Test

I am writing this from my phone!

Patience!

Patience, my loyal readers. If I were to detail every moment of every workout with Danther, you would be bored to Hades. Suffice it to say, the sessions are going well, and I feel that I shall indeed be in fine physical shape when shooting begins!

Alright.

In all seriousness, I am very drunk. Last several posts have been as such. But THIS post, I shall not end with an all-caps declaration of sloppitude. I got that out of the way early. Drunk. Soooo what hath Andres wrought? I'll tell you. An ab. It's true. Danther has worked some magic, and I found an ab yester-eve. It was completely by accident. I was watching television, one of those shows in which three critique a dozen one-by-one at some skill set. Not sure which. It might have been sewing. No matter. I was squanched up in my gazelle-skinned sectional when I noticed that I'd placed my bottle of Saranac Black Forest on...a coaster??? Yes. A coaster. Not my stomach. My stomach, you see, has been the natural resting spot for my bottles of recreational (and occupational) beer for decades. Instinctively it was always the spot where I would rest my beers you see. But last night I put the beer down on a coaster. As if I knew something about my stomach. As if I knew that it could no longer accommodate a beverage vessel. So I lifted my shirt and gazed at what appeared to be the same troubling mound of formless sludge that has always comprised my torso. There, barely noticeable amidst the roiling fat. Was an ab. It's gone now, but I swear I saw it. Soon it shall be joined by five more, and they shall form a pack of sorts. I say!

It's grand. I've been hired to play the part of this military man, yet no one, seriously, no one, really trusts that I'll mold this ancient fartbag into shape in time. FUCK THEM ALL WITH A SPORK.

I shall and will and tally ho. Drunk.

I pormise NO TIME TO SPELL CHECK that my next post will be more coherent, and also, make more sense.

More Apologies

Sorry about that last post, as well as the previous one. I'm going through a transitionarFUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUCKMEEEEEEEEEEEEEESOOOOOOOOOOOOOOODRUUUN

Apologies

I must apologize for my last post, which I began in earnest but completed in scotch. It's just that, even with my now bi-daily sweatscursions, a man such as me DRRRUUUUUUNNNKKKKKK AAAAAAAS FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU

Private Danther

As I embark on this odyssey of sweat, heat rash and despair, I think it's only appropriate that I do a quick profile of the man who is going to help me hammer this man-dough into the glistening steal of muscle. My personal trainer, my musclesmith if you will, Nkruma "Danther" Bjorklund. Born to a Ghanese mother and Swedish father in DRUUUUUUUUUUUUNK

FOUR CRUNCHES!!!

That's it. My first workout consisted of four crunches. And then I vomited up a perfectly good spinach, goat cheese, onion straws, portabello and shawarma omelet. Urgh. Danther still has it! Though my teeth still ache with afterpuke, I think I'll reward myself with a Snickers smoothie. ONE STEP AT A TIME!

Invigoraticized!

This searing waist-band pain cannot dampen my spirits. I am facing a full-length mirror in my armoiretum, so named because it contains several dozen armoires, each stuffed with costumes from my film and television career. I am looking at what appears to be a monstrous banana muffin in army pants*, but it's just me. Shirtless, in army pants. My manboobs and gut form a flesh cascade, a frozen waterfall of fat breaking over this corrugated, burning welt that rings my waist. If I don't unbutton these pants soon my head will pop off with a blood gush and roll into the corner, spinning to rest with a fucking SMILE on its face! Yes, despite these pants nearly bisecting me, I am beaming. My manager dropped off the contract today. My first serious part in a long while. Is it possible that this is the long awaited turning of the page to the next chapter of my

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAhfuck. Whew.

life?

(I unbuttoned my pants)

I hope so. By the way, what determines the next chapter? The events that happen to you or your own decision to simply start writing the next chapter? Maybe both. At any rate, I'm ready. Time to call my personal trainer, Danther. I haven't spoken to him in nearly 18 years. I hope he's still a personal trainer.

*Do you remember 'Twelve Guns A Lady'? My last military role.

I am seriously considering a role.

There is a role that I am seriously considering. I should clarify: I have been OFFERED a role, and I am seriously considering said offer. It could be the role that re-catapults me back to sea level. Back to zero. And I define zero as "not a shadow of his former self who only makes appearances as good-natured barbs at his former stature status whatever four scotches you know". Four. Different. Brands. Of. Scotch. To get me here to this point...typing. Ugh. I started with an 18-year single malt. Then a 12-year. Then a blend. Then a bottle with a dragon clutching a nude lady. To get to the typgin. Typing. But LISTEN! I am seriously considering a role. And it's a meaty role. Opposite quality talent. And directed by A NAME. This is no shabby production, it's Oscar bait. And they want me. I'm tearing up.

I've got the script in front of me. It's resting on my glass coffee table, and I've read most of it. What I HAVE read is superb. Real balls. Were I to take this part, I can already see in which direction I would push myself. Let's say, hypothetically, that I fucking grab this role. That I just MAKE IT MINE. Hypothetically. Here's what I'm thinking:

I lose 92 pounds. Boom. 92. You read that right. That would bring me down to a sturdy 230. I'd look like a whippet!

Buzz cut. Trust me, it would be necessary, SIR! Ha I just gave something away!

Two fake tattoos. One of a heart ringed by barbed wire, and one of...oh I don't know...a dragon clutching a nude lady.

Contacts, not glasses.

A slight limp. Left leg.

A southern accent. Mississippi.

TANGENT! Have you ever fucking stared at the word Mississippi before? Holy shit. Who thought of that one? Oh my.

Yes, it's all coming together now. The limping swagger, the slurring vehemence. I could knock it out of the park. The crowd goes wild. Home fucking run.

du Bouchet makes his big comeback. No longer a joke. No longer a has-been. Like Travolta in Pulp Fiction, or Downey Jr. in Iron Man. This could be my Iron Man. OH EVEN BETTER LIKE HOPKINS IN SILENCE OF THE LAMBS.

Oooh.

TANGENT! When's the last time you saw 'Silence Of The Lambs', eh? Rent it. Buy it, whatever. You will not see a better example of LESS IS FUCKING MORE than Sir Anthony's performance in that film. He's like an icicle strung across two straining moments. Like a paralyzed dog eyeing food. Ah, the Brits. You know what they can do? They can own a moment on screen and still go home with their brains intact. Lovely, professional, sane folk. And terrific drinking partners. I'm like a British person minus all of that stuff but the drinking part.

I will do this role. I will accept this offer. I'm dialing now.

It's a voicemail message. I am waiting...and...

(all of these words in parentheses represent me leaving the voicemail on my agent's voicemail accepting the role aaaaaaaah euphoria!)

Well then. It appears I'm going to be in a rather lovely film.

From here on my couch I can see my seldom-used treadmill. I can sense its doubt. No matter. 92 pounds. And tomorrow down to Melrose for the fake tattoos and haircut.

You may call me Seargent. Oh yes.

You know, I'm a realistic person. I know this could be nothing more than the beginning of nothing. However, were I to try and I will, and were I to get lucky which I often do, this could be huge as in HUGE. And for that merest of possibilities I am more than willing to strain. And. We're. Off.

Time to pour all of this scotch into the hot tub.

FORTH!

Rejuvenated!

Last night was miraculous fun. I came down from the hills and walked among real people! Well, less famous people than me. At any rate, the unicorn-in-my-pants bit went swimmingly, and everyone on the show seemed genuinely impressed with my comic timing and moreso, with my willingness to participate in such a lewd piece. Ah. Perhaps being the good sport isn't so demoralizing. Perhaps this can lead to a career resurgence! Or at least alleviated boredom!

The Good Humor Man

I am conflicted. It's no secret that my best days are behind me. That whenever anyone cites my best work, they almost always reference one of my films from the 1990s or earlier. I have not been nominated for an Emmy since my appearance in the 2002 'Wings' reunion special, or an Oscar since 1998's 'In The Weeping'. And when is the last time my appearance in any medium was not regarded as some form of good-natured self mockery, even when that was not the intent? I guarantee if I lingered at The Grove long enough this afternoon, the only thing anyone under the age of 30 would say to me is "Hey, you're the Butt Chef!" I am still reeling from that SNL appearance. So, I am conflicted. I have an opportunity. An offer has been made to my manager, who, in turn, has relayed said offer to me. And it is yet another chance to show what a good "sport" I am. Grand. I need to call my manager back by 5pm. Is it an afternoon by the pool contemplating my slow demise tomorrow? Or a day on the set, politely fielding questions from young actors as I get fitted for a special pair of stunt slacks for (let me read this directly from the pdf I was sent) "A man with a tiny unicorn living in his pants". I've read the bit - apparently the unicorn's presence makes it very hard for the man in question to find a nice girl, as most are repulsed by what they perceive to be a roving hard-on beneath his...oh alright I'll do it. I'm already chuckling as I type this.

String Bean Reviews

First off, please accept my apologies for not having posted in a while, as I've been busy working on my re-write of 'Pirate Man and Jazz Boy'. As superhero movies are currently all the rage, I've been trying to wrap up that particular script post haste. Perhaps I'll run a treatment by you loyal readers after I've registered it with Prince. I know most screenwriters rely on some arcane copyright or WGA-related process to protect their ideas, but as far as I'm concerned, there's no safer haven for creative capital than His Purpleness Himself. Don't believe me? Look into it - Prince offers a comprehensive set of legal and clerical services for writers. Song writers have ASCAP. Screenwriters have AFKAP. (Ho, I think I'm being so clever, but if anything Prince's name would be AFKAAFKAP now, wouldn't it?)

At any rate, I want to take this opportunity to expoundify upon a previous post. My folks had another mock will-reading this weekend (at my insistence, I don't trust them), and this time my mother was kind enough to drag the aforementioned Crapbook out of the attic so she could pretend to give it to me. We had a lovely time perusing its many pages of deceit. As noted earlier, my folks would pretend to read scathing reviews of my dinnertime "performances" out of the day's newspapers, when in fact the articles were utterly random. These articles were then placed in the Crapbook accompanied by my parent's notes of what they'd said. All the way into my 20s I was convinced that every major theatre critic in the tri-state area already hated my work. This only made me work harder. Etc. and etc. bringing me fame and fortune yawn. At any rate (that's twice I've used that phrase!) here are the actual string bean reviews:

- Insufferably self-indulgent! A complete waste of stringbeans!

- Du Bouchet insists on endlessly cycling between his tired old elephant and walrus impressions. Has he not heard of a unicorn? A triceratops? A narwhal?

- Tonight I eschewed the typical Broadway fare in favor of lurking outside the du Bouchet's kitchen window in the New Jersey suburbs, in order to sneak a look at the show everyone's mocking: Stringbean Toddler Trainwreck. And boy oh boy did it live up to its name. This is one show that is so bad it needs to be seen to be believed. The smug look of happy satisfaction on du Bouchet's face after he gleefully pretends to be a walrus with a pair of stringbeans is utterly repellent.

- Much like the namesake of the bean for which this show is named, Andres du Bouchet's Stringbean Animal Impression Review feels strung together, with no cohesive storyline or theme. From Walrus to Elephant and then back to Walrus, the narrative skitters along schizophrenically and, in the end, predictably. Oh he's doing the walrus impression, the elephant one is right around the corner. And yes, here it is. Is this child really four years old? I would have though he was two.

- Make no mistake. Terrible theater is created by bad little boys. Therefore, Andres du Bouchet must be the worst little boy there is.

- Bean There, Done That!

- More like string-has-bean

- Young du Bouchet's performance belongs where those stringbeans are ultimately going: The compost heap.

Quick Hits!

Somewhere between my second and third cups of coffee are...QUICK HITS!

Of all of my award-winning performances, I would have to say the one of which I am most proud is my Golden-Globe winning dual role in the Shakespearean sci-fi clone comedy 'Macboth'.

My favorite sexual position involves entering my lover from behind whilst simultaneously making out with a midget perched upon her haunches. And perched upon the midget's shoulder? A parrot doing a perfect imitation of me saying "There is not a midget on your back."

Project Runway returns for its Fifth Season this Wednesday night, and I couldn't be more excited! I take pride in my ability to evaluate speaking voices, and Tim Gunn's is about as perfect as they come. I love listening to him so much that I recently purchased 'Tim Gunn Reads The Silmarillion' on iTunes. Listening to that cashmere voice verbally unfold the grand mythology of Tolkien is the perfect accompaniment to my 4pm glass of Pinot.

An erection that lasts more than four hours??? Have you seen these commercials? Ha!

Quick hits!

The Infamous Twix Incident

From 1997-1999 I was the spokesman for Twix candy bars. That all came to an end when I drunkenly made THIS VIDEO. Twix fired me, and I couldn't get any acting work for years. It very nearly ruined my career.

I Give This Performance Two Stringbeans.

All the world's a stage, and we are merely players.

Please forgive the pomposity of beginning this post by quoting the band 'Rush', but just last night I saw that very same phrase scrawled in lipstick on the ladies' room wall at Le Yeah. And though, at the time, those crimson words bobbed rhythmically up and down in my alcohol-smudged vision between two ankles, they still managed to burn and burrow their way into my brain like some sort of hedgehog made of fire.

Yes, indeed, we are all players on this stage of life. The difference is, some of us seek out other stages within this stage of life. TV. Film. An actual stage. My first stage upon the stage of life was the dinner table. As a young child of three, I would do impromptu animal impressions using a pair of stringbeans. Elephant (two stringbeans in the corners of my mouth curving up). Walrus (the same, but curving down). That was pretty much it, really. I had a limited repertoire. My first reviews were dismal. I could not yet read, but my parents would pretend to read aloud from the Arts section of the New York Times. Somehow, they told me, the theater critic from the most prestigious newspaper in the world had witnessed my latest stringbean performance, and invariably, without fail, they had hated it. My father would make a grand display of thwapping open the paper. THWAP. And he would read “Oh no. Tsk Tsk tsk. Listen to this, Andres -- ‘Insufferably self-indulgent! A complete waste of stringbeans! Du Bouchet insists on endlessly cycling between his tired old elephant and walrus impressions. Has he not heard of a unicorn? A triceratops? A narwhal?” My mother would sigh, shake her head, and place the review in a scrapbook which she referred to as the Crapbook. Years later, when I could read, I would find said book in an attic. The articles were completely random. A sports article here. A political scandal there. I guess my parents were just trying to toughen me up. Prepare me for the inevitable critical drubbings I would receive later in life. They knew I was destined to loom large in the public eye, like the giant E at the top of the optometrist’s chart.

AND...???

My monogrammed bathrobes arrived via courier last week. My usual set of 10 for the season. And as I pessimistically predicted when I switched robe providers, there has been a gaffe. My initials are AMD: Andres Mario du Bouchet. Ideally, I would go with AMdB, but the fact of the matter is, I still cannot find a robe provider willing to push that fourth initial envelope. You'd think in this day and age! But no matter. I've long grown accustomed to sporting about my sky pool with the initials AMD upon my terry-cloth ensconced pectoral. But as I mentioned in a sentence I once wrote in this very blog post, there has been a gaffe, and said gaffe is this:

the initials are wrong. On my new robes. The monogram reads 'AND' instead of 'AMD'. It was in that moment, upon opening my parcel of new robes, than I did indeed choose to precede the word "fuck" with the words "what the".

AND???

At first I thought my robe providers had decided to treat me to a bit of fun, and had spelled out a complimentary sentence using 10 robes containing a single 3-letter word on each robe:

HEY AMD YOU ARE THE TOP GUY AND THE MAN!

Or something along those lines? (witout the exclamation point at the end of course - that would be the ever elusive fourth character) But no. Each robe had AND monogrammed onto its fine, terry cloth breast. AND. "And what?" I bellowed, seething with incendiary rage at my new, and obviously retarded, robe provider. But even in that very moment, I knew I was on to something.

AND...

The word "and" is a connector. It connects what precedes it with what follows it, does it not? The past with the future? "And" suggests there is more to come. "And" pulls you along towards...more. And I do like more. I always have.

The misprint began to appeal to me. I recall now a bit of dialogue from one of my earlier films, back when I was still a young studbiscuit appearing in teen comedies like 'Shaggin' That!' and 'Surfnutz'. The film in question was called 'Dune Beavers III: Nads' Revenge', and my character, Chug, had a rather inspirational monologue towards the end of the picture that he delivers whilst standing atop a raft made of beer cans:

"Yeah, those guys have got the money. They've got the girls. They've even got your girl, Nads. And what have we got? I'll tell you what we've got! Harl. (beat) Yeah, that's right. Harl. It's uh...a combination of HEART and...KARL. Who we all loved. And what did Karl have? Uh. He had balls. So I guess, what we really have is Heartballs! So let's grab our balls and put our hearts into this race and BEAT THOSE YACHT-HOLES!"

Heart. Not Harl. I was supposed to say Heart, and then go right to the Yacht-Holes line. But I flubbed it (too many Zeus' Nutsacks the previous night, and perhaps a Scotch-Colada or two), and to this day, it is one of the proudest moments of my career. The Chug Heartballs speech. You hipsters appreciate those 'Dune Beavers' films ironically, but I...I think there is more to them. But that discussion is for another time. The point is - an error led to something grand. And so it will be, I suspect, with my mis-monogrammed robes.

AND!

Now, I strut commandingly across my sun deck, pressing my robed sternum against the steel railing that separates me and a drop that can only be described as precipitous, and I face the sky, the hills, the horizon, the sun, the moon, the stars, whatever is there, and I do bellow "AND??? And what? C'mon, life! AND? You've got my fucking attention! AND??? Is that all? C'mon! What comes after the AND?!"

And also, when I am speaking to someone I enjoy pointing to the 'AND' as a way of getting them to continue speaking.

Now, let's beat those Yacht-holes.

Hasselhoff & Helium

I have led a storied life. And as such, my life has many stories. You are about to read one of them.

I met David Hasselhoff in the Spring of 1996, while shooting a guest role on his then white-hot hit show 'Baywatch Nights'. I played a rogue nightclub owner slash private eye named Dash Brilliatine, who had just moved into town, and was roguishly, sexily attempting to muscle in on Mitch Buchanan's (Hasselhoff's character) nightclub slash private eye business, using all of the savvy roguish charm at my disposal.

At any rate, in the episode (I believe it was called 'A Dash of Mitch and APinch of Dash') Dash and Mitch actually roguishly join forces to defeat their common enemy, a bellicose Cuban cockfighting-ring kingpin slash druglord named "El Pedro Del Diablo", which, translated loosely from Spanish, means THE DEVIL PETER. We only shared three brief scenes, and two of them involved an intense karaoke face-off in Mitch's nightclub, so our actual screen time didn't overlap much. However, due to a mutual affinity for belittling the catering staff, we soon became fast friends.

Following the shoot, I stuck around for a few extra months just to hang with David and enjoy the nightlife. We made superb carousing partners, harvesting eager starstruck hotties with ease, scaring up the 'tang with alarming frequency and precision. The potency inherent
in our mere identities was such that the only opening line I needed to utter in order to initiate poonage with a fame-guzzling-booze-hussy was "Hello, I'm Andres du Bouchet," and the only line David needed to offer for those sugartraps to snap was "Hello, I'm...a friend of Andres du Bouchet." We did have a third companion on these sexcursions, however: Zeus' Nutsack. I see some of you nodding. You too have experienced the sack. For the uninitiated, a Zeus' Nutsack is a diabolical alcohol and drug cocktail in which two shots of peach schnapps are dumped into a pint of Guinness, and then the resulting concoction is imbibed through two straws made of pure crack cocaine. One straw in your mouth, and one in your left nostril. The right nostril is reserved for simultaneously smoking a menthol cigarette. On a typical night, David and I would each do six or seven Zeus'Nutsacks. It was an unbelievable sensation, like shooting through psychedelic space in the nude whilst straddling a giant Toblerone candy bar as the soundtrack to the original 1977 Star Wars film reverbrates through your perineum. Positively reverbrates.

(Incidentally, the Toblerone is my favorite of the candy bars. To my knowledge, it is the only candy bar shaped like a prism. And as such, it refracts deliciousness into its two primary components - chocolate and nougat.)

But Zeus' Nutsack giveth, and Zeus' Nutsack taketh away. After a rare unsuccesful evening of she-spelunking, David and I stumbled into his condo just as the sun was beginning to tickle the horizon's own perineum. We were still smashed out of our gourdballs on zeus'nutsacks. You guys know how it is. You've been out all night, you're wasted, you don't want the night to end, "hey let's chill back at the condo andwatch shitty movies we'll pick up a six pack, a large valencia orange and some electrical tape on the way yeah!"

Once at David's condo, we began to half-heartedly debate what to watch on tv - either a pay-per-view M. Night Shalamyamlmlm flick - the one with the twist at the end - or our favorite nature special - 'Awwwwww...AAAAAHHH!!! - Cute Animals That Will Eat You Part 3 - The Polar Bear'. We settled on a DVD that David produced from underneath his mattress entitled 'That Won't Fit In There! #18'. This would prove to be a warning shot over the bow of the listing ship that was my consciousness that would go unheeded by my Zeus' Nutsack-addled mind.

We settled in to watch the film. Just as David began approaching me witha valencia orange and some electrical tape, I blacked out...

For some reason my mind must have known I was in peril, for in the inky blackness of unconsciousness I began reliving snippets from my long and successful career: There was my role as Dean Xylorb in the hit 80s sex comedy Frat Planet- "If I find any space beer in your biodome, space frat, I'll confiscate your modulators!"

Then I flashed back to my role as the host of the hit reality show'Who Does Joey Fatone Want To Have Sex With Twice' - "Candy. I must regretfully inform you - that it is my pleasure to tell you - that I must sadly see you go - nowhere at all - as I give the bad news - to your pessimistic side - that disappointingly - we won't be seeing you go anywhere - but out of here - if it were backwards day. Therefore, you are not - not one of the people - Joey Fatone won't not be havings ex with twice. You may return to the row of whores."

And then I flashed back even further to the PBS documentary about helium that I narrated. I can still remember - "Helium. To most of us, it is nothing more than the substance we use to inflate party balloons. But helium is so much more. Come with me now, won't you, and together, thanks to a grant provided by the American Helium AdvisoryCouncil, we shall discover the wonders of Helium, The Noblest Gas!"

Hmm. I remember that one very well! Let's see..."The year is 1868. Venezuela has just begun its long, tumultuous relationship with that sultry lady known as Civil War. The good people of Japan are waking up to the dawn of the Meiji Restoration. And the United States Congress says "Howdy, you big cowpoke, welcome to the Union" to the brand new state of Wyoming. In a bittersweet turn of the Great Wheel of Life, the whole world celebrates the birth of Scott Joplin, the future King of Ragtime Music, and then mourns the death of David Brewster, the inventor of the kaleidoscope. And on the dark and mysterious subcontinent known as "India", French astronomer Pierre-Jules-César Janssen discovers the first evidence of a brand new element! While observing an eclipse through his telescope, he notices a heretofore undocumented yellow line in the solar spectrum. This would prove to be one of the most startling encounters with a yellow line in young Pierre's life, second only to the time just a few days earlier, when his brother, Francois, had gotten completely loaded up on Beaujolais and then relieved himself in the snow on Pierre's front porch before passing out. There in the snow next to Francois' unconscious body, in fine, yellow script it read –and I'm translating from the French here:

My dearest brother Pierre, best of luck to you on your upcoming trip to India to study the solar eclipse. I am so proud that you have the talent and drive to pursue your lifelong passion of becoming a truly great astronomer. Do you remember all the times I teased you about your
dreams when we were children? I said you had stardust in your brain, and I always gave you horrible wedgies. Well, now it is I who deserves those wedgies. For you are now a great man of science, whereas I am nothing but a drunkard with an extraordinarily large bladder and incredible penile dexterity. Sincerely, your devoted brother, Francois-Guy-Henri Janssen.

And Francois did indeed have incredible penile dexterity, for there, beneath the many loops and flourishes of his signature, was a perfect, yellow rendering of the family crest. Two unicorns, their horns crossed in front of a shield emblazoned with a perfect map of France, detailed down to the county lines, and shaded according to each region's population density. Incidentally, Francois would go on to reap quite a fortune touring the globe, displaying his prodigious skills as a urinary maestro until passing away tragically from an infection that he contracted while performing in the Amazon river. An infection brought about by the Candiru, a very tiny species of catfish that, when sensing warm urine in the water, follows the urine stream up into the human urethra and then, using tiny spines on its head, lodges there, causing excruciating pain, then infection, then ultimately, death...

They called this new element helium!"

I woke up on David's bed - what could have been minutes or maybe hours later, my head pounding dull. A painful weight pressing against my spine. My wrists sore and behind me. Were they...bound? No! Yes. As my world started to clarify, from random jockeying through my career memories to the nude prone now, I could start to make out my own blurry face in David's mirrored closet door. A valencia orange electrical-taped into my panic gurgling maw. A small length of blinking red Christmas lights somehow affixed to my forehead. A single red light blipping back and forth across my sweat-streaked temple. Back and forth. Back. And then also forth. I could see my clothes in a heap on the floor. I soon made out a husky voice in my ear, mumbling - "duh duddle duddleduddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddle duddle duddah, duh duddleduddle duddah...bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah, bah bappa bah bah BAH!" And that horrible weight upon me. Eager and hairy weight. David must have cycled through the 'Knight Rider'* theme 10 or 12 times, before saying:

"C'mon KITT. Someone's drowning. We've gotta...we've gotta go help the drowners. C'mon KITT. Turbo BOOST!"

On "Boost!" my worst fears were confirmed. I don't know what I found more upsetting:

a) that David had gone so far over the edge, that his brain had become so addled by abuse, that his two hit shows were in his mind now one -in which a lifeguard saves people with the aid of an intelligent car?

b) That he was now inside me?

or c) That there was any debate as to which of those two things was more upsetting?

"Helium also plays an integral role in the process of nuclear fusion!"

If you take one thing away from this sordid tale, let it be this:

If you dare to steal the bathrobe of fame from the hotel room of life, it will get added to your karmic bill. Make no mistake.

*I used to love that show!

The Gretchen Mol voicemails.

I'm starting to see the therapeutic possibilities of this blogging activity! I've already got a mental stack of tidbits, ready to type your way, fine readers! As I continue to shape these electronic memoirs I'm sure the posts will grow more stalwart in substance and style, but for now please forgive the semi-rambling nature of these e-farts. What now? Ah!

I've had my share of scandals, but none is more infamous in the annals of Hollywood lore than my drunken voicemails to Gretchen Mol. Law prohibits me linking to the actual audio files here, but I can transcribe them...

(I left these on Gretchen's voicemail in 1998, not soon after she landed all nipply on the cover of 'Vanity Fair' -- you could open a can of salmon* just by placing it next to that glorious photo)

Gretchen! I want to Mol you. But not to death. I want to Mol you to love. (guttural noises)

(singing) My girlfriend has a first name, it's G-R-E-T-C, my girlfriend has a second name...and...more first name it's H-E-N-M-O-L...(various slurred comments about bologna)

I am so into you. You look like a sexy little pug. Little pug dog. I wanna put you in my kennel of love. You sexy little pug!

Gretchen Mole...poblano. Aaaaaaahhhh!!!

You can be my Mol. Infiltrate me and report back to your sexy spy masters.

You know what 'Gretchen' sounds like? Sex kitchen. And I'd like to cook up a 7 course meal of sexy delights in that sex kitchen...okay maybe sex kitchen is a bit of a stretch. Stretch...STRETCHEN! Stretchen Mol! There's a mole on my dick and it's stretchin'....HA!

(Barfing Noises) I (Barfing Noises) am (Barfing Noises) talking (Barfing Noises) while (Barfing Noises) barfing (Barfing Noises) and (Barfing Noises) no (Barfing Noises) one (Barfing Noises) else (Barfing Noises) can (Barfing Noises) do (Barfing Noises) this (Barfing Noises) I (Barfing Noises) am (Barfing Noises) so (Barfing Noises) cool.

I wanna go to the mall. The Mol. The Gretchen Mol. I am the first person to make that pun Gretchen! You know it to be true! I'd like to go to the Gretchen Mol and buy some...and buy an...orgasm. And orgasm as a present for my friend who is my penis.

(singing) Gretchen to know you, Gretchen to know all about you...

Gretchen! You're making a mountain out of my Mol hill!

I'd like to motorboat YOUR Mol...hills.

I'm gonna give you a MOL-a-tov cocktail. Of jizz.

WHACK-A-MOL! HA!

Oh heavy sigh. Gretchen would be fine, but it was too late to save my reputation. It would be weeks before I was allowed unsupervised access to my own phone.

*Great, now I have a craving for a salmon salad sandwich, on 19-grain bread. If you have not tried 19-grain bread, I recommend it highly. One slice will leave your colon as unoccupied as a Weight Watchers meeting during Ben & Jerry's free cone day.

Armoire Full of Memories!

I am going to publish my memoirs. And the raw, dirty work shall begin here, on this "blog". This is where I shall cram my memories, one post at a time, until it reaches critical mass, and then it shall explode like a doomed star and shoot out rays of handsome books, which will settle onto bookshop shelves like clusters of softly clucking seabirds, huddling in the dusk above the roaring surf of critical acclaim...

yes, I do have to work on my writing!

Oh, by the way, I finally looked up the definition of 'Memoirs', and it is actually of French derivation - so fitting! Memoirs - literally, Memory Armoire, or Armoire full of memories. Makes sense. Apparently, before paper was mass producable, most memoirs were indeed made of large wooden cabinets. Hmm.

So then, it begins. I shall not fail at this. I am determined. Just as I am determined to teach my corgi, Prince Mintz-Plasse, how to bark curse words.

Testing!

Blog activate! Testing! What confounded