I have a confession to make. I think it's funny when people get hit in the head. Not just funny but hilarious. Show me a commercial, television show or movie where someone gets smacked in the noggin and I'm in hysterics. For instance, I like the commercial a few years back where the old lady throws a phone book (I forget which brand) at a guy's head because he's trying to steal her cab. I like the commercial (again I forget for what product) where there are people in an office going to a big meeting and only two guys have all the information needed to close the deal. On the way to the meeting, one runs head-on into an open filing cabinet and gets knocked out. The other slips as he goes to sit down, hits his head on the conference table and it's nap time for the poor bastard.

But the king of all smacked in the head commercials so far is the Windex one currently running where the two birds trick the guy into smacking into his extremely clean glass patio doors. It doesn't matter how many times I see it, I laugh every time. As a matter of fact, a friend of mine did that in real life at a Starbucks. He even left his face print in the glass. Sure, I asked him if he was okay but only after I was able to regain my composure.

I don't know why I find blunt head trauma funny. Maybe it's some weird Keystone Kops-slip-on-the-banana-peel syndrome. Perhaps it harkens to my love of all things Looney Tunes. I have no idea. I feel guilty that I never stop to consider the possible brain damage that may result from the poor bastard running into his glass patio doors. Then again, it's not my fault Windex is streak free, is it? Though I have to admit I'm starting to worry about the pleasure I take in other people's cranial misfortune. Is it sick? Am I even more twisted than I thought? Maybe even a tad bit psycho? Does it make me a bad person?  Sadly, all of the above are probably true.

Oh, well, fuck it. It's still funny….  

I was sitting here eating my cereal when I got to thinking. Is Cap'n Crunch a pirate or just a captain in the navy? Or is he just freelance or something? I know he has an enemy named Jean LaFoote who looks like a pirate but what about the Cap'n himself? If he is in the navy then he has to be the worst naval officer in history. I mean he's been around-what?-thirty or forty years and he's still only a captain? Shouldn't he be an admiral by now? Perhaps if he spelled his title correctly and didn't take the easy way out he would have been promoted years ago. 

Also, what's up with his eyebrows being on his hat? Are they his real eyebrows and they're overactive from too much caffeine? Or does he paint them on his cap so he always looks excited? And why did he choose the cereal business as a sideline? Why not frozen fish sticks or something else that comes from the sea?

Another thing occurred to me. With all the characters promoting cereals and other foods, how long will it be before Hollywood starts making movies about them? Sounds crazy, right? Then again, who would've thought one of the most anticipated movies of the summer (not by me but probably by someone out there) would be the final film of a trilogy based on a theme park ride? After all, at some point they have to run out of theme park rides and old television shows to recycle so what's next? Food characters of course.

I can see it now. Team up Snap, Crackle and Pop with Ernie the Keebler Elf and you have an epic fantasy trilogy like Lord of the Rings. "One Rice Krispie treat to rule them all!" How about this? Take Tony the Tiger ("He thinks crime fighting is GREEEEEAAATTT!") and Sonny the cuckoo bird ("He's cuckoo for Coco Puffs and kicking bad guy butt!") and you have the next buddy cop franchise.

Oh, sure, you're sitting there mocking me now but I bet one of these summers you'll be at your local multiplex waiting in line to see Cap'n Crunch: The Curse of the Frankenberry.

Trust me, it's only a matter of time…..

Last month we moved to a house in the Philly suburb of Havertown. A place I have always liked ever since I dated my first girlfriend who lived there. As a matter of fact, when I moved to Burbank, part of the reason I chose the neighborhood I lived in was because it reminded me of Havertown. The other reason was I lived a few blocks away from downtown Burbank which reminded me of South Street back in the 80s when it was fun and not as creepy.

The house we moved into is great. Even though I still miss Burbank and the whole Hollywood scene (no bumping into movie stars at the local Starbucks here), I am thrilled to be out of that dumpy apartment in that crappy neighborhood. I'm also happy that our ex-family friend/landlord is no longer in our lives. I've discovered living in a house is like being addicted to crack. We've only lived here for a few weeks but I don't know if I could go back to living in an apartment. It is so nice not to share a wall and ceiling with anyone. And though our former paranoid, parking-obsessed, possible drug dealer upstairs neighbor will certainly end up as a character in something I write one of these days, I certainly don't miss the bastard. Although I did enjoy fueling the dude's paranoia in the last days we shared together. One day I sent a guy taking a survey for the cable company up to his apartment which sort of rattled him. That was fun. He also thought something was up with the new owner of the duplex and that we were moving because we knew something he didn't. Ah, I enjoyed every minute of it. Was that childish of me? Of course. Do I care? As everyone's favorite crack 'ho Whitney Houston would say: Hell to the no.

Our new neighborhood is very nice. It's charming and the neighbors are friendly. There are lots of dogs there which my family loves, although it's embarrassing that my two dogs, Gizmo and Nick, are always barking at them. Some walk away with their owners with a sad face feeling shunned while others (particularly the big ones) with a scowl as if they're saying to my two fuzz balls: "Who the hell do you think you are? The shit I just took was bigger than the both of you put together." The writer side of me is also enjoying the neighborhood because I can already tell it has a Desperate Housewives/Blue Velvet-y vibe to it. I'm not quite sure why yet but it's just a feeling I have. Although what happened this past Saturday was more Animal House than Housewives.

My father, wife, and I were sitting in the living room when we heard a noise from outside. My wife got up to investigate. As she opened our front door she found herself faced with two cheeks and not the kind that are on your face. "We're being mooned," she said. My Dad and I both look puzzled. "What?" "Someone is standing across the street mooning me." I got up to check it out but by that time a bunch of teenage boys were running away. I have to admit it was very amusing to me. You see this sort of thing in movies and TV shows but it's something I never thought actually happened in real life. I imagined the kids were running to Arnold's to tell Fonzie all about it.

I couldn't help but wonder: why were we targeted? We're Italians living in a predominantly Irish neighborhood. Was it a hate crime? Could it be some bizarre ritual to welcome new neighbors? Had the gift basket become obsolete? Did I not tip the paperboy enough? If that was the case, was this a warning for next time? A run-by mooning instead of a drive-by shooting? In my defense, it was the first time I had a paperboy in years and I was a little out of practice. The whole thing only confirmed what I have always believed since this West Philly boy first encountered the suburbs when I was thirteen years old. That they are indeed a strange and peculiar place. It also occurred to me that perhaps Havertown and Hollywood weren't so different after all.

In both places at any given time, there was a chance you could encounter an asshole…

The other day I was reminiscing about my high school years. At the time, I hated high school. I hated school period. I was always absent because I never felt like going. The guys in my classes would take bets if I would show up everyday. Even my English teacher would get in on the action. Despite my numerous absences, I was always able to stay ahead with my school work and was constantly in the top percentage of my class. I remember getting a letter from the disciplinarian in my senior year informing me if I was absent one more time, I wouldn't be able to graduate. Considering I was ranked third in my class (I peaked early), I found this quite hard to believe and was right. On Graduation Day, my parents even gave me a mug that said "Absent during most of my senior year." Ah, life. We laugh because it's funny and we laugh even harder because it's true.

Looking back, I now realize that high school was one of the best times of my life. Back then what seemed tedious and boring now seems…well still tedious and boring but not as aggravating as the perils of adulthood. It's funny how when you're a teenager you can't wait to become an adult. In your mind being an adult means having freedom at last. No more teachers and parents telling you what to do. Then you finally become one only to discover that teachers and parents are soon replaced by bosses and your wife. Suddenly all of that homework doesn't seem as bad as paying rent or a mortgage, having lower back pain, arthritis and an atrophic aortic muscle in your heart (don't ask, even I can't explain what it is but I know I have it). It's a vicious circle.

One memory of high school that stands out for me was the day the boys' side of my school was on fire. Well, part of the first floor. On that particular morning, I woke up and really didn't feel like going to school but had no choice. As the bus was near our temple of higher learning, a group of fire engines screamed passed us. "Wouldn't it be great," we all thought to ourselves, "if Carroll was on fire?" Nothing serious. No casualties. Just bad enough to get us out of school. I knew there was no way it would happen. But then the fire engines turned down the street our school was on. Still, I figured it had to be the office building across the street from school (which I would one day work in when I got my job at TV Guide. Weird, huh?).

As we turned onto the street, we could see that the fire engines were in the parking lot of Archbishop Carroll. Not only that, we were greeted by one of the teachers telling all the bus drivers to take us home. Everyone on the bus cheered. Yeah, we were a bunch of sadistic bastards but, hey, can you blame us? A day off is a day off. Not to mention the fact that it was a nice surprise. And who doesn't like surprises? I, for one, really appreciated that God would set the school on fire just so I could have a day off. Mario Luck came through for me once again. You see, back then "Mario Luck" wasn't a sarcastic term for my bad luck. It actually meant good luck. Yes, I did have good luck at one point in my life. But tragically, just like Kajagoogoo's career, my luck ran out once the 80s were over. 

As the bus took us home, we all speculated who the junior arsonist could possibly be. We thought of the most likely suspects among the bad kids. The ones who might have the stones to do it. Personally, I couldn't believe any of the underachievers would actually get up earlier than they had to just to set the school on fire. But, hey, what did I know? Maybe one of them ordered those Tony Robbins tapes and got inspired.

As it turned out, the damage wasn't too bad and we were able to return to school the next day. The first floor smelled horrible but it was comforting to know they weren't about to let a little residual smoke inhalation interfere with our education. A few days later a rumor started to spread that it wasn't a student that started the fire but one of the teachers. Not just any teacher but one of the Christian Brothers.

The alleged guilty party was none other than Brother Bernard, the guidance counselor. We all laughed because he always seemed a bit strange but knew there was no way this could be true. It had to be a joke. Then we all began to notice that Brother Bernard was nowhere to be found. Not in his office, not roaming the halls, not in the cafeteria. Just like a key witness in a mob trial, he disappeared. Never to be seen again. We soon discovered it was not a rumor but that Brother Bernard was indeed the culprit. We found it hysterical that the dude who was supposed to be helping you figure out your future was a closet pyro. 

No doubt there were a few students that day who were wondering, "So does this mean I shouldn't become an elevator repairman?" 

You know who I feel sorry for? Sebastian Shaw. He’s the British actor who played Anakin Skywalker at the end of Return of the Jedi. You know, after Luke takes off Darth’s mask and he looks like a deformed Humpty Dumpty. And before anyone says anything, I’m not a Star Wars geek. I had to look up the movie on IMDB to see who the poor bastard was. At the end of the film, the Ewoks are putting on their song and dance act for our heroes (I heard they’re replacing Celine Dion when she closes her show at Caesars). Luke glances beyond all of the merriment and sees the spirits of Yoda, Obi-Wan and Anakin dressed in their Jedi robes. They’re played, respectively, by Yoda, Alec Guinness, and Sebastian Shaw.

Tonight I caught the end of Return of the Jedi on HBO. It was not only the revamped version from 1997, but it also had the new ending George Lucas tacked on for the recent DVD release. Now when Luke stares at those spirits, Yoda and Alec Guinness are still there but it’s Hayden Christensen as Anakin instead of Shaw. What the hell? Aesthetically, it doesn’t make sense. Yoda and Obi-Wan both look like they did when they met their demise, why doesn’t Anakin? Not only that but if you’re going to adopt this new logic, how come Luke doesn’t see the young Obi-Wan Kenobi instead of the geezer version? I think if you’re going to pop Hayden Christensen in there you should also stick in Ewan McGregor. After all, he had to suffer through being in those awful prequels too. Doesn’t he deserve to be in a good Star Wars movie for all his effort? Of course he does. Even if the only way to do that is to digitally insert him into an old one.

But back to Sebastian Shaw. The guy got screwed plain and simple. I looked up his credits and it was mostly stuff I've never even heard of before. Playing Anakin was his coolest role. Most likely, he was also able to milk it for years appearing at sci-fi conventions. There was probably always some geek in the crowd that would shout out, “Hey, Mr. Shaw, do your lines from Jedi!” and he would grant their request: “Cough, cough, hack, hack, Luke, cough, cough, your sister, hack, hack, cough, cough.” According to the IMDB, Shaw died in 1994. No doubt with a smile on his face knowing that his legacy as Anakin Skywalker would live on forever. Little did he realize that years later—thanks to the magic of computers, the invention of DVD technology, and the madness of King George—that legacy would be erased. Well, thirty seconds of it anyway.

I also feel bad for his relatives because you know somewhere in England a kid had to brag that his grandpa or uncle or whatever played Anakin Skywalker in Return of the Jedi. The next day an angry mob of tots cornered him in the schoolyard: “Are you having a laugh? We watched the movie last night on DVD. First, Anakin’s played by some chalky Muppet, then at the very end by that wanker Hayden Christensen.” The poor kid probably got his ass kicked all over the blacktop. (Speaking of poor kids, can you please check your milk carton and see if Jake Lloyd is on it?)

All of this so Lucas could make a few extra millions by enabling the addictions of geeks all over the planet who he knows will buy every freaking version of the movies he releases on DVD. “I have to get this set too, Melvin. I heard Greedo is a slightly darker shade of green than in the previous ones.” In the end, where does this leave poor departed Sebastian Shaw? Maybe his ghost can return to recreate his role as Anakin Skywalker in that show at Caesars.

At least until the Ewoks decide to replace him with Hayden Christensen...

In case I haven’t previously established it clearly enough, the guy upstairs is an asshole. First off, he has to be some kind of criminal. There are too many reasons to explain why I think he’s a criminal, but trust me he is. Okay, I’ll give you two quick reasons. The first is he’s always doing strange things down in the basement like meeting people in it at all hours of the day and night. Not only that but his storage cage down there has a padlock on it even though they already come with locks so no extra ones are needed (unless, of course, you don’t want the landlord to have access to it). The second reason is one day he bumped into my wife outside and gave her his cell and work phone numbers. He then inquired in a mundane tone—say the type a neighbor would use if they were asking to borrow a cup of sugar: “If you ever see someone trying to force their way into my place, can you call the cops and then me?” Nice, huh? It made me yearn for the good ol’ days when your neighbors used to say things like: “Cold enough for ya?” and “Hey, dickhead, stop stealing my newspaper.”

Oh, and he also beats his woman in the middle of the night. That is just rude. Everyone knows you should only beat your woman during the day so you won’t wake up the people  that live downstairs. Well, my wife is trying to sleep and it wakes her up. Me, it just distracts. Hey, I’m appalled by it as much as you are but the guy must be connected because nothing ever happens to the bastard. But the rudest thing he has done so far is he doesn’t share the driveway. He always leaves a huge space between his car and my wife’s but he never moves up so I can fit behind him. We share the driveway with the people next door and if their cars are parked in it then I can’t maneuver mine around asshole's to park in the space between.

Before we moved in, our landlords mislead us about the parking. The wife landlord told us there was enough parking for four cars: two in the front and two in the back. However, when we got here we discovered that the back of the duplex is a makeshift yard that doesn’t lead to an alley or driveway. It’s a dead end. So if you're parked in back and there are two cars parked on our side in the front of the driveway, and two cars parked on next door’s side, you’re not getting out of the driveway. Simple mathematics, right? Since my wife works from home and hardly drives, she parks her car towards the back. Before asshole moved in, I parked in the front. When the previous tenant lived upstairs, depending on who got home first, one of us always parked in the middle and left room for the other. It's not rocket science.

This problem all started because one of the biggest hurdles I need to overcome in my life is I’m just too damn polite and considerate. It's my parents' fault for raising me that way. Later on in life, I turned into a total creep bastard but my wife—who is one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet—changed my wicked ways. I’ll never forgive her for that. On the day we knew asshole was moving in, I decided to be nice and move my car temporarily out of the driveway and put it on the street. That way if he had a moving truck coming, he could park it in the driveway and have a stress free move. And my thoughtfulness has pretty much cost me my parking space ever since. I guess he mistook my act of kindness as proof that it was now his space. At first, I figured he’ll get the gist that we all park in the driveway and will start leaving me space. He didn’t. Maybe, I thought, he’s not too bright.

Lately, he must be working a real job because he’s gone for most of the day and part of the evening. As a result, there have been a few times I have actually been able to park in the driveway. Each time I have suppressed the urge to be a dick, and left him space to park behind me. Surely, he’ll get it this time, right? Then the next time he gets home before me, he’ll leave me room to park, right? Yeah, right. Now I’ve concluded he’s not stupid, he’s just an asshole (hence the term of endearment I use when I refer to him). I know what you’re all thinking. Just say something to him. Well, every time I’ve been pissed enough to go up there and do just that, by some freak coincidence at that exact moment, he always manages to be preoccupied with throwing his girlfriend down the stairs. And what do you say to someone tumbling down the steps as you’re trying to make your way up? “Cold enough for ya?” You can imagine what an awkward situation it would be. And small talk was never my strong suit to begin with.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m a pretty stocky guy. He won’t be throwing me anywhere. And I have told him in the past to lower his stereo. The thing is his girlfriend is just as crazy as he is (she has to be since she keeps coming back to him) and one night when they were fighting, I could hear her screaming (through the previously mentioned paper thin ceiling), “Do you have a permit for that? Then kill me, motherfucker, kill me.” Talk about your tender moments. It was as touching as Popsicle Jack telling Rose she must go on. Now the fact she mentioned a permit leads me to believe he isn’t about to challenge her to a pillow fight. Unless things have changed without my knowledge, I don’t think you need a permit for goose feathers. Call me crazy but I don’t want to be shot in the heat of anger over a stupid parking space. After all, I hate this area and this apartment and we’re getting the hell out of here soon anyway so it’s not worth dying over.

However, last night I did reach my breaking point. It snowed here on Tuesday and since then parking on our street sucks because there is still a lot of it on the ground. My wife and I got home and, as usual, he was parked in the driveway. Spaces were scarce and the prick couldn’t even leave me room this one fucking time. The people we share the driveway with were parked in their spaces so I couldn’t drive around his car. And the people next door on the opposite side had their cars parked in front of our apartment and theirs. I forgot to tell you about these chuckleheads. They do this all of the time. They’re fanatical about parking their cars in front of their place and ours. These people will move their car from across the street if a space opens up in front of either place. Or one of them will park in the middle of the two so no one else can park there. They wait for the other to get home and make room for them to park. What is up with that? I’m too lazy to be bothered doing all of that. It’s just a big to do. Why are the people around here so fucking obsessed with parking? And is the fact that I am blogging about it mean that I, too, have become obsessed?

But back to last night. I was forced to park across the street and my car got stuck in the snow. I just said the hell with it and hoped the ice would be melted when I left this afternoon and I could get my car out (it was and I did). Tonight when we got home, I was shocked to see the driveway was empty. Could it be possible? Was it a mirage? I pulled into the driveway. It was slippery and icy but it wasn’t a mirage. Oh, yeah, I also forgot to mention the asshole landlords didn’t have the walk or driveway shoveled even though it’s stated in the lease it’s their responsibility. Now it’s like you’re ice skating to the front door. Hey, boys and girls, can you say lawsuit? Anyway, there were no other parking spaces available on the street. Even one of the drones next door was forced to park their car across the street. Some car I didn’t recognize was parked in front of our place.

It was at that moment I decided tonight would be the night I would teach the asshole a lesson. I would be the one to slam down the nail of justice. I didn’t leave him any room. Tonight he would be the one inconvenienced. Where would he park? Where would he put his precious Lexus SUV? A wicked smile crept across my face. An evil snicker escaped my breath. Tonight victory would finally be mine.

An hour or so later, I could hear him come home and make his way up the steps to his apartment. I suppressed my giggles of perverse joy so they wouldn't escape into the hall where he could hear them. Then I couldn’t resist any longer and looked out the front window to see where he ended up parking knowing I wouldn’t be able to see his car. No doubt it was all the way down the street somewhere buried in a pile of white powder.

I peeked through the blinds and what I saw assured me that Mario luck is still alive and well. That the Big Guy upstairs certainly must hate my guts. For the sight that greeted me was asshole’s car. It was parked right in front of the fucking apartment. The car that had been parked there was now gone. What happened to him being inconvenienced for once? What happened to my nail of justice? Where was my lesson? It was then the words of the great philosopher Charles Brown echoed in my mind: “Uggggggg!!” Yes, Chuck, uggggg indeed.

I have always felt that irony has defined my life. Tonight it struck once again for it was I who ended up learning the lesson.

The nail of justice is rusty…   

They were able to give Pluto its walking papers and kick the poor bastard out of the Planet Club. I felt bad for the little guy but what can you do? That’s life. One day you’re a planet, and the next you’re a sphere lying in the gutter working on your third bottle of Jack Daniels wondering where it all went wrong. Now let’s focus our attention on winter. I say let’s kick it out of the seasons. If they were able to get rid of Pluto, why not winter? Don’t get me wrong, I love the Four Seasons. They were a great pop group and Vivaldi also did a nice job with his little ditty. But as for the actual Four Seasons, why be greedy? Wouldn’t three suffice? Fall, Spring, Summer. Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

I mean come on. Nobody likes digging their cars out every morning as you slowly turn into a human popsicle. While you’re doing that, you’re also warming the car up but we all know it never reaches optimal toasty until you get to your freaking destination. I know some people will argue that we can’t get rid of winter because it will interfere with the Circle of Life. But what’s wrong with a Semi-Circle of Life? Why be so closed minded?

Now no doubt a lot of kids out there are up in arms right about now. No fair, they’re thinking, what about snow days? Hey, I loved snow days just as much as the next kid. I loved snuggling under those nice warm covers, snickering as mom and dad had to venture out into the frozen tundra and go to work like a bunch of suckers. But guess what, kiddies? Those school years zip by real fast and soon you are one of those suckers. And when you get into the real world there are rarely snow days unless there’s some horrible blizzard of Biblical proportions. And they don’t come around as often as you might think. Too cold outside? Poor baby, go throw on your parka and get your ass to work. Now you’re faced with either slipping and sliding on your way there or wasting a vacation day (which even though you try to convince yourself you won’t miss, you’ll be singing a different tune come summertime). Wouldn’t you rather sacrifice those snow days now for some extra fun in the sun later? Adulthood isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. You’re gonna want—dare I say live for—those vacation days. Trust me on this one, boys and girls.  

Think about it, why do we even need winter? Summer’s nice and warm and we get to go to the beach. Spring has all those nice flowers. Fall has those pretty leaves and brisk weather. Brisk I can deal with. Brisk I like. It even sounds pleasant. It’s arctic that rubs me the wrong way. Winter is depressing. The trees are bare. The cold stings your face. It’s like death. And let’s face it, death—while great in literature and movies—not so much fun in real life. Kind of a downer. Sure snow looks pretty when it’s falling but once the traffic and canines have their way with it, it becomes like a visiting relative. You were thrilled when they arrived, but now they’re eating all of your peanut butter and chocolate Cap’n Crunch, their ass has become a permanent fixture on your couch and you just want them to go the hell home. Hey, I’m not a total ogre. We’ll let winter come around and visit at Christmas. Jack Frost can do some nose nipping, leave a little dusting of the white powder to get us all into the spirit, and do a little caroling but then it’s time for him to go on his merry way.

There’s no downside here. Think about it. No more being buried under a bunch of clothes and looking like Ralphie’s little brother in A Christmas Story. No more wondering what that numbing sensation is and then realizing it’s your entire body. No more listening to your local weather forecaster saying, “It’s cold outside today, folks. Make sure you bundle up.” No, really? A thong isn’t going to cut it? Come here so I can punch you in the face you pompous little twit. I bet you can’t even spell meteorologist much less actually be one. While we're on the subject, no one believes Chance O'Reign is your real name either.  

Let’s face it, folks. Pluto’s gonna need someone to vent to and help lick its wounds. I think Old Man Winter is just the fella to do it. It’s a concept whose time has come. Just like the day when some genius thought, “Ah, put the hot dog on the stick. Now that’s brilliant.”

I say no more winter. Who’s coming with me….?      

Well, the Oscar nominations were announced yesterday and once again, I wasn’t nominated. I know, I know. I haven’t made any movies but one can still dream, right? Keep hope alive. Oh, well, maybe next year. Of course, I’ve been saying that every year since I was eight years old. But, hey, it’s bound to happen one of these years. The law of averages and all that.

It snowed here on Sunday. There was actual snow on my car that needed to be brushed off. It was not only the first snow this winter but the first snow I have seen in nine years. Well, real snow that is. I saw plenty of fake snow on the Warner Bros. backlot. I used to see it when it was winter in the town of Stars Hollow on Gilmore Girls and in Chicago for ER. It’s amazing how cool it looks when they recreate snow on a backlot in sunny Southern California. There were times I swear I actually felt a chill. Sometimes it was the perfect snow—-a beautiful blanket of white. Other times it was dirty snow, full of exhaust soot. Sure, it’s a bunch of white stuff rolled over chicken wire but it looked real enough. As authentic as it appeared, the best thing was that it wasn’t. No shoveling the sidewalk, no brushing off your car, no sliding around on the road or slipping on ice. Yep, fake snow is the way to go. When it comes to winter, reality is highly overrated.

The guy who lives upstairs is a freak. There are too many things to delve into to illustrate this fact but since he just did one in particular as I was making my middle of the night snack of Pop Tarts, I’ll share it with you. The ceiling is paper thin so we can always hear all of the noise he makes. He goes “Woof!” all of the time. At first we thought maybe he had an odd way of sneezing but later when we heard him actually sneeze, we realized it was indeed a barking sound. I have no idea why he does it. Maybe he gets stoned and thinks he’s Scooby-Doo. Maybe he’s a huge Arsenio fan and just can’t let go and move on. Who knows? All I do know is I can’t stand living underneath the fucker.

Okay, so there’s a new Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles CGI-animated movie coming out this year. The one thing I’ve always found funny about them is that they all wear masks. Why? Does the whole secret identity thing really come into play with six foot giant turtles? I mean I understand why superheroes like Batman wear a mask. If he didn’t, everyone would say, “Hey, that’s Bruce Wayne beating up that clown dude. Sue, clown dude, sue!” Same thing with Spider-Man. But if you saw a six foot giant turtle walking around in a business suit—even in New York City—wouldn’t it be obvious that it’s one of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles? “Hey, Bob, do ya think that’s one of them Ninja Turtles?” “How the hell should I know, Dave? Those guys wear masks.” Just saying, that’s all.

Finally, is anyone else besides me psyched that McDonald’s has put the six piece Chicken McNuggets meal on the dollar menu? Sure it’s for a limited time, but hey, so is life.

I finally got around to seeing Rocky Balboa. I’ve always been the biggest Rocky fan in the world but I was putting it off because I’m not feeling so optimistic anymore like I used to in my foolish youth. When I first saw the original Rocky it had a huge impact on my life. Even though I was only a child, I had already discovered I could write and I knew the moment those end credits rolled that I wanted to be a filmmaker. And Stallone became my idol.

But one of the best things about living in Los Angeles can also be one of the worst: you get to meet celebrities. And sometimes they don’t live up to your expectations. I was at a party after a boxing match at this cool rooftop club at the Staples Center, and lo and behold there was Sly. Back in 1990, I saw him when I got to be an extra in Rocky V but I couldn’t get near the guy. A few years after I moved to LA, my friend worked on Get Carter but I didn’t get to meet him then either. Once I had even bumped into him on the Universal lot but I didn’t have the guts to go up to him and say Yo. But that night, I was finally going to get the chance to say hello. How could I let the opportunity escape me, right? I mean how often do you get to be at a party with your idol? No bodyguards, no crowd control. Total access.

At one point, my wife and I were in line to get drinks when I saw Stallone walking towards us. Ah, the drink line, I thought, the perfect place to have a conversation. He reached the line just as it was our turn to order. It was then I discovered that Rocky Balboa may wait his turn but Sylvester Stallone does not. He simply walks up to the bar and gets a drink. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not so naïve that I don’t know how celebrities act. Hell, you don’t need to be a star to be a complete asshole in Hollywood. It’s just that Stallone had always seemed so down to earth to me. Now the guy was cutting in front of me in line. While he waited for his drinks, I was still thinking of saying hello and even mentioning I was from Philly. In my foolishness (okay, delusion), I thought it would be some sort of bonding experience. “Yo, really? Come on over to my table and have a drink. Do ya wanna job? Got any good scripts?” Certainly that would be the outcome. That’s when some stupid drunk girl had to say, “Hello, Rocky” and although he graciously said hello back, you could tell he was annoyed. On the one hand, I could understand the guy being irritated because he’s an actor and it’s a character he portrays, not his true self. Then again, I found it amusing that he would get angry when someone calls him Rocky since he’s the one who keeps insisting on putting Roman numerals after the guy’s name in the first place.

In any case, I decided I wasn’t going to say hello after all. In hindsight, I guess he wasn’t all that bad. He wasn’t rude. Not like his friend, writer-director John Herzfeld, who rode Sly’s coattails to the bar and ordered around fifteen drinks that needed to be mixed. The bartender didn’t have a blender so he had to shake all the damn things by hand. And there I was frustratingly (I had passed patiently miles back) waiting my turn when all I wanted was a stupid can of iced tea. Not to mention the fact that here’s my wife who hates LA and all the Hollywood bullshit that goes along with the industry and I had been trying to convince her it wasn’t all that bad. Now here was this sub-par writer-director who was proving me wrong with a vengeance. So what if the guy did Two Days in the Valley and 15 Minutes? He was no Scorsese. Come to think of it, John Herzfeld is the perfect example of the quintessential Hollywood asshole. The lower on the food chain you are, the more insecure you are, the bigger your ego and the more of an asshole you become. It’s a vicious circle.

Anyway, the last few years Stallone’s career had been sinking further and further. A few of his films even went straight to video. Soon he wasn’t in demand for films at all. After years of studio resistance, he finally got to make Rocky Balboa but I wasn’t sure if I wanted to see it. Not only because of the party incident but because things weren’t going well with me and I didn’t want to buy into the whole “you can beat the odds” crap again. I figured it was time to settle into “this is your life so deal with it” mode.

Back in September, Sly was here to dedicate the Rocky statue being placed at the Art Museum. He seemed incredibly sincere when he talked about how much he loved Philly and how you should follow your dreams. By coincidence, the statue was dedicated on my birthday. Of course, keeping with my Mario luck, I was recuperating from my hernia operation and couldn’t go to the ceremony. Listening to Sly’s speeches and interviews, I could feel my wall of resistance gradually begin to crumble but I still fought to keep my barrier up. After all, he’s an actor. He gets paid millions of dollars to seem sincere. A few weeks before the film’s release, he even answered fans’ questions on the website Ain’t It Cool News and, again, seemed so genuine.

Though my walls were not tumbling down just yet, I had to admit the film did look like it could be good. It even began getting good word of mouth. Stallone struggled to get the film made and it had become his passion and dream. Even when he was finally able to get the film greenlit, it was only if it was made on a low budget. The film and him soon became fodder for jokes. Everyone figured it would fail. Stallone didn't care. He wanted to prove that, just like Rocky, he had one final round left in him. Once again, he was the underdog. I'm an underdog too so I figured what the hell? I’ll go see it. Besides, anyone who can turn their dream into a reality deserves to have it be seen.

The film was great and so was Sly. During many moments, his performance was even heartbreaking. Particularly the scenes where he’s mourning Adrian, and when he tells Paulie there is “still stuff in the basement.” During the end credits, there are scenes of people running up the steps of the Art Museum imitating Rocky's famous moment of triumph. Being the Rocky fan that I am, many of my friends are stunned when I tell them I’ve never done that. You see, I can’t run up the steps just to run up the steps. There’s no moment behind it. It’s hollow. I’d rather never run up those steps than to run up them for no reason. Weird, I know, but hey, consider the source.  

In the end, while the party incident wasn’t exactly forgotten it was, at the very least, forgiven. After all, the film did get me thinking. I still have stuff in the basement too. When the lights came back up and I returned to reality, I sat there with one question swirling around my mind:

Do I have one final round left in me…?

Last night I was watching “A History of Violence” on HBO. Well, actually, it was this morning since it was 4am. No, I guess since it’s 2 in the morning now that it’s technically the next day so it was yesterday morning. Sorry, I’m getting all tied up in semantics. And, hey, I’m always up for some antics. Okay, I stole that joke from “Lethal Weapon 3” so I’ll cop to it. In any case, I was watching “A History of Violence” (for the second time if anyone cares) and it’s a really good movie. I highly recommend it. And not just because Maria Bello is in it and once again does a nude scene. Not only that but, once again, it’s a full frontal nude scene.

Whenever I see Maria Bello nude in a movie I enjoy it and not for the obvious reasons. Hell, not even for a perverted reason like you may think. Rather, I enjoy it from an ironic point of view that few people besides me can appreciate. Well, me and maybe a few hundred others.

So I’m listening to the radio and this song comes on that sounds vaguely familiar. Not the music but the lyrics. Then suddenly it hits me. It’s a remake of the Patrick Swayze song “She’s Like The Wind” from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. A dance/rap hybrid with some panting thrown in for good measure.  

A freaking remake of a Patrick Swayze song!! Can you believe that? What? Did they run out of good songs to butcher? Are today’s artists (and I use that term extremely loosely) abandoning the classics? “Um, I’m gonna pass on the Hendrix song. Do you have anything from the Patrick Swayze catalog I can remake instead?” Plus, the remake sucks. The poor bastard must be turning over in his grave. Oh, wait, he’s not dead. Just his career. Actually, that’s a pretty rude and arrogant thing for me to say. At least the guy had a career. That’s more than I can say.

After all, I don’t have a bunch of mostly mediocre, some horrible straight to video, and the occasional good movie adorning the shelves of your local Blockbuster. At this point in my life, that actually wouldn’t be all that bad. I’d take it. Sure, I have some stuff I’ve shot on my camcorder but it’s mostly of my dogs and it  probably would never find a distributor. I haven’t even sold a script. And Patrick Swayze had that one hit song. That’s one more hit song than I’ve ever had. Hell, I’ve never even been to an opening of a Planet Hollywood. I had to wait in line for the Chicken Crunch just like everyone else.

I have realized the error of my ways and stand here humbled. Well, sit humbled. To put it Biblically (if that is indeed a word): Judge not lest you be judged. Not only that but let’s not forget the most important lesson of all.

Nobody puts Swayze in a corner….  

In the basement of the duplex we rent, there are two storage cages for the tenants to…you guessed it…store things. They are kind of creepy looking and I always expect to see Hannibal Lecter in them whenever I go down there. “If you want your space heater, you’re going to have to tell me something personal about yourself. Quid pro quo, Mario, quid pro quo.”

Yesterday they fixed the basement so it will no longer flood when it rains. Since we weren't aware (read: never told) it would flood when it rained (the landlord says neither was she to which I humbly respond, “Yeah, right” but that’s another story), the bottom of some of the boxes we had on the floor got soaked during the aforementioned flooding a few months ago. Yes, I was pissed off about it but what else is new? Now that it’s fixed, last night I finally got around to repacking the soggy boxes into new ones and what did I find? My Batman doormat! I thought it was lost forever yet there it was in one of the boxes. Needless to say I was thrilled. Yes, it’s just a doormat but as I said in a previous entry, it was a cool doormat. It turns out the movers weren’t incompetent after all. I was. But hey, it was towards the end of our marathon packing, and shit happens so sue me. Besides, I swear I remember one of the movers picking up the Batmat and taking it to the truck. In any case, it is back safe and sound.  

Ah, but the moment was bittersweet. For in another box that was full of books, many were ruined including three really cool Daredevil graphic novels and my first edition of The Dark Knight Strikes Again (or DK2 as it is also known) by Frank Miller. I guess the universe would say this is balance. My response to the universe would be, “Bite me.”

So my night had a high and a low and then it got weird. You see, we have some boxes we folded and saved for future use. We removed the ones that were soggy and useless after the flood and threw them onto the floor (in anger, I might add). Last night I took them out to the curb because today was trash day. As one of them fell to the ground, it flipped over and I noticed a used condom stuck to it. Yes, you read that correctly. I don’t know what the universe would say about it but all I can say is: "Ewww, what the hell is going on down in that basement?"

And why doesn’t anyone ever invite me?      

Forget Election Day. Forget voting. The big news today was that Britney Spears and Kevin Federline are getting a divorce. Was anyone as shocked as I was upon hearing the news? I have to admit I did not see that one coming. It was almost as big a shock as when I heard Liza and David Gest were splitting up. I mean if those two couldn’t make a marriage work, what chance do the rest of us have? Now it’s Britney and K-Fed. Do you think she'll be entitled to half of the profits of his recently released debut rap album? If so, I have no doubt that her share alone will be enough to buy a pretty decent pen to sign the divorce papers.

What about poor K-Fed? He discovered his marriage was over when he saw it on TMZ.com like the rest of the world because Britney never told him in advance she was filing for divorce. Damn, Brit, talk about being toxic. Apparently he is thinking of challenging her request for sole custody of their children. I personally think he has an excellent chance. After all, unlike his last girlfriend, he not only married Britney but didn’t even dump her for another woman when she was pregnant with either of his kids. If that isn’t the epitome of responibility I don’t know what is. I saw a picture of him recently at a gas station filling up his sports car. Since, according to news reports, Britney has an “iron clad pre-nup” perhaps he should return to that gas station and see if they’re hiring. I can see the promotion now: “Check it, yo, pull up to the Feder-line and get a free K-Fed CD when you fill up your tank.” Quick, Kev, call Mobil and hammer out the deal. Hurry up before your fifteen minutes of fame are over. If that doesn’t pan out for you then maybe you and Britney’s last ex can form a band. “Hello, Cleveland, we are the Disposable Husbands!”

Is it just me or has anyone else noticed it seems whenever a celebrity couple has their own reality show their marriage ends up doomed? Britney and Kevin. Jessica and Nick. Whitney and Bobby. Travis Barker from Blink-182 and…whatever the hell her name is. Do you think it’s some sort of curse like watching that tape in those “Ring” movies? Or partaking in yet another office birthday party for some co-worker you either don’t even know or don’t even like, lip syncing “Happy Birthday” because you hate singing only to find out the birthday cake has nuts in it and you’re allergic to nuts so that only pisses you off more because having cake in the middle of the afternoon was the only consolation of having to participate in this ridiculous farce in the first place not to mention the fact that you chipped in for the damn cake and now you can’t even eat it so you just stand there looking stupid with a napkin and an empty paper plate and it makes you think of the movie “Office Space” which reminds you that you too could burn this place down to the ground if you wanted to and…wait, what was I talking about again? Oh, yeah, reality shows seem to ruin celebrity marriages.

One would think that the marriages of we mere mortals are safe since we most likely won’t be asked to star in our own reality show. However, when you stop and really think about it, isn’t life itself the ultimate reality show? Wrap your medulla oblongata around that one, my friends.

Contemplating all of this, I am faced with a hard truth that can’t be denied.  I worked at The WB for four years and chipped in for countless birthday cakes but I never got a cake on any of my birthdays. I mean, what the fuck? Sure, I always said I didn’t want to be treated to a birthday lunch but I wouldn’t have minded a cake. Pie would’ve been nice too. A brownie even.  

Of course, knowing my luck, the brownie would’ve had nuts in it….

Today was a day I knew would come from the moment I got in my car almost three months ago and began my long journey back home. It was a day I was in denial about since the moment I arrived here. A day I dreaded and agonized over. A day I swore would never arrive. A moment I was determined would never occur. But, alas, today that day did arrive.  That moment did indeed occur. Today denial reluctantly transformed into acceptance.

I finally broke down and bought a winter coat….  

I was thrilled—no make that ecstatic — to discover tonight as I finally got around to putting my DVDs away that I must’ve messed up the list of boxes I made because none of my DVDs were missing! Either was my Marvin the Martian snow globe. Oh, and iTunes was kind enough to take pity on me and give me back all of the music I lost. Is that great news or what?

Of course, now I’m wondering if I just messed up my list and there is no box 37 or if there is and it is really missing. And there’s still no sign of my Batman doormat.

I know, I know. Shut up and just enjoy life’s little victories….

It is with a heavy heart (and a bit of embarrassment) that I admit to you all that I have become addicted to MySpace. I don’t know how it happened, I didn’t plan for it to happen but, alas, it did. When I first started my website, a friend of mine suggested I should also set up a MySpace page to promote my career but I thought, “Nah, MySpace is for annoying teenagers and pedophiles.” Neither of which am I. Honest! But speaking of pedophiles, how many times do they have to watch Dateline before they stop showing up at the freaking house? Every episode when they’re busted the reporter asks if they’ve ever seen when Dateline does the To Catch a Predator segments and most of them always answer yes and then look at the guy dumbfounded and ask, “Is this what this is?” Which is soon followed by them trying to play it off like, “Oh, I was just coming here to warn the kid not to talk to people on the internet.” Yeah, right. Then the reporter opens up their bag of goodies they brought along with them which usually consists of something like a Spongebob taffy, Scooby-Doo fruit snacks, condoms and lubricants. And that’s when they usually say something brilliant like, “That ain’t mine.” Geez, you’re busted pal. Deal with it. Ah, but I digress. Let’s get back to the subject at hand. Which is I used to mock MySpace but now MySpace has made me its bitch.

When I moved back to Philly, I reluctantly decided to do a MySpace page just so it would be easier to keep in touch with my friends in Cali or those who also moved from Cali like I did. Soon I found myself looking up people I hadn’t seen or spoken to in years. Some I found, some I didn’t. It became an obsessive game that I would play in my stupor of insomnia. “Um, what was the name of that kid with all the pimples in fifth grade that smelled kinda funky? I wonder what he’s up to these days.” You never know. Maybe he invested in some Clearasil and a bar of Safeguard and turned his life around. Then I discovered that a lot of celebrities have MySpace pages to keep in touch with the fans and to network. I figured well I’m a writer in the biz (yes, I am! and it’s not denial but delusion so get your facts straight, okay?) so I should add them to my pages. You know, to network. Now I can proudly count Jenna Fischer, John Krasinski and B.J. Novak of “The Office” as my friends as well as Jon Cryer, Jon Favreau and Zach Braff. Hell, even Weird Al Yankovic is my friend. Jealous? I bet you are. It’s kind of funny (and yes I guess a tad bit pathetic) that you know it has to make a lot of people in cyberspace feel special to have celebrity friends even if it is only on MySpace. They even act like friends. They never call, write, or answer any of your messages, and they won’t loan you money. But still, I bet many people out there think they just might be able to connect with their favorite celeb and end up becoming BFF with Jennifer Love Hewitt (I’ll let you know how that works out). They’re just like your real friends but better because they’re famous and your real friends are, well, not.

The most interesting (and peculiar) thing I’ve seen on MySpace so far is that sometimes merely being on it can make you a celebrity. There’s a girl on there named Tila Tequila who I had never heard of before I saw her on a lot of the celeb’s friends list. I was curious if she was anybody and went to her page. She had pictures of herself on the covers of Stuff and Maxim and videos of her on Extra, The Fuse, and being interviewed by David Spade and Tucker Carlson(!). Turns out that she is the most popular girl on MySpace with over a million (no this is not a typo) friends. She’s parlayed that into a clothing line, modeling career, and just signed a record deal. She’s even in Rolling Stone magazine’s What’s Hot issue. I have to admit I found this fascinating. I mean first people became famous because they actually had talent. Then they became famous because they ran around naked on an island and won a million dollars that they were too stupid to claim on their taxes (you were on national television you moron), and now people are becoming famous because they look good in a thong and kept adding themselves to everyone friend’s list on MySpace until finally people started to think she was, as Tila would probably say, the shizzle and began adding her to theirs. Damn, what an amazing tool this internet is, huh? I bet this is exactly what Al Gore had in mind when he invented it.

But all kidding aside, MySpace is a pretty clever marketing tool. Rock groups, filmmakers, and sports teams use it. Even cities use it. It’s nice to know that I can count the entire city of Philadelphia as my friend. To be honest, I was a little worried they might not welcome me back after being away for nine years. It has me thinking that since I am so far away from Hollywood, perhaps I can use MySpace to launch my career.

Now all I have to do is decide which looks better: the leopard skin thong or the tiger striped one…

Yes, I haven’t blogged in awhile. Here’s what happened: against my better judgment I did go to Lego Land and ride the roller coaster made of Legos. Sure enough, it did fall apart but luckily I escaped an almost certain death. Or so I thought. Since I had cheated death, it came after me to finish the job and…oh, wait a minute. That didn’t happen to me. That’s the plot for Final Destination 3. I haven’t seen any of the Final Destination films but how can the destination be final if they keep making sequels? And how do you start with cheating death on an airplane and end up with cheating it on a roller coaster? What’s next? “They survived the horrible merry-go-round accident but now death is after them again….” or even better: “After almost dying holding their breath in a stupid drinking game, death has decided to finish the job.” Ah, Hollywood. They’re a bunch of no talent hacks but damn it I still want to be one of them.  

Okay, so it hasn’t been anything exciting that has kept me from blogging since May. First I was finishing my script and then the wife and I decided to move back to Philly and that made things crazy. So here I am back in Philly and it’s with mixed feelings. While it is great to be back with my parents and my awesome dogs Gizmo and Nick, I do miss Burbank and being so close to the entertainment industry. Yes, you can write from anywhere (wow, I’m doing that right now!) but it’s different when you’re in LA and close to where the action is. Not to mention the fact that I really miss Warner Bros. and being able to go to that lot all of the time. I know, I know. I got laid off but I’m sure (well, kinda) that I could’ve gotten another job there. As a matter of fact, the day after we decided to move home, I got called in for a job interview at Warners but of course I didn’t get it. Mario luck has prevailed once again! And how. Check it…

Since we’ve moved home I’ve pretty much had nothing but bad luck. First day back we discovered there were bugs in our new apartment and we couldn’t move in. Second day I discovered I had a hernia (I got operated on August 28^th). Some other highlights include: My hard drive crashed on my laptop and I lost almost everything including my pictures, scripts, pitches, iTunes and a kick-ass iTunes mix of my own CDs I worked on for months (it was 6 hours long!). Yes, I could put it together again but I forget all of the songs now and it took a freakin’ long time. The bitch of it is I was going to buy an external hard drive to finally back things up but I didn’t get a chance before it happened. What else? Oh, yeah. The girl upstairs from us had a 5 year old kid and they were both as noisy and annoying as our neighbors back in Burbank (she did get evicted for not paying her rent so there was a tiny silver lining—well more like a copper lining) and just this past Sunday I finally got around to bringing my boxes of CDs and DVDs out to unpack them and discovered one of my boxes of DVDs was missing. Gone. Outta here. I take partial blame for that one cause I should’ve been more meticulous when I checked our stuff as the movers took it off the truck but it was an exhausting and stressful week and it just didn’t happen. Besides, they charged us six thousand dollars and change for the move so for that amount of cash we shouldn’t be missing a damn thing. In any case, it sucks. We called the moving company and they said they’d do their best to find it but considering it’s been three months since they dropped our stuff off I doubt they will.

Hell, before we discovered our missing box, the moving company called my wife this past Friday to see if we had a box that belonged to the people whose stuff the mover’s dropped off after us. We don’t have it but you know the people must think we do and are ripping them off so they probably have our box and are saying, “Fine, we ain’t gonna give your shit back either.” In any case, unless there is an honest person out there with missing box 37, I doubt anyone is going to give up a few thousand dollars worth of DVDs and a Marvin the Martian snow globe. The irony is I came up with the brilliant idea of numbering all of the boxes instead of putting what is in them so no one would be tempted to steal one and shit still ended up being missing. And of course it couldn’t have been a box of old magazines or something. It had to be the DVDs and the no longer available Marvin the Martian snow globe. Guess I just have to keep watching eBay and wait for the bastards to sell my stuff and then email them a can of whoop ass. Oh, and my Batman doormat is missing too. Yeah, it’s no big deal but it’s cool and I liked it. I just love how people tell me I’m too negative but who can blame me? Look at my track record, people!  

In any case, that’s what you’ve been missing or couldn’t care less about (whatever the case may be) in the last few months. Now that I have a new hard drive, I want to try to get back to the writing. And I’m still trying to get an agent so I can shop my latest script around. I’m also going to attempt to get a better and more positive attitude. I wouldn’t hold my breath for that to happen but I’m going to try. If for no other reason than to not have to keep listening to my Mom and wife telling me that I need to get one. (Insert evil snicker here).

Oh, and last but not least, I’m going to try and work on this blog a bit more diligently. Especially since my friend Glenn always reads it and keeps getting on my case for never having any new entries. So, Glenn, here’s a new entry. Happy now, biyatch? Oh, and he’s getting married this Saturday. Run! Run while you still can! Um…I mean good luck.

SUCKA!!   

Call me crazy but I don’t think I could ever visit Lego Land.  I can’t help but wonder how safe can it be to ride a roller coaster made out of Legos. 

This is an open letter to all you parents out there with young kids. And by young, I mean babies and toddlers. I don’t mean your kid who’s pushing forty, still living in your basement, and resents you for not supporting their dream to one day climb Mount Doom. I feel it is my responsibility to tell you something. It’s not going to be easy to hear but it’s something that has to be said. Something you need to know. Something you may even find upsetting. Please sit down and take a deep breath. Ready? Here it is. Your kids are annoying. Now I know many of you right now are saying, “Oh, I know where you’re coming from but not my kids. They’re so not annoying.” Yes, your kids too. They so are.

Now don’t get me wrong. I’m not a horrible person. I used to love kids. I loved playing with my cousins when they were babies and toddlers. I would do battle with my other cousins just to see who would get to hold them. One of them even puked on my brand new Eagles shirt the first time I ever held him and I thought that was precious. Sure, I made him reimburse me when he got older and started getting an allowance but still. Hell, I even wanted kids. But no more. No, all my wife and I want now is peace. Peace and quiet. It’s because everywhere we go there is some kid screaming or running around. And the parents watch with a big smile on their faces. As a matter of fact, just yesterday when we were walking back from the corner store, we saw a couple letting their two adorable kids play on the front lawn. It wasn’t their front lawn but their kids were playing on it nonetheless. They were just walking by and their darling little monsters wanted to play on someone’s front lawn. Now you have to see this house to truly understand this atrocity. It is a meticulously kept house with a beautiful front lawn full of flowers and trimmed bushes. An elevated house where you have to make the effort to pick your kid up to put them on the front lawn. It wasn’t even my house and it made me angry. Because you know if you followed them home and played on their front lawn, or just took their car for a quick spin because you thought it looked cool, they’d probably be pissed.

Then there’s the cute thing of almost running over people with your baby stroller. Better yet, even cuter is letting your precious little doll push the stroller around while he or she almost takes a toe off some poor old lady who’s just trying to make it to Macy’s unscathed to buy her Jean Nate. Add to that screaming tots in restaurants and my all-time favorite: church. Yes, church. No need to take your screaming banshee or little chatty Cathy outside while other people are trying to have their souls saved. Nope, let ‘em scream and yap. I know what you’re saying, “Jesus loves the little children.” I went to Catholic school all of my life and I'm quite familiar with the Bible passage that says no one can enter the kingdom of Heaven if they do not have the heart of a child. But notice it says the heart of a child. It doesn't say screaming mouth. I saw a book in the humor section recently that was about this very subject. Unfortunately, I can’t remember what the title of it is or who wrote it but there is a quote from the back cover I will never forget: “Yes, Jesus did love the little children but did you notice He never ate with them? He ate with the lepers.” Ah, that says it all, doesn’t it?

Of course, the one reassuring thing is you can always escape this madness by going home to your humble abode, right? Think again. My wife and I live in an apartment complex. Well, it’s not really a complex. It reminds me of the old hotels down by the Jersey shore. It has a tiny little walkway with enough room for two people to barely walk side by side and a row of apartments on the first and second floors with a little porch in front. Outside is a sign saying the complex is quiet. I remember the days when that sign told the truth but now it is a big fat liar. I know quiet, and you, apartment complex, are not quiet. Not anymore. Quiet has gone the way of the dodo and Paula Abdul’s sanity in our apartment complex (our neighborhood too, for that matter). On the opposite end of our apartment is a kid around 7 who used to make a lot of noise but isn’t that bad now unless he is playing with the other two kids in the complex. And those two kids live—yep, you guessed it—right next door to my wife and me. The little girl is around 6, the little boy 3. To their parents, they’re probably angels. To my wife and me, they’re the best form of birth control ever created.

They live in a tiny, one bedroom apartment. That is not a typo. I did say one bedroom. I know it’s tiny because my wife and I used to live in it when we first moved out here. As we got jobs, and income to buy things, it became too small for us. Two adults. So we moved into the two bedroom next door when it became available. Now our former apartment houses a mom, a dad, and two kids. The parents are really nice people so we feel bad getting mad at them. The problem is the dad is at work all day and all night. Literally. I have no idea what he does. Maybe he works for the CIA. Maybe he just leaves to escape the madness. Whatever the case, I wish he would take us with him. Anyway, the wife stays home all day and takes care of the kids. This is a lovely, sweet woman who doesn’t speak above a whisper and can’t control her two bundles of joy. We always know when Dad is home because, except when they're asleep, that’s the only time it’s quiet. For some reason I can’t fathom, perhaps you parents out there can explain it to me, the little girl loves to scream. The moment she gets home from school, she screams as soon she walks through the door. No words, no chants, no speaking in tongues. Just screams. As a matter of fact, I can tell time by it. I’ll be sitting here at my dining room table writing or surfing the net and I’ll hear screaming. I’ll say to myself, “It must be 3:25,” look up, and sure enough it is.

When she and her little brother play, our entire apartment shakes. We’ve had earthquakes that we’ve never felt but we always know when the kids next door are playing. We hear banging, yelling, and screaming. We can even hear and feel it in the bedroom and our bedroom is on the other side of the apartment, not on the side where we share a wall. Nope, the extra bedroom where we do share a wall would be where my wife’s office is located. She’s been working from home for the last year or so and hearing it all day. Now that I’m unemployed, her pain is my pain too. I took a nap on the couch once with the stereo on and could still hear the little girl next door screaming. That kid has the pipes of an opera singer in the making. The kids also aren’t too bright. On a daily basis, we hear a huge, crashing THUD followed instantly by piercing cries. I feel bad when I hear them cry but I must admit there is a sadistic part of me that enjoys those wails of pain. Okay, I'll come clean. All of me enjoys it. The amazing thing is they never learn their lesson. Over and over. Day after day. Jump. Thud. Cry. Kids, listen: You jump off furniture, you fall down, you get hurt. It’s not rocket science. You can quote every line from every single Spongebob cartoon ever made but this your sponge of a brain can’t soak up? It’s a life lesson. Learn it. For both our sakes. You get fewer bruises. We get quiet. Everybody wins.  

But it gets better. You live in a tiny, one-bedroom apartment with two kids so what’s the sensible thing to do? That’s right. Invite more kids over to play. I love listening to our collectible glasses shake and clang in the armoire as they run around. Or better yet, let them play outside on the 2x4 walkway where’s there’s barely enough room to walk. Bikes, tricycles, and toys oh my! That’s fun, isn’t it? I'm ranting about this today cause summer is almost here and I had a reminder for the last few hours (although at this moment it is shockingly quiet) that they’ll be outside screaming all of the time now. I know you all think I sound like a jerk and I don’t blame you. I used to think people like me sounded like jerks too until I realized that’s because I didn’t have to live with it day after day, hour after hour, minute after frigging minute. My wife and I understand that we live in an apartment and we all have to be considerate of our neighbors but no one else in our complex seems to comprehend this. We also understand that kids play and scream. That’s why I let it go for an hour or two. But by the sixth or seventh hour, you just can’t take it anymore. Hell, even the mom can’t take it anymore. I’ve seen her with a look on her face that made me shocked I actually saw her husband alive again afterwards. If the man’s remains are discovered in a landfill one day, I’ll gladly testify on her behalf that it was a justifiable homicide.

Another thing you need to understand is we live in Burbank where it’s practically sunny and warm every freaking day. There are also playgrounds in any direction you travel. I’m not talking miles here, I’m talking blocks. Why can’t this woman take the kids to one of Burbank’s fine playgrounds and tire them out? Does she think we enjoy hearing the screaming and yelling all day? Just because you decide to sacrifice and have two kids in a one-bedroom, does that mean we all have to suffer? I didn’t sign up for this, lady.

What really gets me is the fact that parents think the world is their kids’ playground. It doesn’t matter if the neighbors want some quiet, or if the old lady doesn’t want her toes mashed, or hell, even if it isn’t your lawn. Let the little bastards do whatever they want. And this, I’ll have all of you know, is coming from someone who is an only child. But I was never half the brat as all the kids I encounter today. My parents’ disciplined me and set up rules. So did the parents of my friends. Not the parents of today. There are no rules. We don’t correct or yell at our kids. We just say in a quiet voice, “Honey, don’t do that.” Even though the kid is still doing it the tenth time they say it, it never occurs to them that, hey, maybe I need a different tactic. Uh, yes. You need to YELL. Use the word “no.” It’s okay. It’s not called stifling their growth or individuality. It’s called discipline. Try it sometime. You’ll be amazed at the results. Let your kid get used to hearing the word “no” now because they’re going to hear it a lot when they get out in the real world. If they’re not used to it now, they won't be able to deal with it later and they’ll only end up shooting up their school or the local mall. You don’t want that to happen, do you? Sure, you'll blame it on the video games and Marilyn Manson but still, what will the neighbors think? Your pride and joy won't get invited to that "it" party at Chuck E. Cheese if word gets around the jungle gym that they pack an AK.   

Okay, parents, we’re almost done. Just one more thing to reveal to you. Brace yourselves. It’s going to shock you. All those cute, adorable things your kids do and you make them demonstrate to your friends and that poor bastard who's waiting in line behind you at the food court? This includes the “How old are you?” bit as well as letting them leave the message on the answering machine. Annoying. Hate to break it to you but it’s true. You’re the only ones who find it cute. Everyone else thinks it’s annoying. They may say otherwise but what they’re really thinking is, “This is so annoying.” Sometimes they're also thinking: “That kid is definitely going to be gay when he grows up.”  

First, the answering machine. We just want to hear the beep and leave a message. We have things to do. We have a life. We don’t have time to wait twenty-minutes to hear, “Say hello, honey. Say hello. Say leave a message. Say please leave a message.” And the how old are you thing? Oh, sure, we smile the first time little Will holds up one finger but by the sixth time, that’s not a smile you’re seeing. We’re gritting our teeth and desperately searching for an escape route. The whole time wondering why there is never a cyanide capsule hidden in your mouth when you really need one. See, you may think it’s cute now but even a kid dropped on his head a few times can hold up one stinking finger. What happens when they turn two and can’t hold up two fingers? Everyone looks at them like they’re a loser. Peaked at one. It’s all downhill from there, kid. You set them up to fail. Finally, we come back to the screaming and the yelling. I’m sure when they’re your kids it’s the most beautiful sound in the world. Like a choir of angels who have descended from Heaven on a cloud of Elmo toys. To the rest of us it’s NOISE.  Loud, frigging, I-can’t-concentrate-get-my-work-done-watch-The Office-in-peace-I’m-this-close-to-snapping-and-hurting-you-noise. You wanna play kid? How about a game of shut the hell up?

So please, I beg you. Take your kids to the playground. Keep the strollers in your lane. Use the word “no” every once in a while. Hell, use it a lot. Make them read a book. Put on the damn TV if it’ll keep them quiet. Just please stop the madness.

And remember, if all else fails, there’s always duct tape.