I tell ya, I went to the doctor the other day, he said "I think you're sick." I tell him I want another opinion, he says, "You're ugly, too."

The world just got a whole less funny.

It's funny, but when someone dies, you think about how much they meant to you. I personally didn't know Rodney Dangerfield, but I felt like I owed him something. I mean, half my schtick came from him in Caddyshack. The kinda tossed off and self-depricating humor (Your a lot of woman, you know that? Yeah, wanna make 14 dollars the hard way?) and comic timing (Hey, did somebody step on a duck?) are the foundations of many young and wannabe comedians.

And, while he didn't break barriers like Lenny Bruce, attack the establishment like Bill Hicks, reinvent the genre like Henny Youngman ... he had his own way of making his way, even if he didn't get any respect.

Do yourself a favor today, and read some of his finer jokes.

When it comes right down to it, I think, probably, I'll just soil my pants and run away ... you know, when the time comes ...

Song(s) listened to while writing this:
Walk Away, Bad Religion; The Gentle Art of Making Enemies, Faith No More; Folsom Prison Blues, Johnny Cash; Invalid Litter Dept., At The Drive-In; Everything's Ruined (acoustic), The Fountains of Wayne; Stranger Than Fiction, Bad Religion; A Lap Dance is So Much Better When the Striper is Crying, The Bloodhound Gang.

Other media on in the background:
None, thankfully.

Mood:
A little down, but not out.

Verb of the day:
Gulp

Well, you know, I had it coming:
In a nice evening of the karmic balance in my life, I rode down the elevator today with the mother and toddler from Monday's little existential excursion. The little kid smiled the entire time. The mother gave me one of those "I still don't trust you" smiles, but, as elevator rides go, it went pretty well.

101 Things We Don't Talk About Nearly Enough for Various and Unfounded Reasons:
#62 Why is it possible that our country will change the constitution to allow The Terminator to run for president, but not OK to allow two people in love (and, from my experience, more in love than many "normal i.e. heterosexual" couples) to express that love and gain the benefits that their love should manifest. For that reason, why would anyone want to live in a country where we are trying to "edit" the constitution to deny rights to its citizens? It's OK to discuss allowing more rights for immigrants (ALL OF US ARE IMMIGRANTS!) and foreign-born citizens. That I'm fine with. But, in context of editing the constitution and the rules of the country, can't we all be a bit more broad-minded?

One of my all-time favorite lyrics (or, at least, something cool that I just listened to and wanted to include somehow):
Life is the crummiest book I ever read/there isn't a hook/just a lot of cheap shots/pictures to shock/and characters an amateur would never think of

What a lovely evening for a debate:
You know, I just love what you've done to our country Darth. I think this is such a lovely place to raise kids ... it's even better to raze buildings that used to be a place where people worked, you know, before this country was launched into a recession and they lost that job. (Maybe it was one of the thousands of small-business owners that bring in $200k a year?) From here on out, until otherwise convinced, Dick Cheney reminds me of what Anakin Skywalker looks like without the Darth mask. A little frail, but still full of piss. Scary as hell, without all that creepy breathing. I half expected him to twist his fingers and make John Edwards collapse on the table. While we are picking winners, I'll just say that the only thing that won tonight was my productivity. I was able to work quite smoothy and didn't feel any need whatsoever to watch any television.

But, and this is really cool, if you visit the campaign blogs of each site ( The Elephants and The Asses ) both of them won. It's great. It's inventive. It's absolutely spin. And it's killing what little patience I had with politicians and what little faith I had for democracy.

Movie Review of the Week:
Rounders starring Matt Damon, Ed Norton, John Turturro, John Malkovich and Famke Janssen (7.1 out of 10 at IMDB.com ).

This is absolutely one of the better guy movies. It's got gambling, cool characters, John Malkovich (who, I believe, when the time comes, will be remembered as one of the best character actors of all time) and Famke Janssen.

Why is this movie worth it? What, Famke isn't good enough of a reason? Well, with the exception of The Hustler and Kingpin, it's one of the best gambling movies. I still have no idea what they're talking about half the time, but you know what, poker is a really good movie topic. Loss, recovery and man vs. man. And, well, Famke. And, without Bennie around to play off, Matt is actually a pretty decent hack when it comes to sympathetic narrators. He's no Ed Norton, which is good, cause Ed Norton carries this movie. And, the showdown between Teddy KGB and Damon is really the best scene involving two men playing cards and eating Oreos. It really is.

Mafia rating: Goodfellas.

(A quick explanation of the "Mafia Rating": Top notch=The Godfather (parts I and II); Worth the time=Goodfellas; If you've got time=Married to the Mob; Just stay away=The Godfather, Part III)

Coming next week: Being John Malkovich.

First word that comes to my mind:
Pre-fab

A glimpse of my future ... or, why leaving your door open isn't always terrible ...

I'm overcome by a sincere and honest urge to use the bathroom. I throw that out there not for any particular reason (i.e. it's to set the scene) but because it sets the scene (I'm not sure why I interupted myself, but you know -- it's not really that bad -- but the train of thought continues).

Coffee is flowing in my veins. Caffine is the drive. It keeps me awake. I've had a rough weekend. No wife. Too much barbecue. A handful of mescaline. A case of beer. (OK, I lied about mescaline, but my desire to at least feel like Hunter S. Thompson overtakes my urge to always be up front and honest.) When the alarm went off this morning (thanks Jason) I found the courage to do this yet again (i.e. wake up), keeping alive my string of days with less than 6 hours of sleep. To some, this isn't bad. But, I've had a busy week. You know, that whole barbecue thing. I'm sweating hickory out here.

So, yeah, the alarm. It was sounding and I was trying to figure out when my next fix was going to come (caffine, not mescaline, I've already established that I exaggerated that claim). The taxi sign was on and the travel arrangements were made ... I realized that I had no control.

Anyway, this story has the potential to ramble on and be quite insignificant (i.e. there really is no point and the basic outline for the story has really be fleshed out enough). Blah, blah, blah.

Two hours later, I'm stretched out in my chair in nothing but a pair of boxers (please, don't stop reading, I strike that visual image, I take it back -- I'm wearing pants and a wool sweater, is that better?) and am falling slowly into a state of catatonic shock. Sugar shock from the venti mocha from the devil Starbucks, perhaps. The Road Warrior ("walk away ... just walk away" which is an altogether different column that I plan on writing soon) is playing in the background. I've zoned out, like I said already if you werent' paying attention, and am dreaming of unicorns/filth/milfs/oscar the grouch when the door starts to jiggle. I can hear the handle working it's way. I groggily let out a "Huh" that sorta sounds like the bellow of a wounded llama (what a strange freaking metaphor huh?). No answer. I let it go. Maintenece guy. I hear the door shut. I slip back into my coma.

About a minute passes and I feel this presence. Like what some people say they feel when the find Jesus. I found this feeling quite profound. I saw into my future and, well, I opened my eyes quite quickly.

And there, in front of me, was a young child. I'm dreaming, I though to myself. No way this toddler in diapers is here. This is my spirit quest. My vision. My guide. (Wayne got Jim Morrison ... I get a 2-year-old -- you're right, life's not fair.)

"I want my Mommy," this vision says. Having watched my fill of low-grade porn the other day on television, combined with the caffine and the mescaline (curses!), I'm fairly certain that's what he said. (He very clearly could've said "Gummy bears are yummy." His thumb was in his mouth and he wasn't speaking too clearly, so it could've been anything: "You smell funny"/"I like Bunnies" you get the point.)

OK, so, I've established points of reference. Move on.

"I want my Mommy," again, this is what he says.

By now, I've realized that this boy is a sign from God. "END YOUR WICKED WAYS," God is saying through this dark-skinnned child. "Stop playing PlayStation all day and lusting after women. This is your future." A child in diapers, not happy to see me, needing, wanting and absolutely desperate to find his mother. Not the father. Not his provider and protector. I've failed. Already. And I haven't even done anything yet.

Again, he says, "I want my Mommy." He reaches out his hand and tugs at my toes. I open the other eye. And, like a car crash that jars you out of a pretty nice drive in the country, I can't shake this nagging suspicion that this isn't a dream.

This little boy is actually tugging at my toe, thumb in his mouth, clad in a diaper. (Some stunning parallels are present: We are dressed similarly -- i.e. the boxers thing ... wait, don't think about that; We both are alone -- him with no mommy, me without my wife; Niether of us can really comprehend our surroundings -- I went to sleep before I was ready to wake up and he seems to have awoken in a room he can't remember. Just, you know, observing those 12 hours later.) He's real. I'm real. We're all real people. Both of us.

(Now, I'm not going to exaggerate that I'm some kind of hero. The boy accidentally wanders into my room -- it could've been any room. I just want to get this out of the way now, so you don't carry false pretenses when I launch into the climax of this story.)

He starts to cry. And the sobs are coming out with the thumb in his mouth. It sounds like someone trying to inhale soup while spitting it out. I snap out of my chair and stand up. Predictably, he runs away. (I mean, to this child, I'm probably the largest thing he's ever seen.) He runs to the door while I try to climb into a pair of shorts. Fiddling with the door, he turns around, wide-eyed and terrified. I shoot him the same exact look (I'm just, you know, not crying and sucking my thumb -- OK, so I am. It's a nervous habit ... I don't want to get into it ...). He opens the door and whoosh, the crying stops. The running away from me part doesn't.

Now, I've got so much caffine in me and I'm sweating meat from this weekend still, so it appears, metaphysically, like I'm chasing my alter ego. A scared, frail and lonely child not really quite sure what he's doing or which door he needs to open to get back into his world of comfort. (The parallels to my current situtation, again, scare the crap out of me.)

He runs from door to door, jiggling and crying. Jiggling and crying. I'm trying to keep him calm, while trying to keep my pants on. I finally get him into a hallway and get down on my knees. He comes running to me ... then past me. I'm in no mood to chase, but I feel that it's my duty to make sure this child gets reunited with his mom. And he's headed straight for a wall and isn't really looking. I lunge just barely miss him ... so I don't sound like a jerk, I was trying to stop him from hitting the wall. He stops dead and the saga ends with me lying on the ground and his mother walking out the elevator.

She looks at me, holding a tiny pair of pants in her hands. Her eyes narrow.

"Looking for someone?" I ask her.

Suddenly, he remembers where he lives. He heads right for the door, jiggles and cries, and lets himself in.

The mother stares at me. A man, who she doesn't know, with his pants half on, laying on the floor of an apartment complex after apparently chasing after her son -- who is crying and running in the opposite direction.

"He walked into my apartment," I tell her, while getting back to my feet.

"That'll happen," she says.

Again ... the similarities to my current position astound me.

"That'll happen."

Mildly incoherent thought of the day ... or an excuse to keep writing without tangible ideas ...

If at first you don't succeed ... well, at least you gave it a half-assed effort. No sense in killing yourself for nothing.