Episode 108: How to Get Your Own Reality Show

Oh, I know, you think it's easy! I mean, everyone has a reality show these days. I wan't even surprised yesterday when I turned on the tee-vee to see my neighbor mowing her lawn for three hours. Then I realized I was looking out the window and not at the tee-vee at all but nonetheless it was a riveting three hours. I should pitch that to Bravo. "Middle Class Mowing with Saggy-Boobed Sally."

My friend Beth and I had this idea about fifteen years ago for a television show called "Cooking With Booze." It was pretty much as titled, where we would cook a meal and at the same time drink a little and talk about the day's gossip. We thought it was an awesome idea and even had contacts high up enough to pitch it but no one thought it was a very good idea. And now practically every tee-vee show is like this, not to mention that My Drunk Kitchen girl to whom I will not even link because I am still so resentful that she got a very similar idea to work that I am going to go have a drink right this very second and it is only 11:41 in the morning.

After we gave up our lifelong (well, ten-minute-long) dream of "Cooking With Booze" we had an idea to do one called "Sloooow Food" where we would cook one meal over the course of eight episodes. And then at the end we would sit down and eat it for four more. It's like an Andy Warhol-type idea, or filming paint actually drying. Ooooh, paint-drying, mental note. But if you watch HGTV, you see the home-redo equivalent of that same idea with that one lady re-doing a house over the course of a season. And we would have done it without the bitchy assistant.

Anyway, you should think of a reality show to have. Because someone, somewhere is interested in what you are doing. I mean: don't look at me; I could not BE less interested! But don't underestimate how many brain-damaged people there are out there just starved for information about your life. I mean, hellllo, Facebook.

Episode 107: How to Piss Someone Off

The list of ways to piss someone off is a long and varied one, but there is one surefire way that shows up as #1 on almost everyone's roundup: towing someone's car. I'm not sure why it makes people so mad, but it certainly does.

When I worked at a restaurant years and years ago, we had a very complicated parking lot and if a patron didn't pay attention to the signs as he or she parked, it was quite easy to block in fifteen or twenty cars. When it happened, we would try to find the person responsible, but it was a big place with several rooms and it was hard to keep up with who was driving the giant Hummer. I guess we could have asked "who has the smallest penis in this room? Ah, you sir, your Hummer is blocking in all the cars, please move it." But frankly, it was just easier to call Slappy Steve's Citywide Towing and say "load it up!"

So we did. Time and time again. And every single time the tow-ee got ratcheted up to Level Five Million on the anger level. Which always struck me as a funny tactic; what were we going to do? Say "gosh, your red face certainly makes a convincing argument, sir! I have seen the error of my ways and I will turn the clock back in time to before you were a complete asshole and too stupid to read the parking signs!"

About half the time, they'd pull the "I know the owner" routine, which at the time was like saying "I have feet," because everyone knew the owner; he was standing right there waving at everyone. The other half of the time, they'd threaten to kill us -- which at that particular time in my life would have been a welcome mercy. "Bring it," I would think. Alas, no one ever brought it.

I had a friend who was known as the Parking Nazi at the restaurant where he worked. He would tow a pregnant, one-legged blind lady's car if he had the chance and he'd twirl his mustache and cackle while he did it. That was the same restaurant we later trashed during a Christmas party by putting pool balls in the toilets. Heh heh heh. That's another way to piss someone off: fuck up the toilets. Heh heh heh. Pool balls in the toilets. Good times.

Episode 106: How to Navigate Sibling Rivalry

So my sister and I are almost three years apart in age; I'm older chronologically, but she's older in all the responsible aspects. Like for example: she has a savings account ... while I still practice my Oscar speech. Because 44-year-olds break into the movie business and rise to the top all the time. I'm sure I'll think of one in a minute.

Anyway. When we were teenagers, we were very different in another way. She liked Loverboy, I like Olivia Newton-John. Her room was plastered with giant posters of Mike Reno's red-leather-clad ass, mine was covered with Livvy's pool-deep eyes, beckoning me to come take her hand, she is maaaagic, she won't let her aim ever strayyyyyy....nothing can stand in our waaay..... she'll be guiiiiding meeee. I mean, when I wasn't drawing pastel portraits of her exercising, I would sit around and kiss album covers with her on them and I was old enough to have hair on my legs, so that was something pathetic, lemme tell you.

It was two worlds that could never, ever meet and that difference manifested itself a lot of times - we fought constantly. Not just sit-around-the-fire tossing witty insults sort of fighting, but real fighting. And one time, we got into a monster fight and I threw a ladderback chair at her, and then she hit me in the head with a cast iron skillet. That really is the etching Currier and Ives forgot to etch and hand-color, if you ask me: the two of us locked in mortal embrace brandishing weapons that could only be found in an Amish kitchen.

So that fight got us in trouble, needless to say, because our mother really liked that chair. We were both sent to our rooms, which were next to each other in the hallway. We tuned our respective radios to our favorite stations - she was 103 KDF, I was Kix 104 - and laid down on the floor with just our head sticking out into the hallway so we could continue to taunt each other. "You're a drama nerd," she hissed. "Your hair is jacked up like a furry, tire-less Camaro!," was my witty riposte. "No one likes you or your stupid new nubby-weave double-breasted jacket, you nerd," she said, attacking my quite confident fashion sense, the usual low road for blunt types, if you ask me. "And besides," she continued, "Olivia Newton-John is a lesbian and she will NEVER LOVE YOU."

All lies! LIES LIES LIES! Now that I think about it, I will never forgive her for these lies, even all these years later! She is sleeping upstairs right now and I have a brand new smothering pillow from The Company Store. Hang on ... be right back.

Episode 105: How to Deal with Black Friday

How you deal with Black Friday has a lot to do with which end of it you are on. Retail workers deal with it completely differently than the shoppers do. Like for example: when I worked in a bookstore on Black Friday, I took two Xanax. It sure made the day go by and at one point I was so relaxed I peed in my pants. But anyway! That's a stroll down memory lane I don't feel like taking right now.

My sister works retail. She has for a long time. Once she managed a doodad store that got particularly busy the day after Thanksgiving. Maybe this was because they sold Christmas cards and Christmas ornaments and Christmas aprons and Christmas menorahs and whathaveyou. Or maybe it was a coincidence. But anyway. She tricked a friend and me into helping her that day, telling me I would have such fun wrapping gifts and festooning gift boxes with ribbons and geegaws. But that is not how the day unfolded. It was more like the Bataan Death March, only there were a lot of lavender M&Ms and a whole bunch of orange ribbon.

My sister was very good at her job. She could do that fake smile thing and that "ohmigod, HI! Isn't that fifty-dollar marabou napkin ring just a HOOT! I just think it's DARLING!" and you had no idea that she was secretly thinking "I hope you die soon, shitface." But she was. That's what she was thinking. And that's what every single retail worker thinks on Black Friday. So be nice, shitface.

Episode 104: How to Have an Awkward Thanksgiving

Yeah, I don't really have a Thanksgiving story. My family hasn't been a Thanksgiving-type of family in over twenty years, so I don't have any charming stories about MeeMaw chopping the head off a turkey (though I do have a distant relative named Georgia Lou who once chopped the head off of a snapping turtle) or PeePaw trudging through the snow dragging a sled full of oranges into the yard or whatever those olden-tyme pilgrimmy tradtions call for.

So then I was thinking that I would instead tell you the story of when a whole bunch of white friends almost burned down a black church on the 4th of July. There were fireworks involved - wayward fireworks - that whizzed around and smashed through the window of the church on the corner and when the fire truck got there, the inside curtains were on fire. There was whiskey and beer and a whole bunch of lesbians involved. Can you imagine the news coverage that could have been? My head is in a fevered state just thinking about it.

But since I wasn't there for that, I don't think I can tell that story either. So you will have to insert your own holiday-themed story into this episode of the Psychopedia. I can't do all the work, you know.

Episode 103: How to Read "Lolita"

Okay, so art school. It's a lot of fun and very very hard and challenging but it is not exactly rigorous when it comes to the non-art-related fields. There was some silly one-semester-minute requirement for other liberal arts and they mainly consisted of classes called things like "Turning the Page: How to Turn the Page of a Book" or "Why Books are Rectangular." But there were a couple of really interesting classes taught by professors from the nearby fancypants university who would cross North Parkway and slum a little. One of the classes was called "The Search for the Great America Novel." We read six books - "Absalom, Absalom!," "Pictures of Fidelman," something else, something else and a Nabokov double feature, "Pale Fire" and "Lolita," which I had read before.

Now these English classes at art school were made up of a motley crew of people -- mainly people willing to be there at 8 in the morning for the easy "pass." This particular class had examples of the opposite poles of art school students in it. One was named Anne and I loved her. She wore pajamas to class and was always making nutty provocative art, like a self-portrait bust of herself made from Underwood potted meat. The other was Judy, who was an older lady who did large ultra-realistic pastel drawings of, oh, parakeets sitting on perches and she was always the one screeching out "I don't get why this is art" if someone brought in a drawing of a vulva to drawing class, which, coincidentally, Anne would do with almost mind-numbing regularity.

So! We get to "Lolita." Judy comes in in an absolute fury, demanding to know why we have been assigned this book when we shouldn't even be reading fiction! We should be reading true stories, like the BIBLE! Not this filth about a young girl and a father figure having sex in every little seedy motel in America. And there sat Anne in her patchouli-scented pajamas, grinning from ear to ear as she puffed a cigarette (ok, maybe not but in my memory she did) - who then leveled the room more effectively than Fat Man and Little Boy took care of Hiroshima - with one simple little question: "oh Judy, for god's sake. Haven't you ever imagined screwing your daddy?"

Now. Have you ever watched a watermelon be thrown from the top of a building onto the pavement below? That's pretty much what Judy's head looked like right before the screaming match began. And it was a screaming match as yet unrivaled, and that includes all of reality TV since then. I just sat there laughing - along with the professor - and doodling my new tattoo idea, which included the phrase "I Heart Anne 4-Ever."

I haven't kept up with either of them; I'm sure Judy's off in some windowless church putting a snake back in a box. Anne? Who knows. She's either in jail or a professor somewhere; I certainly hope it's the latter and she's spending her days opening the eyes of horrible, stupid Judys everywhere.

Episode 102: How to Bake a Pie

I used to work at a movie theatre. Don't get too excited, it's not as fun as it sounds. But it was more fun than other jobs I have had, so it all evens out on the Fun-o-meter©. Anyway, it was a theatre that had six screens and all the movies basically started at the same time so we'd have a half-hour of stuff to do and then an hour of absolutely nothing to do. You could eat free popcorn and I certainly took advantage of that. There was one whole summer where I was worried that if it got too hot outside, I would actually explode like a Jiffy Pop pan.

We found lots of ways to occupy the downtime. We told one new employee that as part of his training he had to get in the popcorn warmer, which he did. We closed it and walked off and left him in there. Ha ha ha, stupid Mitch. Sometimes we had to check the bathrooms because we had a gentleman who would come to the movies and then go to the men's lavatory and remove all of his clothes, fold them and put them in a neat little pile and then just stand in the middle of the bathroom and greet people as they came in. "Hello," the naked man would say, waving.

One day, three of my co-workers had an eating dare. One of them had to eat an entire jar of mayonnaise. Then one had to drink a mayonnaise jar full of pickle juice. The third had to then drink the same jar full of Fanta Orange soda syrup. I didn't think the pickle juice sounded so bad, but I wasn't involved; I was preoccupied with popcorn. All three completed their dares and I think only Bob the mayonnaise eater puked. He'll correct me in the comments, I'm sure. But to this day he won't eat mayonnaise, and it's been twenty-five years.

Anyway, I could eat a whole pie.



(Please add Moon Pies to the approved list in your mind.)