mr. Bond. Maybe so. Tommorow you will start a 14 hour lecture on high school Algebra, followed by a four hour exam."
"I could never get that first, inner, outer, last thing."
"Then I suggest you study hard. If you fail to get 85% correct on the exam, we will feed you to our alligators."
"You're not going to get me to talk."
"Whatever you say, Mr. Bond. Wednesday, you will be attending seven back to back Broadway performances."
"I enjoy the theatre."
"..of Mumenshantz!"
"That's against the Geneva convention!"
"I'm afraid not, Mr. Bond. Thursday, an abstract impressionist is going to be giving a 16 hour lecture on his work, and theories on art."
"You'll still never get me to talk."
"Maybe not. The last person to sit through that series took his own life halfway through it. Perhaps you have a bit more backbone."
"Look Zitface, nothing you do will get me to reveal the location of that mine."
"Friday, you will attend a 12 hour poetry reading."
"That's inhuman."
"I'm sorry, Mr Bond. We mean business."
"Okay. What do you want to know?"
Of course the cost of drugs is high. The price of marijuana is outrageous. When is someone going to come up with a NON prescription drug plan?
People think just because you don't have a prescription, or use illegal, dangerous, or mind altering substances you're supposed to pay a lot?
It doesn't seem fair to me. Oh, Grandma needs her heart medicine? Help, grandpa has ass cancer. Get some real problems.
"How did you get in here? You're not with PETA, are you? That bat was dead. I swear it."
"We're not with PETA, Mr Osborne. We're off duty cops. We read what you said about the police in that Rolling Stone interview."
"I have an image. People expect me to say things like that. I think you guys are doing a marvelous job. Why are you turning on my stereo?"
"Hold him down. We thought you might like to hear something, Mr. Osborne. Being a music lover and all."
"That's not my CD...it's...it's...Men At Work. Sweet Jesus, no."
"That's right, Mr. Osborne. We thought we would play you a few records. And after that, Howard Jones."
"In the name of all that's sacred, stop! Please. I'm sorry. I'll say whatever you want. I'll say I was kidding. Donate money. Do benefits."
"It's too late for that Mr. Osborne."
"Holy Mother of God! Is that what I think it is?"
"The Reflex."
"That's not right. It's inhuman. Please. I have a heart condition. If you have any mercy you won't play that. My Doctor warned my family about playing Duran Duran in the house."
"I'm sorry. You should have thought about that before you mouthed off about the LAPD. When we're done with you, you'll wish you were never born. Boys, is that copy of 'The Safety Dance' around?"
"I...my heart...no...please...no."
"Is he dead?"
" I can't tell. We're talking about Ozzy Osborne. He looked dead when we got here."
"He's not moving. Let's get out of here."
"Oh my god! Who are you?...STEADMAN! STEADMAN!"
"He can't hear you, Mrs. Winfrey."
"What have you done with him?"
"He's tied up downstairs. Along with your security guards."
"What do you want? Why are you hiding behind hoods?"
"Why indeed."
"You're going to lynch me!"
"We don't do that anymore, Mrs. Winfrey."
"Then what do you want?"
"We wan