That's Captain Poop to you.

I am officially reputable. I think I should get a badge, or possibly a captain's hat so that people can call me Captain Reputable.

I got the following email yesterday, and were it not that I read Tracy's blog on a similar email, I would have been really confused and offended.

Hi,
I just found your poop jokes blog entry:
http://schrodingerskitten.blogspot.com/2006/04/cat-in-beaker.html
and I think you may be of some help to me. I'm reaching out to you on behalf of M80 and Ignited Minds regarding the launch of an online game called :
Donkey Pong And The Adventures Of Rimdiana Jones.
Have you heard of it? If not, it is the first from The Turds collection of roguish comedic characters born from the best of toilet humour. Since you mentioned poop jokes , would you mind checking out the site and possibly posting a review on your blog? You seem like a reputable influencer, so I think you'd be a big help to us. Here's a link to the game site: (link removed) Please let me know what you think.
Thanks for your time!
Mel / M80

Wow. I think I'm offended AND disgusted. Really, I understand the poop joke humor genre. At least enough to have some in my scripts. And Mr. Hanky is funny, I agree. But to have a whole video game rip-off based on poop? Reeeeealllyyy?? Is that what humanity has come to? Is that what we think of ourselves?

Sadly, I had to check out the lovely Donkey Pong And The Adventures of Rimdiana Jones. Not due to curiosity, but to give an accurate review on this blog. Here it is: Don't.

I'd much prefer to be known as a reputable influencer on topics such as the Italian Renaissance, Medieval English Literature or Exponential and Logarithmic Functions. Heck, even the Israeli-Palestine conflict is a topic of taste. Why can't I be like Neil and get invited to be syndicated by the Washington Post? Or Tracy who was nominated for her honest yet ill-advised mention of Dharma and Greg. But to be known for the mention of poop jokes in a blog otherwise free of poop humor? When poop humor is the most base and least funny type to me? Ahh...the humanity.

At least they say I'm reputable when it comes to poop. And I can influence other people's poop. And write jokes about my reputable and influential poop.

It's an honor just to be nominated.

Is that Lucas?

Bob Saget is God. Cover your ears, kids.

Apple/Tree/Not Far

I called my Grandmother recently to cheer her up, and let her know about my being laid off and looking for work in the entertainment industry. Here's our conversation.


Schrodinger: How is your dog Sweetie? Did the vet say she was ok?

Grandma: Yes, she's fine, and the vet is terribly busy, she needs a new receptionist. You used to love animals, maybe you should be a receptionist?

S: I actually have a MFA, so no, I'm not going to be a receptionist.

G: There's always jobs at Boeing, or JPL. Lots of them!

S: Yes, I see them, but you have to have a physics doctorate for them.

G: I'm sure if you just went down there, they'd hire you.

S: It's a government facility. I can't just 'go down there'. I'd get arrested.

G: That's ridiculous. They're missing out then.

S: Yes, they sure are.

G: Have you thought about getting married so your husband can support you while you 'write'?

S: I can hear your air quotes, Grandma.

G: What are air quotes?

S: Never-mind. So how's your library job?

G: Very good - meeting lots of nice people. Maybe the library is where you can meet nice boys.

S: Hum...sure. How about instead I drive up to see you this week. Are you free?

G: Yes! I need help re-wallpapering the bathroom.

S: Actually, that sounds fun...I do like home projects...

G: There's this really nice boy at the hardware store where I got the wallpaper. He's got 5 kids, but I gave him your phone number.

S: Now we're onto boys? What happened to the job grilling?

G: You can meet lots of boys at your receptionist job.

S: Ok then, gotta run. Bye!


Sara hangs up and immediately re-dials Mom.

Mom: Hello?

S: Just got off the phone with Grandma. She's telling me I should get married and be a receptionist.

Mom: I'm sorry honey. Want to move home? Your room is all ready, and I can get you a job where I work. There's even some nice young men there.

S : Click...buzz....

But Mom, I want one!

I have just found the coolest thing ever, that I absolutely don't need, and I want to buy purely for name value. The 'MacGyver' watch.

It's got a mp3 player, voice recorder, and USB (hidden in the watch band) and it can also function as a data storage device. Ironically, it also tells time.

Salivate over it with me, will you please? It's so Dick Tracy! It's so avant-garde! It will wow my friends and coworkers, get me dates with hot smart MacGyver-esque men, and will cure the Israeli-Palestine conflict.

If we all had this watch, there would be no global hunger, no pain, only joyful voice recording of screenplay notes and listening to The Strokes while doing whatever you please!

Also you could be a little Alias, and upload things from your 'friend's laptop while they're in the shower for submission to the CIA for analysis. Be sure you wear a wig so you're a red-head while doing it.

4 out of 5 dentists agree: You MUST own this watch. And really, is there anything cooler in the world than talking into your watch? Maybe if it talked back, but otherwise...I think not.

And it's got a little skull on it, so it's got that 'I'm a tough-punk-smartie' vibe, not that 'Geek-squad wanna-be' vibe.

I'm sure Richard Dean Anderson(MacGyver) has one - so if that's not a reason to go out and buy it immediately, I don't know what is.

Don't Drink and Derive

Beach Blanket Bikini Babylon Blech

Never in my life, have I identified with Cathy - the comic book heroine that is all things men hate about women, and epitomizes the weight-obsessed, shopping-obsessed, needy-obsessed woman. Until today. The all-inclusive horror-fest that is 'buying a bikini.'

I got invited to 'go to the beach' with a bunch of women on Sunday, and although I've been to the beach a thousand times...'going to the beach' is different. I assume there will be beach-towels (don't have), tanning lotion (I am white, and will always be white), Cosmopolitan magazines (who can read about sex when it's hot?), and bikinis (yikes!). Maybe some water toe-touching, but I doubt it.

I was born and raised on the beach. I grew up with sand on the front doorstep, and sea-water in my veins. I can body surf, sail, and can fight an undertow. I normally splash around, swim, and usually do so in a skirt and t-shirt or actual clothes, before putting on a sweater and going for dinner wet. This is why beach bars were invented. Wet clothes and wine mix very well.

However, I don't have a swimsuit. I'm more than happy to pass my submerged ocean time in a tank-top and shorts, or if desperate, a male friend-loaned wife-beater and swim trunks. I also don't see any reason why my underwear should not work. It's supportive, eye catching, and matches. It also took years of shopping to locate the elusive bra and underwear set that is comfortable, flattering, and male-pleasing, not an easy feat, mind you. It also has really cute pink bows on it. I don't mind sharing that spectacular underwear with the world, or the Pacific Ocean, or chlorinated pools in Tarzana.

But shopping for a swimsuit in one day, is something that turns me into that insane woman Cathy, who can never find anything, and never looks good when she draws back the comic strip dressing-room curtain. Plus, you know how the comic price tag always shows 3 dollar signs with an exclamation point? $$$! is not something I will pay for a bikini. A Chanel bikini, yes...but that's for my trophy wife days to come.

And who are these twiggy-esque girls who have no chest, and no hips? In my day those were called 'boys'. Look at me, saying 'In my day'..I am officially old. Finding something that didn't push my self-declared perfect chest out beyond my center of gravity or smushed back into my lung cavity...and that wouldn't fall off at the slightest play-slap of a wave...was impossible. Spritzing these suits with a orchid-mister would make the strings untie, and as much as I relish the opportunity to be naked in front of a hundred people...I don't.

So...the women of Malibu will have to be accepting of my surfer tank and skirt, flip-flop pukka shell beach blond outfit. It's the official beach outfit, and I can attest, having been born on a beach. These bikini-wearing fools are clearly tourists. Think of me as the blond Annette Funicello of California. Although, she wore a bikini...but she was born in Utica - New York, so that's her excuse. I'm looking forward to hanging with Frankie Avalon. He's dreamy.

I still had to buy a beach towel. But that's another story, for another day.

Tse-Tse Fly, Bi#$%^&*#$tch

I've taken to calling myself 'Bitch' in self-conversation. Such as "Time to paint your toenails, Bitch." Or "Makin' lunch, Bitch." Always said with a slight biy-atch accent and head roll. It could be I've been alone too long, or it could be that I'm getting really excited about the new season of Entourage starting on the 11th.

If you haven't seen it, I have 2 things to say:
1. What is wrong with you?
2. ...Bitch?

For newbies...Entourage is : (according to imdb) Film star Vince Chase navigates the vapid terrain of Los Angeles with a close circle of friends (Brother Johnny Drama, Manager Eric (E), and slacker Turtle) and his trusty agent, Ari Gold. Said agent played by Jeremy Piven. There's something about Piven. Something beyond the unspoken 'best friend of Cusack' vibe...something beyond his brilliant yet failed sitcom, 'Cupid' wherein he played...can you guess...Cupid! How is that for casting brilliance? As Ari, world's snottiest agent, he's the bitch we all wish we could be. Hence his catch-phrase upon an argument: "Let's hug it out, bitch."

"I've never said fuck so much in my life," Piven says about playing Ari. "I feel like a David Mamet play on the road."

Despite their denial, it's already become the Sex and the City for men. Entertainment Weekly just published an article "Which guy are you?" and sadly, I am E: Dependable, reliable, boring, can commit, and support my buds at all times. I WISH I was Ari: Snot, cocky, funny, insensitive bastard who gets what he wants by demanding it and expecting the world to revolve around him and his hot self. Much like on Sex and the City - I was Charlotte, but wished I was Samantha. Heck...everybody wishes they were Samantha.

So when I got compared to Ari again for the 2nd time in a month the other day...I was honored beyond words. It wasn't due to my cocky self (I wish) but more due to my dog-eat-dog you-better-conform-and-like-it mentality on the entertainment industry, and those...ahem...cocksuckers in it. Here's a quote from my EW diagnosed self Eric, and my man, Ari:

Ari Gold: So you come to me for advice. I'm gonna fucking cry. All right, here's what you do. You deal with talent the same way that you deal with women. You have to make them believe that they need you more then you need them.
Eric: He doesn't need me that much.
Ari Gold: Of course he doesn't need you. You're fucking worthless. I could get a million morons to come in here and do the job. That's not the point.
Eric: Then what is the point, Ari?
Ari Gold: The point is that he is an insecure fuck, like all beautiful-but-handed-everything-on-a-silver-platter people. He doesn't trust anyone in this world but you. You've been born into royalty baby. You know it. Now you just gotta be thankful, and wear the crown.

I wish my entertainment industry prowess would catch on, and I'd be bitching it out with the hot playas on the hot lists. Because...don't hate the playa, hate the game. Bitch.

Aliens!

I really am disappointed.

I had hoped for at least Marvin the Martian, or possibly even a Ferengi, but what do I get?

Microbes.

Alien life has been discovered, or at least, speculated to have been discovered. Little red microbes landed with a comet in India in 2001, surprisingly, nothing has been heard from them since. Their lack of DNA may have something to do with their inability to take over the world. However, I haughtily say that lack of DNA is no excuse for laziness when it comes to global domination.

They are reproducing plentifully, so unless they plan to suppress humans with their dazzling multitudes, I think our new aliens are the hippie rejects of the alien community, who have just come to earth to frolic, reproduce, and hand out daisies to the military. They even hitchhiked here on a comet, I mean, what is more hippie-like than hitchhiking? Slackers.

Pretty disappointing for the first confirmed evidence of alien life. I certainly hope it's a trojan horse, wherein the easygoing microbes lay in wait for the arrival of their Hitler-esque amoeba brethren.

Because cloudy red water doesn't inspire me to betray my planet in conquest of the universe. And I already have my Ming the Merciless dress ready. So I guess I'll just wait.

Jasper Tindall

7.5 lbs
20 "

12 hours labor. Yikes!
Congrats Kids!

Box o' Wine

Got home late last night to discover a case of wine on my doorstep. I'm by no possible description a 'wine person' so for a brief moment I felt like those cool trendy people who go to Sonoma County or Lyon, France and tell party-goers 'Geoffrey and I ordered a case from Chateau Snooty and it's coming next week! Giggle-snort.' And prior to last night, a 'box of wine' had an entirely different grocery-store-late-night-beer-bong-type connotation.

This particular case was custom packed by my friends Dave and Violette (shout out) who just bought a house in San Diego. I helped them (vaguely - as the lender) get this house, so they were so kind as to send me this as an appreciation gift. I increase their monthly expenditures with a huge mortgage and they spend more money and buy me a present - I better go visit before they go broke and their home is foreclosed. But their place is lovely, cute, and perfect for them and their new baby, which oddly is being born as I write this blog. She's in labor now.

As I get older, certain things, like wine and babies, become more interesting to me. I want wine, I do not want babies. Yet both are interesting. And possibly sequential.

I now have a large enough selection of wine, that I need a rack. I never thought I would be one of those cool people that have wine racks where friends that come over can select one for the dinner. But I am now! A case is 12, so combining with all my other wine, I have...um...12...that need to be placed prominently showcasing Dave's brilliant selection. He works for Bonny Doon Vineyards, and I know anything selected by him is good. He IS one of those giggle-snort people, without the giggle-snort and more of a serious connoisseur vibe. Think Sideways, but without the insecurity.

Maybe I need a wine cellar. I think 12 would fit nicely in an underground cavern. Lots of room to grow.

I'm told that one of the wines selected is the 'good' one, so I'm to save that for special occasions. The exact phraseology was 'not for cute boys', so that pretty much clarifies it for me. Yes on wine, no on cute boys, no on babies.

Whew...one decision down. Off to buy a wine rack so I can show off my...er...rack...to...um...cute boys.

Push, Violette, push!