Well that's just good.

"Hey you. Have a second to talk? Awesome. Naw, go 'head and leave the door open. It's hot out. How are you by the way? Oh. Thass good. I already know you won't agree, and don't get me wrong, I don't mind when people use well because in this particular case it's grammatically correct, and if you prefer to always be that way, fine. You get into a habit. You use it. It's correct. I can respect that. But when you think you know something I don't, c'mon. Jesus H Christ, that's just dumb. Thanks for the quick chat! Stay well now, ya hear." (Excerpt from my new book, Converse Satin wit God.)

Here's a lih-ull story. I lived in LA a couple of years. Across the courtyard lived a Producer from Scrubs. Nice enough guy. (Oooh. One of Heidi's hookers lived next door, btw.) Anyway, one sunny weekend day we crossed paths. He asked, "how are you?" Like I said, it was sunny, Saturday, I was outside with my dog so I enthusiastically replied, "I'm goood." Stretching the word and lowering my voice. This was West Hollywood, mind you. Of course then I replied in kind. His answer, "I'm well, thank you." Not because he was, in fact, well, but because I was good. Know what I mean? I wanted to say, "Really? You're well. That's too bad. You're not ill? And you're grammatically correct. Albeit, two wonderful things to be, I'm sorry. I'm good. I'm a good cook. I'm good at sports. I'm good in bed. I got a good haircut. I feel good. I'm good to go. I'm gooood. I'm really really good. Ok. Be well and stay it." *wink and a nod* "And please keep those laughs coming on that show! It's a riot!"

(Keep doing what you do because you do it, not because someone else doesn't.)

Case Closed

"Hey Ossifer, I'd like to report a crime! I don't know who or what is responsible, but my black and white cake has been badly battered. What's left of it, that is. It's only crumbs. Crumbs, I said. Crumbs!" My initial thought was maybe it was a hate crime. Possibly the two sides got into a brawl, but looking back it appeared the two sides resided in complete harmony. One couldn't even exist without the other. Upon closer examination, it looked to be a crime of passion. A passion for cake. The officer asked, "where did you get said cake?" "Across the street," I answered. "Bodega?" he asked. "No, bigger than a bodega, but smaller than a supermarket," I replied. "Look, right there, the store across the street from my apartment." The barrage of tough questioning continued about things I really didn't feel comfortable discussing or being associated with. Questions about where I buy my groceries, and what it is I buy.

Officer: Organics?

Me: No. Not a chance.

Officer: Produce?

Me: Could Hedda Lettuce have done this?

Officer: Expiration dates?

Me: Way passed.

Officer: Entenmann's?

Me: Er. Yes. Aisles full.

I started to feel like primo suspecto, numero uno. They either blame the victim or focus on those closest to the victim. They chose the latter. To focus. On me!

Officer: Your cake?

Me: Yes, Sir. It was Entenmann's, but that's not a crime, or is it?

Then I crumbled. "Okay. Okay. I admit it. I did it. It was me. That night I turned in around 10:30pm. Doors locked. Lights out. Cake safely atop counter. Low and behold before I knew it, by 4am, the cake was almost gone. I had, allegedly, been getting up during the night, and with my hands, my bare hands, was breaking off a chunk of the white and then a chunk of the black and then on my way back to bed taking a swig of milk from the fridge. Apparently I must have done this at least a half a baker's dozen times, and when I woke up in the morning the cake was almost gone. Torn apart. Savagely torn apart. This was not premeditated. Swear.

(But unfortunately I am a repeat offender. Now. Last night I ate an entire box of Entenmann's Madeleines during the course of the night. You get a dozen or so in the package. They cost under $5 (these were on sale for $2.99), about the same for two tiny cakes at Starfucks. And they're better! Purely delicious petite butter cakes. No joke. The proof is on the package. It says "Our golden butter Madeleines are baked into a delicate seashell shape and have a tender, moist and sophisticated flavor. Delicious served as a snack, or as part of a dessert - enjoyed by adults and children alike. Enjoy!" See? Hey food snobs, eff off! This isn't just a recession special. It's a fact. Entenmann's Madeleines are better than any other. Although, you don't have to eat the entire package in one sitting, if you can help it. Oh, and a black and white cake is like a black and white cookie, only larger. Much larger. About 12x8, infact. Oooph.)

Does the name Susan Lowenstein ring a bell?

If it doesn't, you really should become acquainted. Here. Let me help you get caught up. In an attempt to stay current and relevant, I'm trying to catch up on the Oscar nominated movies. I'm in 1991. I know. Pretty good, right? Last night I watched The Prince of Tides. Has anyone seen this film yet? Gosh darn it I really liked that God damned movie, and for all the - I'm sure - obvious reasons. For starters, Tom (Nick Nolte) just makes me want to be a better person. Period. Next, Barbara if you're reading this, can you please have your character, Susan Lowenstein, give me a ring? Stat! I really connected to your (her, her, I mean her) style of therapy. Although Barbara, it was you who breathed life into that role. You did that. Now don't get me wrong. I'm not a swinger or anything, but that scene toward the end when a shirtless Tom is holding Lowenstein curled up in fetal position wearing an oversized pink sweater and striped tube socks while rocking in a rocking chair touched my very core. I just wanted to curl up right in between the two of them and chat for hours. Just talk, talk, talk their ears off! That image completed me, but there was more. George Carlin played a gay. Yes. GEORGE CARLIN. A gay! That's like Pearl, the old lady from 227, playing a sorority co-ed. It's genius. In my humble opinion he was robbed of the best supporting actor nod. And now he's dead. Bravo. Bravo! 

(In a related story, I'm currently watching the entire Sopranos series on Netflix DVD. God. That's the way to do it. Watch series television, that is. Anyway, Tony Soprano sent his therapist, Dr. Melfi, a basket of goodies with a bottle of Tide in it, signing the card "Your Prince of Tides." What a simple minded gumba. That man has no couth. Coming from me, that says a lot. Did somebody fart?)

Bob Money

Words can sometimes have multiple spellings, right?  For example, cancelled and canceled. Well, the other evening I parked behind a car in Brooklyn and the license plate said Dinero. Now I don't claim to speak Spanish, but I do know that it means money. Then almost immediately it dawned on me. Any way you spell it, DeNiro means money. I'm sure Robert can attest to that.  

(Honestly. That had never dawned on me until that very moment.  jejeje. That's Spanish for hahaha.)

Twitching in the Shitter = Twitter

"I'm headed to the beach with my ferret."  10 minutes ago

"My feet smell of burnt tapioca."  all the time

"I'm eating bread."  currently

REALLY?! Does anybody really give a rat's ass what Tara Reid is doing at any given moment? I sure as heck don't. I don't get it. I really don't. And the thought of people doing it is starting to piss me off. This is what I call and have always called twittering:  pants down, sitting on the can in a public john, feeling faint dying for the guy next to you to pack up and move on, sweating, shaking, twitching, waiting, waiting, waiting. Twittering.

(Public restroom etiquette lesson: spare your neighbor from the potency your stink by performing a courtesy flush. Just flush the toilet immediately upon release even if you're not completely finished. This may be a bit of a water waster, but it's a real breathe saver. 

Update: I can admit when I'm wrong. I conceded. I have been schooled on the merit of twitter.  FUCK YOU!

I had a dream

Ever hear the expression at the end of the world all there will be left will be cockroaches and Cher? Well, whether you did or not, I woke up recently in a cold sweat with the feeling of impending doom. I dreamt that Jesus stepped down from his cross to smash a cockroach under his stigmatic foot while simultaneously pistol-whipping Cher. With a rib! Not Adam's rib used to create Eve, not Cher's rib she allegedly had removed ages ago, but a pork rib dripping in sauce. Thick, dark colored, barbeque sauce. Now here's the scary part. It appeared that Miss Cher was wearing my jeans. The very pair that I had laid out to wear to work the next day. I startled myself awake shouting, "bitch better not get any stains on my favorite fucking jeans!" Dear God, lead my jeans from temptation and deliver them from evil -- safely and stain-free.

(Btw, my favorite jeans are APC New Standard (raw denim). Make sure they really fit and wear them for a year before even considering washing them. During that time, keep them in the freezer. It eliminates any odor. When you are ready to wash, briefly soak them in a sink with Woolite Black and air dry. They turn out amazing. You can also dry clean, but beware that dry cleaning changes the wash of your jeans because they do spray with a chemical. Maybe try dry cleaning them inside out? I have yet to try that.)

What could be worse than a foot in your mouth?

My grandma used to make homemade doughnuts. These were different. They were savory. We dropped the word nuts and just called the dough by its' flavor. Many people found it odd, but coming from the old world she (and we as children) didn't know. We just didn't. Our favorite was dill.

Pic NSFW

We would run down the block singing, jumping, dancing and clapping, "Grandma's making her dill dough. Soon we'll be eating Grandma's dill dough!" (Repeat chorus.) Nobody else ever joined in on our excitement. It took us a few years to figure out why.

(Micheline and I saw this while walking in Manhattan at lunchtime. This pic is from my phone.  I'm sure it tastes nothing like my grandma's.)

Re: In Car Nation

I just found out something crazy. My dog whose name is Elvis was born on the anniversary of Princess Diana's death whose bizarre infatuation with Elvis Presley inspired one of her most famous dresses that sold for the most money at auction which was bought by the owner of the Costello Palace Hotel who happens to be the distant relative of the woman who actually bred my dog here in the United States...all of this unbeknownst to Elvis' first owners who actually named him after Elvis Costello whose wife Diana had a childhood kitten named Princess. Is that weird? Shall I send a memo to the royal family?

(This is a picture of my dog, Elvis.  I may be his guardian, but he really is my guardian angel.)