PHILADELPHIA, PA-

Let me begin by saying that YES, I am aware that what I’m about to say sounds crazy. And not just any kind of crazy. We’re talking Stephen King nuthouse crazy—a room with padded walls and a warden named Large Marge who goes about 6’6” and 250 and hasn’t smiled since the Reagan administration, partly because her moustache gets in the way and partly because that tick of hers prevents any form of facial expression. Nevertheless, here goes: I am being attacked by the Pillow People.

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HOUSTON, TX-

I have a long history of becoming far too invested in my prime time TV shows. For a period, I went around telling friends and associates in various states of legal trouble that “a writ of mandamus must be issued” or that “these things usually sort themselves out in voir dire,” along with other bits of unsolicited, erroneous legal advice mined from “Law & Order” episodes. I employed, usually to little effect, modern forensic techniques learned on “CSI: Las Vegas” to create a time-line for those moments spurred on by my late-night roistering. I know I went to Taco Bell late-night because there are beans on my face this morning. But wait. Perhaps I am confusing correlation with causation. I’ll need more grant money to close the book on that case. But this is different. I’ve got a big problem now. The folks over at FOX have really done it to me this time.

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BOULDER, CO-

A while back, I had a shot at enlightenment. And despite the fact that I live right outside of Boulder, CO - the enlightenment capital of the universe with the exception of Sedona and perhaps the chocolate aisle of the World Market - I cannot say that I have yet had the privilege of sitting in God’s palm. So when the opportunity presented itself, I jumped at it.

I was living on a small island in Hong Kong - already the consequence of playing chicken with Fate - when I met Jack. Jack lived down the street from me and was the friend of a friend. He is short, has sandy blond hair and comes from Liverpool. (Read: cute with an accent).

He looks me over, waiting for our mutual friend to arrive and extends an invitation that would change my life.

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LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA-

Late afternoon, Hanalei Bay.
Lying around.
Reading Oprah. For the articles. Judge all you want.
Mark was surfing, off in the distance.

I was going through the book reviews, keeping an open mind.
There was an excerpt from a novel called The Secret Scripture: “We measure the importance of our days by those few angels we spy among us.”
It struck me. I couldn’t argue that it wouldn’t be a swell way to measure the importance of our days.

I was unexpectedly jarred from my O meditation.
“Excuse me,” I heard from behind me.
A young boy, of eleven or so, stood pointing in the direction just ahead, to an area in the sand between me and the ocean.
I followed the trajectory of his finger.
He continued, “Do you know who left that cake there?”

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BAKERSFIELD, CA-

There’s that one line from the new Dark Knight Batman movie that I keep stumbling on. It sticks in all the commercials. I hear it from my family. I read it in grafitti. It squeaks from comic book action figures: “Why so serious?” Maybe it’s because Comicon 2008 in San Diego is a place of spandex god worshippers who want their asses signed with celebrity lightning bolts. I mean, that’s gotta seriously hurt. (more…)

SAN DIEGO, CA-

The Nervous Breakdown’s new car smell is almost overpowering—hold on a minute while I wait for the nausea to pass.

Ahem.

Well.

San Diego has gone crazy this week, and it’s not just because of the ComiCon wreaking havoc on traffic and the greater Gaslamp area. For whatever reason there has been a plethora of oddities, an embarrassment of riches in absurdities, sights that, when I try to explain them, are just too out there.

Ordinarily, I’d photograph them for proof. Alas, Michael has the camera in South Carolina.

Here’s what you’re missing:

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ST. AUGUSTINE, FL-

I’ve spent most of my life in big cities. Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco. And for some reason, I’ve always felt safe. I’m not sure why, because I’ve lived in some unsavory places. I’ve rented apartments in neighborhoods that people with college educations tend to avoid - neighborhoods populated by surly hookers who won’t take no for an answer and guys with swastikas carved into their necks and elderly women suffering from night terrors and a seething hatred of “negrahs”. But I never felt like any of them would ever kick down my door or accost me as I waited for the bus. They were just local color, and if you caught them at their creative peaks, pretty damn entertaining. Spend a leisurely Sunday morning at your local slum diner, munching on a rubbery omelet and listening to a man with an eyepatch explain to his waitress how the mayor is spending our tax dollars to create a doomsday laser, and you suddenly remember why you never bothered to get cable.

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BIRMINGHAM, AL -

Right. So I’m enjoying a leisurely breakfast the other morning, tapping away at a new column for Gonzo Politico over a bowl of New and Improved Old World Corn Gruel, when this god-awful beeping sound nearly caused me to dump steaming hot gruel in my lap (And, you don’t have to be Einstein to figure out that: Gruel + Groin = Unbridled Obscenity).

You know the beeping sound I’m talking about. The one that indicates the backward locomotion of a freight carrying vehicle. Beep! Beep! Beep! Beep!

Upon further investigation, I was actually rather excited to discover the vehicle in question backing into my own driveway. I couldn’t recall having purchased any oversized consumer goods lately, so I thought maybe a large and very generous gift was aboard this vessel. A pinball machine? A trampoline? A Nordic Track home fitness system? A dune buggy? A giant chocolate Jesus sculpture?

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LOS ANGELES, CA-

I get a lot of warnings via e-mail. People are always warning me about something. Strange warnings. Domestic warnings. Crime warnings. Supernatural warnings. Warnings about microwaving plastic. Warnings about the consequences of forgetting what’s most important in life. Warnings about communicable disease. Warnings about credit card scams. I even get warnings about the Rapture from time to time.

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LOS ANGELES, CA-

I got inside of another taxicab last night and was stunned when, about three quarters of the way through the ride, the cabdriver started asking me about my innards.

“You know what a bladder is?” he said to me.

“A bladder?” I said.

“Yeah, a bladder,” he said.

My wife was seated on my left, and she repeated my question aloud for the sake of overall clarity.

“You want to know what a bladder is?” she said.

“Yeah,” said the cabdriver. “I want to know, like, where it’s located in the body.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before,” I said. (more…)

LOS ANGELES, CA-

In 1995, I was a junior in college, a film student at the University of Colorado.

I took a documentary film class. I believe it was a documentary film class.

One kid, I remember, was from Pacific Palisades.

His class project?

A faux interview with Kurt Russell.

He was interviewing Kurt Russell, and all of a sudden he started asking him if Goldie Hawn was good in bed, if she was a screamer, and so on. (more…)

BIRMINGHAM, AL -

This is kinda how I’ve felt for a while now, regarding a whole slew — yes, one entire slew! — of unfinished and otherwise aborted TNB posts.

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LOS ANGELES, CA-

One of my best friends is named Patrick. We grew up together in The Heartland. When we were younger, we used to hang out at shopping malls. Sometimes we brought firecrackers with us. Patrick used to fart on crowded elevators. We’d step inside of a crowded elevator at a shopping mall, and Patrick would fart as loud as he could, without warning. And then he would stand there, deadpan, while the elevator made its silent ascent. Patrick could maintain his composure. He could stand there, deadpan, pretending like nothing had happened.

I couldn’t. (more…)

SAN DIEGO, CA-

When I found out there is a place where you can cut your own Christmas tree AND hand-feed kangaroos and wallabies, I forced my parents and husband to go.

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LOS ANGELES, CA-

An open letter to Julie, the girl who dumped me right after the space shuttle Challenger exploded:

Dear Julie,

We dated briefly in the fifth grade, and on January 28, 1986, you broke up with me. We were sitting in the Presentation Area, adjacent the library, and we had just finished watching the space shuttle Challenger explode. It ascended from the launchpad at Cape Canaveral, and seventy-three seconds later, the whole thing went up in a massive fireball, killing everyone aboard. The room was silent, and our teachers started crying. And then (more…)