Heading south of the border with a Brazilian bikini waxer

Bush Trimming / Horticultural Bikini Wax by Banksy (Photo credit: dullhunk)

I haven’t been to many book launches but, if they’re all like the one I checked out the other night, I may have to turn it into a habit.  I was there to support a friend, a man whose work reflects a soul of genuine depth.  While listening to him discuss writing as an act of healing, I heard the word, “Pussy,” spoken by a woman standing less than a body length behind me.  There, she said it again.

She wasn’t questioning anybody’s courage or manhood.   Nor was she using the word to define women as exclusively sexual beings.  She said it, casual as hell, the word rolling free of her lips with an accent that softened it into “Poosie,” real friendly-like.  And that’s how she meant it.

This woman wouldn’t be caught dead discussing “Vaginas” the way most people do, with all the humanity of a police report.  “The individual, my husband, commenced to circle the vaginal area for a marital obligation when the perpetrator’s crucifix became ensnared in the pubic hair of the victim, myself, which has yet to grow back, your honor.”

This fascinating, olive-skinned temptress with a Portuguese accent was just talking Business, the life of a Brazilian bikini waxer, but making it sound like much more than a commercial transaction.  In her skilled hands, the practice became a mix of hygiene, esthetics, erotica, emotional therapy, and friendship.  She warned the women at her table, “You go to a Russian waxer, your poosie, she takes a beating.”

I continued listening, chewing my guacamole-topped turkey dog when I felt a hair latch onto  the middle of my tongue.  My immune system’s powerful front line defenders, thumb and forefinger, encircled it and, no more than two gagging noises later, managed to fish out the clever invader. Brazil took it as a wry comment and flashed me a smile.  A samba began to roll around inside my head.

She was sexy as hell and pretty damned fascinating but her smile was in the wattage range you use to invite new clients more than romantic connections.  And being slow-witted in the romance department anyway, I rarely figure out when a woman’s coming on to me until the moment I tumble out of the bed, the hammock, or the leather mask.  She could drop a roofie into her own drink and I wouldn’t know it.  Still, at the risk of alienating my new friend, I let her know that empowering strangers to rip the hair from my brows, pecs, or scrotum ain’t never gonna be my idea of a party.

Any woman willing to sprinkle pussy into a conversation sure as hell wasn’t going to be put off by a little frankness.  So we had a friendly chat.

She wrote a book called “Confessions of a Brazilian Bikini Waxer.”  Attesting to her commercial savvy, she’s made it available in several languages including one version–resembling American sign language–where letters and words are not written but shaped into the freshly waxed pudenda of her clientele.  The rainforest should have it so good.

She didn’t invent the bush wax but, by force of personality and patent law, has come to dominate the field.  The Bikini Wax is now her exclusive intellectual property.  She gets a royalty on every hair torn from your genitalia, double on fashioning the letter “O” into your crotch.  And that’s how she’s on track to become the richest woman in South America.  Resettling in the US, she extended her control of the market.  Her legal representatives wrote a mass warning to rogue waxers threatening them with violations of US Copyright law if they removed one pubic hair without her express written consent.  Anyone who does a self wax or inadvertently touches herself below the waist can’t announce it publicly without paying a license fee.

Happy grooming, y’all.

The candidates’ dogs compare campaign notes.

From the Desk of Bo Obama: 

Greetings from Pennsylvania Avenue via canine ESP.

How perfect is life at the White House? I’ve got a loving family, Universal Pet Insurance, and a presidential lap where I can curl up any time.  The best part of any evening is when the President gathers us around the fireplace and puts me into a happy coma by reading aloud from John Maynard Keynes.

I’ve even got my own Secret Service agent.  When he bites into the g-string he brought back from Cartagena, plays tug of war with me, and calls me filthy puta, I’m in doggie heaven.

My favorite time on the Presidential campaign trail has been my proximity to campaign fundraisers.  What dog worth his dew claws wouldn’t want to drink in the scent of George Clooney?  (Single malt scotch and English Leather).

When Oprah Winfrey scooped up my eye crud, we formed a forever mucosal bond.  And, as Dog is my witness, I saw a Seal Team 6 guy let Gwyneth Paltrow chew on a hunk of what he swore was Osama Bin Laden‘s ear lobe.  Former House Speaker, Nancy Pelosi, sported the unforgettable bouquet of vaginal prolapse which she skillfully masked by spilling a carne asada taco on her lap.  I took it as a meat-filled omen that Barack Obama is a lock to be re-elected President.

From the inflamed bowels of Heaven, Yo.  Seamus Romney speaks!

What’s it like on this side of the Rainbow Bridge?  As the kids like to say, things ain’t bad up in this bitch.  Ain’t no station wagons, crates, or politicians of any kind up here.

So let me address what’s on everybody’s mind:  my episode on the road with the Romneys.  Riding First-Class Crate on the roof of a station wagon from Boston to Toronto. That ain’t never gonna be my idea of fun.  But it was a whole lot rougher on the servants. They had to run alongside the car all the way to Ontario.

That little trip inspired my pet name for Mitt:  Sandusky.

Will the Romneys ever be as much fun as the Obamas?  Sure if you like being jarred awake in the middle of the night for a baptism in a Jewish cemetery.  But real fun?  Getting to fetch or play tug of war?  Never.  High times for Mitt Romney meant chasing after me and holding a dust pan under my tail while I pretended to crap in peace.

Things weren’t all bad at the Governor’s mansion.  Ann Romney once let Rafalca, her dressage horse, kick me in the head.  At least she asked.

What about Romney Care?  Lemme lay out my first-hand experience with it.   The minute the Governor’s son, Ben, graduated from medical school he got me wrecked on Cuervo jello shots and, just for laughs, took out my spleen.

Still, don’t you go selling Mitt Romney’s campaign short.  For one thing, Democrats don’t have a monopoly on celebrity endorsers.  Republican fundraising events showed off a whole lotta conservative glitz their own damn selves.  Between Ted Nugent, Jon Voigt, and Bo Derek, you’ve got some real past-your-prime beef.  They LFAO-ed at a Scottsdale fundraising party when a Secret Service dog sniffed out half an Oxy in Rush Limbaugh’s crocs.

Well, Bo, if you’re asking for my campaign prediction, I’m gonna have to burst your bubble.  Mitt Romney is gonna win the election in a walk.  If they had an American Idol style sing-off of soul classics, Mitt would claim the crown for “Deafen Me Now.”  But, the Mitt’s  got the advantage where it counts most:  in serious money.  How serious?  I saw Karl Rove‘s dog bury $3.7 million in the hillside behind the house.

A funny story about gay conversion

I have never done particularly well making long-term romantic connections with women.

In fact, most of my recent public appearances have been solo or in the company of male friends. These days, that’s prima facie evidence of gayitude.   Maybe I should just come out and admit it.  By the standards most people use, I am gay.  Except for the actual body contact.

The move has been thoroughly liberating.  I’ve been able to confess my agnosticism on the gay marriage issue–not out of any particular political passion—but because marriage of any kind has never been my thing.  I couldn’t be that ambivalent when I was straight.

No longer do women seem bothered if my gaze settles a bit too long on a coveted body part.  As a gay man, I’m free to explain it away innocently.

“Were you staring at my boobs?” asked a trophy wife playfully.

I blamed God.  “Look where he puts nipples:  the first place anyone looks.”

Once I established my gay bona fides (including an assumed default expertise in matters of fashion), I could even tease women about their low-riding jeans without fear.  “Honey, I think I can see your labia.”

Is it possible that my freedom of speech is freer than yours?

What’s odd about my life since I came out is how willingly women now confess their loneliness and offer their most intimate confidences.  Over drinks.  In chic dressing rooms.  In richly appointed sedans.   And I’ve got to admit, it’s a bit of a turn-on.

When a power player’s emotionally battered wife needs a temporary escape from her disintegrating marriage, I am there with a comforting word and, sometimes, my willing flesh.    If I knew I was gonna get lucky this often, I’d have come out years ago.

After she caught her husband sharing a public john with a fellow executive, she barged through my front door and announced with a venomous whisper, “I’m gonna turn you straight.”  She executed a near perfect wrestling takedown, ass over elbows, on my living room sofa.

She wasn’t so much giving pleasure as she was bathing in her own pain.  Toned skin engorged by sadness.   It made her perfect.  It used to be, if it was lack of commitment you wanted, I was your man.  But, where she was concerned, I was prepared to give.  I needed to give.  I broached the subject of her moving in.  I said it to her vagina but I meant all of her.

She swiveled toward my face.  Tears spilling over her lower lashes spiked her kiss with salt.

I repeated the offer.  “What do you say?  You gonna lemme take care of you?”

She seemed to appreciate the kindness, but brought a note of mercenary reality to the moment.  “Honey, can you take care of my mortgage?  Or my Mercedes lease?”

If we were being adults about it, I countered, “That’s a no on the Mercedes, but I’ve got the rent covered, unless you insist on chipping in.”

She didn’t insist.  Nor did she stay around.  There was a hollowness in her voice as she opened the door to leave.   “I liked you better when you were gay.”

“You mean two minutes ago?”

“Yeah.  Before you tried to fix my life.”

The Art and Science of Naming Things

Not long ago, a colleague announced that he was changing his name.  He was replacing his fairly respectable moniker with something that sounded zippier and more memorable.  It’s not that he’d been tortured over his given name. He was simply, he informed me, changing his brand.

Even though his new tag would also fit a small chimp, the question is whether the new attention will be worth it.

After all, a name is just an introduction.  A brand depends more on what you do, for example, how consistently you produce a working slice of pizza or a chewy screenplay.

Nevertheless, there is a name so well known that it has also become a brand:  Kardashian. The Kardashian brand positioning, as most MBA’s will tell you, is that they’re the first generation of robots with working genitalia.  When they import a working vocabulary, everyone will want one.

I came by my “name brand” expertise honestly.  As someone who has simultaneously lived with a silly name and spent years naming products inside the advertising industry, I developed a rep as a product-naming guru.

My clients have included Mattel, the Jeffrey Dahmer of toy companies and several of its less notorious rivals.  (Names aside, I’m convinced the children who audition for toy commercials are Stepford children.)

For all that I’ve had my share of professional failures:                                                          

The “Bleeding Gums Cafe” restaurant chain.

Vidal Sassoon’s “Don’t Worry, It’ll Grow Back” salons.

Victoria Secret’s “Underpants Galore.”

Occasionally a product name actually contributes to or undermines its success.  I’ve written on projects for cool names like Nike and Porsche. I’ve also inhaled the heady aroma of the Urine Resistant Mattress–the account, not the actual product.

I swear by all the gods, it’s true.

The Urine Resistant Mattress Corporation would not consider an alternate for that god-awful name.  This was one advertising client who could not be moved off the proposition that a product name must also communicate a product benefit. The name wasn’t flashy but, in it’s way, it was memorable and, maybe even, unforgettable.

So we attended to actual advertising issues.   The client did not crack a smile at the idea that the Urine Resistant Mattress deserved a lively theme song.  I didn’t so much suggest it as hum a bouncy pirate jig.   But the idea of a television commercial truly appealed to him. We spent weeks, without success, looking for a worthy spokesman, some kind of celebrity bedwetter.  But no real names were willing to step forward and take this client’s money.

I took the cash without hesitation.  There’s a name for people like me.

In Hollywood there is no foreplay

My first screenwriting-for-hire assignment was going to be more dues-paying gig than career maker. The production company that brought me in was known for making movies which unfolded like this:  A group of very attractive young women breaks into a big, creepy house.  The sexiest one says, “I think I’ll take a shower.”  She locates a bathroom where a psychopath not played by Anthony Perkins expresses his frustration at strangers hijacking the only adjustable-flow showerhead in the house.   Verbal communication is a struggle for him so he expresses these feelings with a knife.

Within minutes, the audience is ready for a good scrubbing.

In the company’s defense, they were in the process of scaling up their subject matter, and the script they hired me to write had nothing to do with hacking sudsy co-eds to death.  This was to be a political thriller so the victim of the violent shower was more likely to be a diplomat.

In addition to actual writing, I had to show up occasionally at the production company’s office to confer with the Vice President of Development.  On my way to one of these meetings I bypassed the receptionist and pimp-rolled toward the VP’s young, voluptuous Assistant.  She was in the middle of a phone conversation and confided to her phone mate not very quietly, “I need to get laid.”

To a romantic like me, those were the five most caring words a woman could utter.

Did she actually mean the comment for my ears?   I needed clarification.  “I think you’re mistaking me for a director.  I’m just the writer.”  She scrawled a phone number on a post-it note and stuck it on my sleeve the way my kindergarten teacher clipped my mittens.

The only memory I retain from my meeting with the Director of Development is the image of the Assistant caddying refreshments into the office and tilting her cleavage in my direction whenever her boss made a story point.

After the meeting ended, rather than wait for my phone call, the Assistant asked me to drive her home.   How could I not come to the aid of someone who made me feel pretty damn special, especially this creature in an impossibly tight t-shirt?  So we crawled amiably through West Hollywood traffic, the most mundane circumstance possible for anyone to volunteer intimate stuff.  I didn’t have to dig to hear about her sexual fantasy.  She confessed it.  Her dream was to make love backed up against a brick wall in an alley.  I told her my fantasy was hearing her say that.   But I really wished she hadn’t left out that inconvenient detail before we left the office.

When we stopped at a red light, I wondered, “Do you ever get turned-on by old-fashioned stuff?  Kissing?  Touching?  Money?  Touching money?”

She wriggled coyly behind the seat belt. “I mean, what’s the big deal about sex in the alley?”

“I don’t know.  Maybe it’s the idea we could get caught?”

“Who’s gonna catch us?  A busboy?  Her left breast inquired, “Aren’t you into it?”

“Do you have any fantasies that don’t require me to be on my feet?”

A homeless man carried a long blanket past my windshield and behind a Thai restaurant.  I’m thinking, at least he’s gonna get horizontal tonight.

In case the Assistant considered jumping out of the car, I had to take control.  “Look, if your heart’s set on the alley ambience, I guarantee you my bedroom is almost as dirty as the alley with a much lower risk of tetanus.  I can prop a few bricks under your ass to make you feel like you’re in a tenement.”

“I’ve got a better idea,” she offered. “How ‘bout let’s have a drink?”

I steered toward the first joint that offered a parking spot, a little tavern off Santa Monica Blvd.  I followed the Assistant past a trio of drag queens toward a rear booth upholstered in cracked, red vinyl.  I suppose I could’ve invested a bit more effort into finding out what she was really about, but once a woman lays out her sexual quirks for you, quizzing her about her favorite authors feels like a conversation best saved for another night. After we hammered back a couple of tequila shots, the Assistant sidled against me so I could feel every inch of her, hands-free, from hips to head.  She told me I was really talented and, banished any doubts about her sincerity by draping a leg over my knee.

“C’mon, it’ll be so fun.”  It, according to that year’s Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary meant: (noun), vertical intercourse in an alleyway.

“I’m sure it’s fun but it sounds so damned labor intensive.”

She put soft cool lips against my neck and showed me her little girl pout.  “Please?”

I let the Assistant pull me through the bar’s steel back door.  She kicked aside an empty Heinekin bottle, and leaned against a cinder block wall.  It really was more fun than my imagination let me conjure—hands, clasps, flesh, lips, and legs in miraculous synch–somehow managing to stay upright.

 I never actually heard the drag queens come through the back door.  But the impact of the steel door against my heels launched me into the Assistant.  To this day, I don’t know if the groan she made was some kind of sublime ache or just the sound Oxygen makes when it’s forced through a woman’s voicebox.  Both of us crashed onto the blacktop.

The Assistant’s right foot was pinioned under the bottom of the steel door.  Her bra formed a boa around her neck like an accessory for a five-cent Isadora Duncan.  And with her jeans and panties locked around her ankles, she couldn’t pull free of the door.   The transvestites cooed their admiration for the Assistant’s anatomy.   I know it was admiration because no one seemed too worried about the blood streaming from the teethmarks in my scalp.

I’m absolutely certain the paramedics who extricated the Assistant’s broken foot from the bottom of the door never took their eyes off her breasts, because they managed to roll the gurney under the ambulance.

When the paramedic van finally drove off, a police cruiser flashed its brights at me.  The officer behind the wheel, two stripes on a short sleeve, waved me over.

I made sure to sound innocent and respectful.  “Is anything wrong, Officer?”

“No.  You okay?”

“I might need a stich or two for my head.”

His partner in the passenger seat motioned toward his dashboard monitor.  “Wanna see something?”
“Huh?  See what?”

That’s when I saw the last five minutes of my life played back in high definition, from the initial grope to me getting knocked sideways.
“Am I in trouble?”  I ran the bleak future possibilities through my head from Indecent Exposure to Sexual Deviance.  Could I bolt between buildings and possibly get away?

“Trouble?  Nah.  We like you.  You’re our hero.”

“If anything, she was the aggressor.”   The partner belly laughed.

The guy with the stripes could barely stop giggling to ask, “Do you want to file charges against her?”   His laughter almost made him retch.    He had to take a drag off an inhaler.

By the time I got to the emergency room, the Assistant was swiveling her casted foot into the front seat of her husband’s car.  Yes, husband.

I never saw her assisting the Development VP again.   She graduated to a memorable cameo role as the girl who showers in the creepy house.  I’m pretty sure she has a limp.

My day on the Zambesi with George Herbert Walker Babatunde.

George Herbert Walker Babatunde, Treasury Minister

Republic of the Congo

10 Madoff Circle

Kinshasa, Congolese Republic

Dear Mr. Babatunde:

Even though I haven’t had a chance to claim the strongbox containing fifteen million dollars ($15,000,000 US) in gold coins you’ve so kindly offered to hold for me, I wanted to thank you for continuing to keep in touch.  Your thoughtful e-mailed notes with their hopes for my continued good health (and appeals to my desire for shiny things) have cheered me no end.

Although I have no memory of ever meeting a dignitary from an African republic, my recall for names and movie titles since last year’s beatdown from that bouncer at Skybar has been less than perfect.  So I’m willing to take your word that we indeed had a fiduciary relationship and once went eel hunting in the Zambesi. After all, how could I doubt the word of a man who runs his country’s banking system?

In any case, I’ve wired the $1630 transfer fee your representative needs to get the metal box out of airport storage.

I’m hoping to land in Kinshasa International Airport two weeks from Saturday.  Will you be sending someone to meet me with the box of gold or should I arrange pedicab transport to the Treasury offices?

Before I sign off, would you mind a bit of constructive criticism about written communications?   The grammar in your emails, if I may be honest, did not befit a high government official.  If there’s anything that makes me crazy, it’s lazy syntax and misapplied punctuation.

You mentioned how the unsettled military and political situation in your country makes time of the essence.  And I do wish I could come sooner, but UN Secretary General Ban Ki-Moon swears, this time, the ATM card worth $ 8,750,000 USD from my Microsoft settlement is waiting for me in Hong Kong.

Then it’s on to Kinshasa.  If you’re looking for me in baggage claim, I’ll be the guy with Jessica Biel’s hand on my ass.

Utmost Sincerity Upon You,

Chief Financial Officer, Gravitas, Baby!

P.S.  How did you get my email address?

I’d like to thank the Academy

I think I had been napping when the voice on the phone offered to pay me to join a UCLA Sleep Study.  There might be some marginal inconvenience, but the fee would help me cover my rent without selling another testicle.

Over four nights, I showed up at a low-key annex to the UCLA Medical Center.  As soon as I was shown to my room, a friendly RN inserted a spigot that would tap the blood in my arm whenever it struck someone’s fancy.

The hospital room lacked some of the amenities I came to rely on in my apartment, things like the cold air blast that rose miraculously from the carport into my bedroom.  And the bed wasn’t king-sized but it was electrically adjustable.

A grad student attached electrodes and wiring to my head, face, chest, arms, fingers, and legs.  This had to be the last remaining piece of equipment North of the Santa Monica Freeway that hadn’t gone wireless.  On the plus side, with the tangle of cords, I was now qualified to perform in a puppet show.

Using the bathroom would require towing wires and monitors through the sleep ward.  So the nurses recommended peeing into a plastic urinal jug.  Was I put off?  Sure.  But I remembered reading how beer and plastic containers were Sean Penn’s constant companions in the years before he hooked up with Robin Wright.  How bad could it be?

Falling asleep with wiring stuck to my face was the real challenge, but eventually I managed to drift off.  And my bedside Sean Penn memorial piss jug worked like a charm.  “I’d like to thank the Academy and my polyethylene urinal.”

The next morning, a nurse smiled, scored some more of my blood, and gave me permission to go home as long as I returned by Nine PM.

The second night, the blood draw was a tad painful but the wiring didn’t trouble me at all.  I slept like a narcoleptic.  By this time, I got pretty cocky about using the polyethylene jug.  Only one problem came up after my 2:45 AM bladder emptying.   When I laid back against my pillow, the mattress evinced a dampness in a temperature range somewhere between 98 and 99 degrees Fahrenheit.   My Spicoli-like penile accuracy had betrayed me.

Falling back to sleep at freakin’ 2:45 am on a urine-soaked mattress was not gonna be an option. And since the moisture from the bed had also osmosed into my sweatshirt, I was fully discombobulated.  I hadn’t peed on myself since my undergrad days.

I rang for a nurse, but they’d all left for the night.  I’d have to get out of this mess without tech support.  So I tried to wriggle out of my urinated-upon sweatshirt.   No problem with my unwired right arm.  But the sweatshirt got only as far as my forehead before the thick electronic linguini said, “Fuck you.  You’re ‘The Urinator.’”

I was at the shore of the idiot’s Rubicon. I couldn’t detach from the wiring without ripping hair out of my skull in an orderly pattern of squares.  So I grabbed the little boom box to which the wires were attached and went for help.  The monitor pulled the wires and my head at an unfashionable angle but it allowed me to escape the moist evidence of my shame and cruise the quiet halls of the Sleep Center.  If anybody asked me what I knew about stray bodily fluids, I planned to deny ownership.

There I was, the weave of wires causing my head to list 30 degrees starboard, searching for someone in scrubs to help me find a dry place to sleep.  Dragging my monitor, my head and piss-infused sweatshirt, I happened upon a minyan of Asian technicians staring at waveforms on a bank of computer monitors.  I asked if I had arrived at The Matrix.

Only one of the men, sensing an intruder or a sweatshirt drenched in pee, turned around.  I explained my trouble. He said something to me in Mandarin which I translated as, “So what do you want me to do about it, white boy?”

No one from Security, not a single cyborg goon showed up to put me out of my misery.  Fortunately, a linen closet full of fluffy white towels beckoned.   More than a few of them could be fashioned into a thick terrycloth layer, an improvised mattress above my wet mattress, perfect insulation from the possibility of my own urine causing me to electrocute myself.

Next morning, when the Nurse woke me to steal my blood, we had our “Twilight Dawn” moment, minus the inappropriate touching.  She wasn’t particularly bothered to hear me apologize about what happened to my bedding.  “Honey, you think this is the first time I’ve seen a patient couldn’t hold his water?”

The remaining two nights of the Sleep experiment went off without any hitches or other house-breaking issues.

Apparently, the sleep rangers do not hold grudges.  They’ve approached me about participating in other studies.  I’ve begun taking steps to turn this into a six figure per annum enterprise.   As long as it doesn’t involve bladder control or guiding camera equipment through orifices, how bad could it be?

Has Winning $10 In The Lottery Changed Me?

I promise not to brag about my big haul in last month’s Mega Millions jackpot.  But I did hit two numbers and the Mega Number.  I know this sounds ridiculous but I felt crazy jacked up.  For a ten dollar payout!

But where I screwed up is, I have to take my winnings over 26 years.

That’s a piss-poor outcome for somebody who puts as much time and effort as I have into understanding it all.

Now, after consulting with statisticians, chewing over hedge fund algorithms, re-reading “Freakonomics,” and probing the distant edge of artificial intelligence, I’ve arrived at the following insight on the subject:

The odds of taking home any multi-state lottery jackpot are so astronomical, you actually have a better chance of winning if you don’t buy a ticket.

Yet there’s no escape from any of it.  We’re constantly getting our asses kicked from one lottery to another. The good genes lottery.  The romance lottery.  The born-into-wealth lottery.  The perfect rack lottery.

We seem to enter them all despite the very long odds.

One lottery I played over an extended period bore results you’d charitably describe as mixed:  the Film School lottery.    And I’m damned sure I’m not the only player.  In fact, this game reaches aspiring writers, actors, directors, producers, and studio executives—in short, everyone west of the Ukraine. What justifies it?  The gigantic investor pool and potential jackpot.

If the California State Lottery decided to offer a scratch-off game using this theme, a ticket would display a half-dozen squares with each one containing the logo of an elite film school:  UCLA, USC, NYU, COLUMBIA and, you get the idea.

But here’s the mind-blowing part.  It costs upwards of $50,000 to buy a ticket—And what’s the payoff if you scratch off a winning square?  A couple of screenwriting books.

To be fair, it was an unforgettable decade, and I’m sorry it ended.

The point is, we seem forever to be chasing that big score.  The impulse isn’t purely mercenary.  Some of us will settle for magic when we stumble into it.

And that leaves us where?  I’ve been working with software engineers to create the next family of blockbuster cell phone apps.  We’re very close to marketing a Virtual Toupee app.

When we figure out how to keep the mobile device on your head without a chin strap, we’re gonna be rollin’ in some serious bank.