Star Wars

If you were like, I don't know, millions and millions of other people, you probably went to see "Star Wars Episode III Revenge of the Sith — Now With More Toy Tie-ins Ever; I Am A Manipulative Genuis!" by special effects junkie George Lucas.

My co-workers at The Californian did a hilarious, nifty little film about the premiere, which you can watch here.

I saw the movie, but I'm not really the best judge of "Star Wars." While I love the sci-fi genre, I am hopelessly a Trekkie. I know. I know. Trekkies are weird and lame. Well, so are you "Star Wars" people. So are you. Your "Force" isn't necessarily better than my "Federation." Just different. Like DC and Marvel.

That said, I did not fall asleep during the first forty minutes of "Sith" even though I wished for the pleasure of deep slumber greatly. Fortunately, Ani went to the "Dark Side" and everything got campy and delicious and really, really homoerotic for no real reason other than maybe, just maybe George Lucas has developed a wicked sense of humor. Which I greatly doubt since I think all of this was done quite seriously.

Whoa Nelly!

I went to see Nelly (and T.I. and Fat Joe) Wednesday night while undergoing an existential crisis (one of those, "I have no life, moments." "I'm 27 and single." "I have credit card debt out the ying-yang." "Why am I here?" You know, one of those moments). I was there to write a review of the show. Naturally, I couldn't put everything I saw in my review, which ran last week. So here are notes, fluidly from my brain (sans naughty curse words) to my notebook to my blog.

I dub thee: "ANGST UNFILTERED: The Nelly Concert

THE PARADE OF NOBODIES, 7:35 p.m.

The concert opens with some guy (the Unknown Rapper), some other guy (the Unknown Hypeman) and another guy (Mr. Free Ride.) They are performing in front of a black curtain and a banner that says "T.I.: Urban Legend." It took me several minutes to realize neither of these three guys were T.I. and that they were just part of the unending PARADE OF NOBODIES who went on before T.I., Fat Joe and Nelly. They have no album. They have no single. They don't even have a six-pack in some cases and they're all performing in front of a black curtain hitting poses that Kool Moe Dee won't even do anymore. Let the rant begin ...

7:36 p.m., Wow, a spotlight. Thrilling.

7:56 p.m., Someone sparks up the weed. Thanks. Now I'm going to have a headache for the rest of the night!

7:58 p.m., Note to The Unknown Rapper: Get a band like LL, some dancing hoochies or a six pack becomes underwhelmed, thy name is The Unknown Rapper.

8 p.m., Unknown Rapper is done. New Unknown Rapper(s) enters. A pair, no hype man. No random guy.

8:05 p.m., A Latino kid refers to his friend as "That's my n***a." God, Aaron McGruder is right and I'm getting a T-shirt that says just that.

8:10 p.m., Duo from Nelly's label now doing Snoop's "Drop It Like It's Hot," a song I like, but not by nobodies. It's rap karaoke! Rapaoke!

8:11 p.m., "Derrty E-N-T! We all we got!" (This was shouted over and over by Nelly's people) This is humorous because what black kid who grew up as a child of the 1990s doesn't recognize Allen Payne's lie from "New Jack City?"

"CMB! We all we got," then all sad and reverently, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Then Wesley Snipes says "I am" and shoots Allen Payne in the only moment of genuine acting in the whole film. But then these kids have never seen New Jack City, thus depressing me.

8:15 p.m., Chocolate Tie (or Chocolati or, who knows? They didn't say how she spelled it.), who has on jeans, red leg warmers and metallic sandals, enters.

8:16 p.m., Everyone leaves.

8:17 p.m., Just once I'd like to see someone come out in a 3-piece suit with bling all crazy, dressed up like he's going in for a court date wearing all-white throwback Nikes with the fat laces and comes out doing the damn Robot.

8:18 p.m., God. I'm the old lady at the Nelly concert.

8:20 p.m., "Whirlwind" is being performed. Suddenly have the urge to watch "Fear of a Black Hat."

8:25 p.m., Parade of losers ends.

TI JUST CALLED YOU A HO, LADY. NOT LIKE YOU NOTICED OR ANYTHING: the real opening acts.

T.I.

8:40 p.m., T.I. comes out with his crew. Who are these brothers? Are they going to do the robot? What the ...? What is the purpose of all these brothers? Can we fire six brothers and hire some big booty dancers in tennis skirts with Polaroid cameras? UNDERwhelmed!

Rapping is really a sport. Unless there is a battle rhyme going on you're like, "Why am I watching the Dallas Mavericks practice running drills?" Where are the pyrotechnics and the strippers? I want Cristal and a Cadillac driven out on the stage!

8:50 p.m., Existential crisis — I never thought I'd say this but, I WANNA SEE NELLY! Get off the stage!

8:55 p.m., T.I. asks, "Is there a stone cold freak in the mother (freakin'!) house?" Countless ladies scream.

8:58 p.m., Realize beer would improve this situation greatly.

9 p.m., Do these women realize he's called them all hoes, like, a thousand times?

9:01 p.m., T.I. has progressively lost more and more clothes. In the last 30 minutes T.I. has lost —
#1. A light blue "Italia" pull over.
#2. A white T-shirt
#3. Now working on losing the wife beater

Don't let the beater win, T.I.! You didn't spend all those hours at the gym for nothing.

9:03 p.m., T.I. finally loses battle versus shirt.

9:05 p.m., T.I. finishes his set. Lady in red behind me policing the front row for us, cursing out anyone who stands up, all in the way. Lady is my hero. Shouts, "I wanna see NELLY!" Me too.

FAT JOE

9:10 p.m., Fat Joe comes out with his crew and a dude is here with a "Fat Joe" poster on a stick. Fat Joe, you couldn't afford some hoochies? Some pyrotechnics? Some anything but just you and your running crew?

9:30 p.m. Fat Joe gives his shout-out to dead rappers and repeatedly shouts either "You know the (stuff) is in the Lord" or "You know the (stuff) is in the law." I'm going with Lord.

9:40 p.m., Fat Joe ends. Cher gave The Village People more time.

NELLY ... FINALLY

10 p.m., "Air Force Ones." Bling is out of control. Still, no dancing heifers.

10:09 p.m., Finally, the girls show up. Nelly, I was seriously starting to wonder. They're in denim overall skirts and pink Chucks. They're like hip hop cheerleaders. I think I saw that dance routine at the Hazelwood East High/East St. Louis game in 1996 back in Busch Stadium.

10:15 p.m., Nelly pimps some guy from Atlanta who has sweatbands on his wrists, neck and head. He looks like Oglethorpe.

10:17 p.m., Another Derrty ENT guy. Who are you? Why are you not Nelly? Do I know that dude? He's singing a ballad, all "I love you. I still want you in my life." Dude has a crazy ponytail that makes him look like "My Little Rapper."

10:34 p.m., Nelly sez, "Don't be scurred now," (But I am scurred, Nelly. Very scurred.) as he takes us to "My Place," and why is Nelly singing? I never thought I'd say this but, where's the Unknown Rapper?

Just kidding, Nelly. You know I love you. But not really. But I do, in that way that Jesus loves everybody.

It's official!

I can die now because I won a Kern Press Club Award.

It happened last Friday. The "Ironic Fate Gods" decided that I would not win for a feature story (Congrats, Steve!) or one of my humor columns (Congrats, Leo!) No, chickerinos. I won for this.

(It's archived and costs money to read, but the opening Sound Off entry snippet is like a teaser to the beginning of the story which is listed on the search a little further down, so just scroll, my tragic hipsters.)

Yes. That. I won for my review of the now defunct David Zent's Candlelight Dinner Theatre's "The Pajama Game" from 2004. I entered it under the logic of, "well, out of all my reviews I know for a FACT that people actually read that one." That, and in a weird way, it was the one I was most proud of. It was my first official, "theatrical trainwreck" bad review. And although it was criticized for it's harshness ... well, it's my opinion and that's only worth as much stock as you put into it. If you think I'm on crack you can just write my editor and say, "Danielle Belton is on crack (in so many words)." David did (in so many words) and it was cool. I'm like EPMD, folks. Business, never personal.

[Side note: Man, I feel like rapping the entire song "Crossover" all of a sudden. I love EPMD. I had a "40 Ounces of Power" tour bootleg T-shirt my moms bought for me at a Jennings, Mo. swamp meet. (Whoo! Hoo! Jennings!) Of course, it's gone now. Long gone.]

But that said, I was surprised that out of my three years here that was what I won a Press Club award for.

We don't have speeches at these awards. It's food, drinks and awards all in the name of college scholarship money, which many journalists were more than happy enough to drink to as most journalists -- broadcast or print -- will drink to pretty much anything.

Hey! The story got in on time! Let's go to Riley's! Or the Cigar Bar! (If you're an editor) Or the Casablanca! (If you're under 25.) Or Fishlips! (If you don't feel like walking far. They're literally across the street.)

If I could have gave a speech I would have thanked Bakersfield theater for always giving me something to write about. Just like I said in my review of "Rocky Horror" — no one's ever going to mistake these folks for boring.

As for the rest of the she-bang, I got to catch up with some homies. Meet some homies I hadn't met before. It was sweet. Drank some of that Coppola wine. Did the chit chat. Staved off an anxiety attack. Withstood the annual razzing of my legendary bad date with another media person that happened, like, nearly four freakin' years ago! But then CERTAIN people just love bringing it up whenever possible. It's all Olivia's fault! Razz her! Razz her!

I swear, they're going to put that in my obituary.

"And then she moved to California where her friend Olivia fixed her up with a man who she'd go on a very odd date with and be offended by. Then she had too many margaritas at a party and told everyone about said date causing more trouble. Then she mentioned it in a column and because of this she would have to hear about this date as punishment for the rest of her days."

I'd tell you who it was, but no. I'm never telling you who it was. Discuss my trainwreck bad date possibilities at your own leisure.

DAMMIT JANET!

They've extended the Rocky Horror Show! (Surprise, surprise.)

Did you read my review where I told you to "go, go to see this show?" Did you not "go, go?" Do you not listen!?! I told you to go already! Go again! Bring a friend! Then go again to ...

RICHARD O'BRIEN'S ROCKY HORROR SHOW! (Did I mention that I liked it?) I love it when a local theater has a hit on their hands. It's fun. And I like happiness. Everyone's all singing and dancing and profane and having a good time and a theater gets some much needed love and business and Bakersfield gets some much needed fun and theater. Let's do this more often. Let's do the "Time Warp" again ...

Read more here on the Bakersfield Community Theatre web site.

The extended dates and times are as follows ...

Friday, May 20 at 8:00 PM
Saturday, May 21 at 8:00 PM
Saturday, May 21 at MIDNIGHT

Friday, May 27 at 8:00 PM
Saturday, May 28 at 8:00 PM
Saturday, May 28 at MIDNIGHT

Want tickets? Need to know where to go? Call 831-8114 and make your reservations now.

"Every man in America wants me, so why don't you?"

Have you ever received pamphlets or seen advertisments for self-help seminars and wondered, "why on earth would anyone ever go to this?" I do. I wonder why they all have to sound so lame.

Until I discovered this gem from the Celebrity Women's League of America! Finally, a self-help seminar (on love and dating for women) that's actually worth going to!

Don't believe me? Read all about it! (I promise, I'll go back to prattling on and on about my crappy life tomorrow. I need to get this parody out of my system. It just has to go!)

-------------------------------

EVERY MAN IN AMERICA WANTS ME SO WHY DON’T YOU?
A day-long seminar on dating, marriage and re-marriage for the celebrity woman

9 a.m. WELCOME BREAKFAST

Keynote Speaker: NICOLE KIDMAN
Description: Nicole will welcome you to the seminar and kick things off with her speech TOM WHO?: My new man’s name is Oscar, a recount of when love is dead you always have your career.

10 a.m. ROLE MODELS
Four fashion models offer you tips on living with and without love (Choose one)

MANEATER: How you can turn your sexual appetite into a just plain appetite

Featuring: TYRA BANKS
Description: Supermodel, reality TV show host Tyra Banks talks about her failed relationships of how when her make up came off her boyfriends ran off, resulting in a renewed love affair with every girl’s best friend — a plate of smoked ribs.

(2 hours with an all pork BBQ brunch included.)

BETTER LIVING THROUGH PLASTIC: Snip Snip, Slice Slice Your Blues Away

Featuring: JANICE DICKENSON
Description: When a man causes your face to fall on the floor, just have a plastic surgeon pick it up and put it back on says “World’s First Supermodel” and relationship bio-hazard zone Janice Dickenson. Sly Stallone be damned!

(Will start 45 minutes late and includes the "BoBo" package -- free Bloody Marys and Botox injections)

KNOCK’D UP; LOCK’D UP: Marriage by shotgun

Featuring: HEIDI KLUM, KIMORA LEE SIMMONS and ANNA NICOLE
Description: Because some men need a little encouragement to commit models Heidi Klum, Kimora Lee Simmons and Anna Nicole will teach you how to use entrampment to your advantage by either A) getting knocked up or B) seducing old rich geezers. Or as Anna likes to call it The Texas Hoochie Jackie O. technique.

(90 minutes; “Texas Hoochie Jackie O” kit includes G-string, stripper pole, glittery four-inch disco heels and strand o’ pearls)

Noon LUNCH

Speaker: JANET JACKSON, Miss Janet if you’re nasty.
Description: Janet will give a speech entitled JERMAINE DUPRI: Or how I learned to just get with an ugly guy who would just be grateful to be with me because I’m Janet Jackson

2 p.m. MY FAME IS BIGGER THAN YOUR FAME: Marrying the little man and living to regret it
Featuring: VANESSA WILLIAMS and HALLE BERRY
Description: They’re black. They’re beautiful. They can’t keep a man. Just because you’re a former Miss America or a sexy Oscar winner doesn’t mean you’ll even be remotely lucky in love. Especially if you keep dating svengalis, athletes and bootleg R&B sex-fiend crooners. Singer/actress Vanessa Williams and her less talented, but infinitely more wealthy counterpart Halle Berry discuss why the third marriage is the marriage that ain’t happenin’. That is, unless Denzel leaves his wife. Then it’s on.
Fo’ real this time.

(All participants will recieve free supscriptions of Ebony, Jet and Essence magazines, batteries from Radio Shack, a Proactiv acne kit, Revlon make-up kits and all the stuff Rick Fox and Eric Benet left at the house when they kicked them out.)

3 p.m. MASTER OF MY DOMAIN: #%&@ marriage!

Featuring: OPRAH WINFREY
Description: Oprah, along with her special guest, recent parolee Martha Stewart, discuss how a man can only get in the way of happiness. (Unless he’s on a short, short leash like Stedman.) Oprah will demonstrate her “secret man training techniques” that will keep your lesser famous paramour in line so you can shine like the star you are.

(There will be a full buffet provided by Martha for free as stipulated in her parole agreement. Also Oprah is giving away cars and spa kits so arrive early.)

4 p.m. MY NAME IS NOT J.LO: He’s cool until he gets in my way

Featuring: JENNIFER LOPEZ
Description: Fashion, music, dance, acting, colonge, singing, rapping, you-name-it-she's-got-it-but-she's-still-Jenny-from-the-block recently got married but she never lost her control. Learn how to love and leave men both emotionally and financially crippled while still staying teflon shiny. Jennifer teaches you how to turn an outfit change into front page news and says that if he’s not all about you, you, you that man has got to go.

(The room will be all white with white gardenia’s and humidifiers while shirtless pool boys feed you grapes and kiss your toned, tanned bikini-ed behind. Every participate will also recieve Jennifer’s latest CD, passes to see “Monster-In-Law” and a free “Glo” by J. Lo gift pack.)

5 p.m. ROBBIN’ THE CRADLE: Young is the new husband

Featuring DEMI MOORE, CHER and CAMERON DIAZ
Description: He’s too young to know that he shouldn’t want to be with you and boys are for toys! If you want a man to worship you like a goddess you’ve got to get one dummer than you and that means younger. Younger and dumber. It’s like that song “"Father Figure” by George Michael, only you’re more like an older sister and it’s less gay. Or in Cher’s case — somehow more gay.

6 p.m. DINNER

Keynote speaker: ELIZABETH TAYLOR-HILTON-WILDING-TODD-FISHER-BURTON-BURTON-WARNER-FORTENSKY
Description: The name explains it all.

Dumbest. Racist. Term. Ever.

My friend Christina the police reporter was working on a crime story where the incident happened in a predominantly black neighborhood recently and she told me how one neighbor didn't seem to take too kindly to one of the TV cameramen, who happened to be white. To announce her displeasure at him being there she called him a "Crackerwood," quite possibly the dumbest racist nickname I've ever heard given to a white person.

As with all things racist, there are a lot of terms people of differing nationalities have for what they consider to be white people. Some were even created by white people, perhaps wanting to differentiate themselves from other white people they deemed unacceptable (Okie, anyone? Back in the 30s folks in Bakersfield accused Okies of not being white proving once again that race is largely a state of mind. An ignorant one, but still a state of mind.)

Personally, I find about 95 percent of these names laughable ("Honky?" What's that about? That's like calling me a "Spade" or a "Jiggaboo." Did you just walk out of a 1970s blaxpliotation film? Is your name Jay-Z?) The only racist term for white people I feel has any bite to it is "white trash" which, when said by the snobbiest of snobs, or just plain idiots for that matter, comes off as the nastiest thing ever.

As for Crackerwood. That just sounded incredibly dumb. I told Christina that perhaps the woman meant to call him either a "cracker" or a "peckerwood" and got them confused and thus "crackerwood" was born.

To me, "Crackerwood" sounds like either A) A colonial New England homestead B) A new off-shoot of the Cracker Barrel restaurant chain C) A microbrewery or D) A brand of high-end specialty tobacco that would be profiled in "Cigar Aficionado."

And this is why I wrote you all about the fake racist term of "Crackerwood" — So I'd have an excuse to blog my fake Cigar Aficionado article on the Crackerwood Fine Tobacco Cigarillo.

Introducing Crackerwood — "The Official Cigar Brand of the United States Constitutional Congress."

"You know it's good if it's a 'Crackerwood.'"

Cigar Aficionado recently sat down to talk to actors Matthew Broderick and Johnny Depp about their recently deceased contemporary, Marlon Brando's love for the Crackerwood Cigarillo — a tobacco cigar created in the late 1700s by colonial Virginian farmers, named for the providence of Crackerwood, Va.

"Marlon turned me on to Crackerwood while we were filming 'The Freshman' in 1990," Broderick said. "I remember it distinctly because he smelled like McDonald's cheeseburgers that day and his friend Michael Jackson was on the set with Corey Feldman. Feldman wanted to bogart a Crackerwood from Marlon and he said no. Feldman asked him why and Marlon said, 'Because I don't like you very much.' And then, just to piss him off, he gave one to me. That was pretty sweet because I don't like Feldman and Crackerwood makes a bad ass cigar. Sarah and I smoke them all the time, you know? When we're relaxing."

Depp agreed with the smokeability of Crackerwood brand.

"They're good," Depp said. "Brando kept crates of them on his island. Like, in case of the end of the world, you know? And there was just the island he wanted to be able to get his favorite smoke. So he collected them he had crates that were actually from the 1700s. I mean, I smoked a two-hundred year old cigar last time I was there, the last time I saw him with Vanessa on the island, and ironically, Michael Jackson was there too. I don't know why. He's always around. Creepy bugger. But nice. So Marlon gave us some of the 1787 batch, the actual batch, and I don't know how he got this, but the batch the founding fathers smoked after they signed the Constitution. It was really crazy. So Michael tried to smoke one but he gagged and vomited all over Corey Feldman. Marlon got a big kick out of that. As for the 200 year old cigar, I mean, it wasn't very good, but man, it got you unbelievably high. I mean, high like you wouldn't believe. Like, I hadn't been that high since I was 12. It took me a week to come down. (Expletive) incredible."

All right, which one of you gave me Cooties?

I am having the worst case of cooties ever as my face has broken out with acne of gigantic proportions. I've got a zit on my chin double for Mt. Rushmore and my forehead is so hilly that it's alive with The Sound of Music.

I haven't had acne this bad since 2000 when I was dating my future ex-husband. I was fighting with The Mommy Person over said future ex-husband everyday, stressing over a job in advertising that I hated and trying to figure out how to get the H-E-double hockey sticks up out of St. Louis. It was horrible. But for the past two years I was relatively zit free and was lulled into this sense that puberty was finally over. I mean, it was still uneven (as always). And it was still oily (as always). And it was devoid of wrinkles (thank you, good genes of The Mommy Person!) But best of all it was bump-free. Now it's like the surface of the moon.

This is seriously not working for my totally Extreme Belton Makeover. Not at all.

So on Saturday I was lying around the house watching TV because I was too lazy to get up and put in the friggin' DVD and wound up watching The Vanessa Williams try to sell me some Proactiv. Have I ever mentioned that I love The Vanessa Williams? The Vanessa L. Williams? The real Vanessa Williams not the black chick who only lasted one season on Melrose Place? The one who starred in the movie "Soul Food" not the TV show "Soul Food?" The one who was the first black Miss America then got busted for being all nekkid then came back and recorded "The Right Stuff" and "The Comfort Zone" which I rocked on cassette tape from here to eternity like it was nothing? Did I ever mention that if you walk up to me and say, "Oh and by the way?" I'll retort, "This one's for you?"

I love Vanessa Williams, ya'll!

I put my stock in her, not The Halle Berry. But alas The Halle Berry got the acting career and Vanessa got the infomercial. But in the end they both married different messed-up ends of the same guy so I guess it all comes out in the wash. (Dude, Rick Fox so looks like he could be Eric Benet's craggly play cousin.) Of course this just proves that you can be two of the most beautiful women in the world and still have a love life that sucks major bollocks.

Anyway, Vanessa Williams can sell anything to me, from her movies to her CDs to Radio Shack. Something about her just seems so well put together and in control even though I know that she's probably livin' la vida tragic mulatto in a major way. But it never registers. (It's called "acting," ya'll!) So for this long I actually considered dialing up and ordering me some Proactiv just cause 'Nessa said it made her silky fine. But then I reminded myself that I do not order stuff off the TV. If I order Proactiv I might as well call up and get that Epil Lady Stop N' Spray, that Ab Roller, some Washington state oceanfront property and a jar of Nads. And, um, hell no. That's not happening. But, unfortunately, the acne is. Big time.

Guess it's time to hit up the Clinque counter and the Neutrogena, kidderinos!

The Mommy Person (And Granny Person and Great Aunt Person) is better than you (and me and probably anyone else you know)

My Mommy Person sent me a thank you card. She'd already pre-warned me it was coming in the mail as she is the world's sweetest murderer of all surprises.

Like when she and my father predicted my starter marriage wasn't going to work out. Thanks guys. Thanks bundles.

Anyway, the card was for the birthday present I made for her last month, something that would further allow for people to love to hate her for pretty much the rest of her days. And knowing her, she'll probably live forever so everyone can hate her for that too.

For her birthday I wrote her biography and had it bound to look like those celebrity biographies she likes to buy when they finally make it to Big Lots or the dollar store. Yes. She owns "Monica's Story" and "Theo (That's "Theo Huxtable," folks)" all for the low-low price of a dollar.

The present was a joint project between myself, my two sisters and my Aunt Sheila, who is asking me to email her a copy of the thing to give to my grandmother. I know this is so Granny, can overtly use it to make people jealous of her. Since you don't know about this and I like to drone on endlessly about my life because I'm self-absorbed and you're all feeding my fragile ego, my Granny likes to show off in a big, big way. I keep thinking that if I send her a copy of Mama's Biography she will literally carry it in her purse and throw it at people while shouting, "Look what my what my perfect grandbaby made for my perfect daughter! Did I tell you she was perfect? By the way, I'm 77, I look 67, I'm 5-foot-7 and I look GREAT in heels. Watch me walk in them over your back!"

And after doing her best to make people love to hate her she will defiantly (and very un-PC) announce that ... err ... "Black folks don't want you have anything!" (She actually says that much snappier and cruder, but ... um, email me if you can't figure it out.) This is a woman who wants me to be on "Wheel of Fortune" because A) She thinks I'd "be good at guessing those letters" B) I'm a journalist, "why aren't you on CNN already?" C) I need new stuff to brag about.

I'm not kidding. Every woman in my mother's family (accept my mother and her sister) are like this. My great aunt brags on me. I'm her grand niece, people. She has three sons and several grandchildren to lord of people, but hey, she's greedy. So there she is, right next to my grandmother, her sister, helping her lob that book at people while running her charity group and daycare while keeping an immaculate home and fixing dinner for her husband because, well, she's better than you and she just thought you should know that. (You know? Just in case you couldn't tell from her gorgeous southern home or how her speech is impeccable or how straight and blinding white all her original teeth are.)

My mother likes to show off, but not nearly as obviously. She always comes off as genuine, like she just thought you might like to know that her daughters gave her a frickin' biography as a birthday present and threw her a surprise party, which is like, she can't remember, but probably the third time her kids have thrown either herself or her husband or both of them some kind of ridiculous "Thanks For All The Yelling" shindig. She was just stopping by, you know, in her black outfit that makes her look slim with her giant, perfect white teeth and freckles and she made you German chocolate cake from scratch "just because" and a wreath to hang on your door that coincides with whatever holiday/season/event/motif is going on. And while she's feeding you that cake and being unbelievably nice you find yourself innocently asking how she's doing and you learn that her biggest problems start with "n" and "othing." And she's so darn happy and pleasant and kind and nurturing and she has no wrinkles and drives a Lincoln and it's amazing no one has killed her by now.

She's one amazingly charming woman. It's what allowed her to survive when she was all young and incredibly good looking and it allows her to survive now that she's entered that "cute little old lady" stage. And she'll play "cute little old lady" in a minute if it means she can continue her 27 year streak of never pumping her own gas.

Anyway, because my mother is perfect in a way that should cause people to kill her, but they don't because she's so perfect that you end up really liking her because she really is a nice person, she is the sort of woman who (OF COURSE) sends out "thank you" cards. No one does that anymore, but she does because she really does appreciate you. Really. She's not just saying that. She doesn't even know you and she already loves you, all of you reading the blog right now.

She loves you in that "We Are the World" sort of way. That is unless her weird Spidey sense tells her not to and that thing has NEVER been wrong, thus adding to her magic elfin powers. Did I mention she's only three apples high? Like a Smurf and she wiggles when she hugs you? Like a Smurf?

My mom's a Smurf, ya'll!"

But because I like to tease my loving, patient and ever tolerant of me family, I just felt compelled (ego + "nerd outcast childhood" = feed me) to print what my mother wrote to me in my thank you note because, I mean, really, she's a Smurf. You'll read this and you'll think my childhood consisted of lots of cuddling and hugs (which it did, just with more yelling. You don't get this mouthy without yelling). And for whatever reason, my family is heavy on the "love you" stuff, so, take some Tums or something. It's just something we do in writing and in practice and all the time. It's like it doesn't count if you don't say it three or fifteen times.

Here it is ...

Hello my Number 2 Babe,

You worked so hard. Thanks. I love my book. You are the best. I am so happy that you are my daughter. I love you so much. You will always have my love. You made my birthday wonderful and one I will always remember. You made me feel special. Kiss my cat for me! (Random cat shout-out since I'm not producing grandbabies right now.)

(And here comes my self-esteem booster, "You're not a loser! Really!" shout-out that only moms, grandmothers and bragging great aunts are allowed to do ...)

I know deep down one day that you'll met that special guy in your life because you are a special person.

Love, Mama

And then she TOTALLY stuck a black bridesmaid Barbie sticker on there. No lie, people. She's there, staring at me like, "I totally believe in you! You can get a man! Really! There is a Ken doll out there with all the icky guy parts sanded down, all smooth and paved over waiting for you in a pink convertible and a dream house!

And you know what else was inside the card?

A "Dear Abby" column listing the "warning signs" of recognizing a "woman abuser."

The more you know the more you grow, chickadees!

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Do you have an unnaturally perfect person in your life? A person who is successfully married, well-off and just plain better than you and you can't bring yourself to hate her because she almost died giving birth to you so you just have to suck it up and take it?

Please share ... this is where the healing begins.

Drunk Dialing

I was e-mailing my fake sister Christina this link regarding Michael Jackson possibly losing his stake in The Beatles music catalog. For those who don't know. Back in 1985, Jackson royally screwed Paul McCartney's pooch and out-bid him for The Beatles catalog, ponying up $47.5 million.

No remaining Beatle would ever be able to afford the catalog now, but with the trial and his weird shopping habits there's a good chance he won't own it either. Of course, if he's smart he'll hold onto the damn thing for dear life since I highly doubt that he'll ever be able to make another album worth buying ever again after this trial is over with -- acquittal or no. The man's career is DOA.

When I sent Christina the note she e-mailed back:

I bet Paul McCartney's been snickering for months now. "You won't be drunk dialing me from prison, will you? Bloody wanker!"

Which inspired me to write this ... because, well, I really like parody ... enjoy.

DRUNK DIALING
By Michael Jackson

Paul McCartney's answering machine, circa 1989 to 1996:

BEEP! ... Hi Paul, this is Michael. I just finished going for a swim Brooke Shields and Emmanuel Lewis and Helga was out sick and couldn't do laundry, so right now we're using "Let It Be" and "Yesterday" for towels. They're really absorbent! Just like Egyptian cotton! Tee hee! ... Byeee. .... BEEP!

BEEP! ... Paul? If you're there pick up. ... Pick up, pick up, pick up! ... BEEP!

BEEP! ... Hey Paul! How's Wings going? Not good, huh. Well, you can say, say, say what you want, but man, "Come Together" makes GREAT Kleenex and I've got a bitch of a cold! (loud wet sneeze) ... Mmmm. Excuse me. ... BEEP!

BEEP! ... Macaulay, stop! ... Tee hee. I'm on the phone! (long pause, unintelligible giggle) ... You are so silly ... (three minutes of silence) ... Oh, Goodness! I forgot all about ... BEEP!

BEEP! ... Sorry about that Paul. I'm sorry. Macaulay was tickling me again ... We were having pillow fight, only we weren't using pillows, but fistfuls of money from selling the rights to use your music in Microsoft commercials. Ciao! ... BEEP!

BEEP! ... (Sounds of paper horns and Disney movie music) Happy Birthday, Paul! I'm having a party at Neverland for you ... Liz, Liz, honey, that's not bean dip! Could someone help, the Llama! I think he's sick! ...

... Sorry about that Paul. I was telling you about your birthday party. Of course I didn't invite you because I don't like you anymore and the party's really for Corey Feldman, but, you know? In spirit. In the spirit. ... Oh my, hold on, Paul ...

... Corey, I'm on the ... (rustling over the phone) ... Corey, I'm on the! ... (Drunken grumbling, possibly Feldman) ...

... EEEMILO! F***in' Judd Nelson... shoulda been me! Hey, Mike. Mike. Mike. You still got Brooke's phone number? F***ing "Suddenly Susan." More like suddenly YOU SUCK A**! Damn him! ...

... (More rustling over the phone) Gimmie that! ... I'm sorry, Paul, where was I? ... Oh no, Corey? ... You're spilling Jesus Juice on the carpet ... Corey ... that's staining. ... No, no. Just leave it. Maria will get it. (sound of running up stairs) ... MARIA! ... USE THE SHEET MUSIC! ... YEAH! IT DOESN'T MATTER ... SURE, USE STRAWBERRY FIELDS FOREVER., THAT'S COOL ... BEEP!

BEEP! ... Oops, I thought I was dialing Lisa. Sorry. Sorry. (Loud chimp wail) Who forgot to change Bubbles! He made a stinky! ... BEEP!

Barlow Girl, Mr. Green Tights, Jesus, KC Sheriff's and Constantine: Let's Do the Time Warp Again

I started to file this entry yesterday but my internet explorer flaked on me suddenly. Who knows? But I've just had the most exhausting, nonsensical five days.

Starting last Thursday I have been to: A Christian rock concert at Jesus Shack featuring Barlow Girl; to see Richard O'Brien's "Rocky Horror Show" at the Bakersfield Community Theatre; to see "The Mis-Adventures of Robin Hood" at the Spotlight Theatre; I worked a late night police beat shift on Sunday that involved me writing about an officer involved shooting in Lake Isabella; and then yesterday I had lunch with my fairy Godmother, Barbara S., a very nice woman I wrote an in-depth profile on my first year here. She took a shine to me, so occasionally "we lunch."

Somewhere in all that mess last week I came to the realization I would no longer be enjoying the weird sensation of being sexually harassed via my TV screen by an American Idol contestant (That Constantine M. was trying to undress me with his eyes! I swear it!) and I'd finally figured out the TV show pilot I was writing (Yes, Roger! Just like "Superman," "Metropolis" lives!) Now if only I could finish that movie for you ... hmmm ...

Any way, I realized that I have to have, like, "The Three Faces of Eve" to negotiate my way through my highly incoherent life where I feel just as comfortable with umber-Christians as with Andrew Hupp in a pair of French panties and high heels singing "Super Heroes." Barlow Girl totally made me want to cry when she started her testimony about bulimia before going into their song "Mirror." And "Rocky Horror" is so far away from a Christian rock concert that it could be called the Anti-Christian Rock concert, I loved it and totally wanted to do the Time Warp again and again. I was also delightfully titillated by Rikk Cheshire rubbing his nipples in glitter during "Robin Hood" while wearing green tights. I LOVE utterly ridiculous sexual humor (as opposed to the gross kind.)

I'll have a review of "Rocky Horror" in Thursday's paper. And I had a column run Sunday (read here.) If you want to read more about "glittery nipples" check out this blog.

Gone, baby, gone!

"Have you been sexually harassed by this man and oddly learned to like it?"

Why, Constantine, why? Why did you sing that horrible Nickleback song on "American Idol" last week? I liked it when you sang the cheesy, jazz, glam rock, Broadway crap. Why! You got me hooked on that awful show again. It's like crack to me! All the weird homoeroticism between Ryan Seacrest and Simon Cowell even though both of them are quite possibly the most unsexy people in the world to me. You know I can't resist the snark. And then you showed up. All dirty haired and tall and molesting everyone with your eyes, whoring in front of the camera, begging me to love you? And then you sang "I Think I Love You," and I was like "I Think I Love You" and Paula was like "I Think I Love You." And I was gone, baby, gone! But now I have to sit out the rest of my Idol crack addiction staring at Scott Savol and Anthony Federov. You bastard!

And in other random celebrity news: Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes? One word: Ewwwww ... watching them suck face, whoring in front of Access Hollywood is like seeing all that is gross and unholy in the world. I will use a quote I saw rolling around TV Without Pity to describe this creepy abomination ... "Dude, they're calling her and Cruise 'TomKat' and I hope that takes, because it is crazy dumb, as is their relationship, insofar as Joey Potter will now I guess die a virgin, just like she wanted."