Repopulating the colon of a loved one

Can you believe this shit!?  I haven't been able to relax since reading a smart magazine article published by (based on my awe-inspiring research skills) a big-time NYC mag place.  Anyway, it concerns this lady who got a whole new set of intestinal bacteria.  How does one remove the orginal?  But it is a sad thing, this colon in question.  She had severe diarrhea (had to look this up to spell it right) and had lost a bunch of weight.  So what happens?  She got a (wait for the shit) "fecal transplant."  Just writing this is making me faint which is sort of faint praise for the writer, right?  Anyway, the docs put put some of his poop in a blender (I'm gonna be sick!) and then hoovered it back into her via the back door canal or whatever.  (Idea:  get one of these then go to the airport and admit to TSA that you have some bubbly in your arse.) 

The worst part?  I was making a smoothie as I was reading this article and could not bring myself to drinking it (the smoothie).  Spent the day walking, checking out couples and wondering how you would broach this idea of "honey, would you like to shoot the shit--up my butt?  I have chills.

So, walking home after checking my football pool results with Jay-Z (a lie) and decided that I would like to review cars for the Wall Street Journal since I saw one in the trash and took it.  I called and they asked what car I wanted to review and I didn't know so had to hang up.  Went to car dealer and saw a nice one.  Big, new, silver Audi.  I went in and asked a salesman how much it was and other details and he smirked.  I said "I could pay you cash for this wreck right now. Ask Jay-Z " (a lie).  Finally, he gave me that thing, the short speech:  "Sir, I'm going to have to ask you to leave."  So I stood there because he was "going to" ask me to leave.  But he didn't!  But his boss did.   All I got was this and, sorry,  I was in a hurry:

Price as tested:  $115,000.  Comes with a house on a river.
32-valve V8 Juice with purple valves and saltines in the middle
Full-time AWD with fondue-dripped rims and vector rear seats with republicant oversteering
DVD sunroof with German Renaissance Florence with re-circulating smells of wallet.

I have to leave right now.

Caddying for John Boehner – Where are the Fire Extinguishers!

Life is strange and tell Dave this as his plan seems far-fetched.  He wants to go to D.C. and tie himself to the White House gate and then light himself on fire to protest how he was waterboarded by his bank `cause he paid only six bucks on his half-million dollar mortgage which I know for a fact Dave paid with money he got from collecting bottles.  But Dave tells me he knows someone at a fancy country-club just outside the capital and I can probably caddy for John Boehner’s daily golf outing if I split gas money to D.C. with Dave.

So okay, I go.  No jobs where I am so a hundred bucks for spending the day with Boehner is fine.  I dress in jean overalls and a straw hat and big clown shoes which are really Nikes, just four sizes too big.

We park and I join Dave and we stare at the fence and then try to explain why we have a thick set of chains and a plastic gas can.  Nosy bastard Homeland Security.  I have to lie and say we are both magicians and will be tying the chain around the gas can and making it disappear, like Houdini.  The HS guys laughs and wishes us luck but not before asking for an autograph.

Meet Boehner and he’s right on time.  Not as tanned as advertised but something else is bizarre.  He sings the first two or three words of everything he says.  We shake hands and I tell him my name.  He says ♫Good to meet you♫.  Bill.  Oh man, this makes me queasy and I got eighteen holes to go.

Boehner can golf, for sure.  The weather’s nice and I’m feeling fit.  Two problems.  A weasel-looking prick has joined us.  Guy named Mitch who looks like an upright turtle.  He holds his hands in claw style, like Mister Burns from the Simpsons and when he talks his mouth is full of saliva so he sounds like wet sneakers.

Second problem.  I have succumbed to Boehner’s singing thing.  Like this:  (BOEHNER)  “♫Bill, give me the♫ sand wedge.”  (ME) ♫Ba-da-da, here you go. ♫  Crap.  I realize I am a victim of the Stockholm Syndrome thing where after you endure something really awful, you begin to really like all things Swedish.

We get to hole nine and all hell breaks loose.  A Secret Service guy tells Boehner that ♫Doodly-do♫  A guy has chained himself to the White House and is threatening to light himself on fire.  Boehner gives me two fifties as Mitch giggles in a swish of spit. 

We walk to Boehner’s limo and Boehner is cursing a storm.  Just as he’s about to climb in, he looks at me, all narrow eyes.  ♫Billy boy, Billy boy♫  Where are the fire-extinguishers?  Why can’t Obama provide enough fire-extinguishers?”

Then he’s gone and I’m left humming that fire-extinguisher song.   

Whoa! James Franco Saved My Life!

Is it just me or is this economy kicking everyone’s ass and since America hates writers and loves clowns, I auditioned for Cirque du Soleil but didn’t get in because they had "filled the spot."  It all came down to pushups and standing on my toes for more than an hour.  And this is even before the little outfits.

So, bumming, walking home through the West Village wishing I lived here and had a dog.  The weather is great but that still doesn’t stop a garbage truck from honking its horn as it makes its way right at me.  I close my eyes for impact and get it but not from the truck but from a guy who lifts me off the street and onto the sidewalk.  I mean. LIFTS me.  Like Superman or one of those feminists outdoorswomen who don’t like men but will save a life now and then before drinking lake water.

“You all right man?” the young guy says.  I nod, wiping off my thrift store pants which now have a hole and recognize my savior as actor, writer, painter, poet, middle-linebacker, etc. James Franco.  I thank him profusely and wipe off the leftover pee from my pants leg as Franco politely looks the other way.  The guy has manners and is taller than I think, which is short. 

We start walking and I ask if I can repay him somehow, like for instance, giving him one of my screenplays to read.  He says "you don't have to," but offers to buy me tea at this organic tea-only café owned by a famous musician who doesn’t eat meat or drink alcohol and talks in little "beeps."  I’m yawning already but it’s Franco and I’ll just order one of those teas that’s looks like coffee.

We get to the place and just my luck, it’s Hot Water and Lemon Wedges Week.  Only.  We sit down are soon surrounded by big jugs of hot water and lemon wedges.  “It’ll clean you out,” Franco says and so I drink.  Anyway, tea was fine and Franco offers to walk me home or at least to my subway.  I tell him I spotted some saffron at the café  and it was more expensive than gold bars and Franco says you can’t make risotto with gold bars and this placates me. 

Then a fire broke out.

“Looks like a three-alarm,” Franco said, stripping to the waist.  I figure he’s going to put on a fireman’s outfit but he just stays that way.   I start to also strip to the waist but someone yells “Think of the children!”   Before I can say “food stamps,” Franco is up the ladder and into a second floor apartment.  He returns about a minute later, soot-encrusted, and asks "what were you saying?"  I mention the screenplay again and he laughs.  

I see my subway a couple blocks up but then a guy has a heart attack or something.  Franco crouches over the guy and says something gentle.  Then pulls open the guy's shirt and takes his pulse at the neck.  "Can I do anything?" I ask.  He says I can walk and drink tea and not to feel so bad.  Franco pumps the guy's chest as a crowd gathers.  iPhones light up light like fireflies.  I tell the people to give us some air but no one moves.  Franco smiles and says "please," and suddenly it's like we're alone on the fifty yard line at Giants Stadium.   "Acute myocardial infarction," Franco says.  He starts to cut open the guy's chest and I turn away.  Later, hands covered in blood, Franco barks "sponge!" and I give him my screenplay, the first ten pages of which he stuffs in the guy's chest.  At least I got it in his hands. 

 We stop at my subway and shake hands.  I tell Franco that he's amazing and I'll always be a fan. 
He asks where I got the leather wrist band and I say Target.  He says he likes that place too.  I give him my cell number and email and he gives me his.  He walks away, waving and smiling and I look at his number and it says 1-800-AT&T.   

What's the deal with Oliver Sachs?

Was in Cambridge trying to get osme information from Harvard on why they didn't accept me fifteen years ago.  Talked to some stick of a man who had on a Harvard sweater and cheap pants.  So what did I want?  Huh?  The guy told me I could sit down and I did but he didn't.  So I cut to it.  Really, sir?  Like no one at Harvard every got a "C" in high school?  That is just not possible.  What kind of place are you running here?  Do you people have any fun?  Got tossed, but not before taking armloads of slick brochures.

Bored.  Listening to NPR and the power forward Oliver Sachs is being interviewed.  First thing I get is that the guy is a doctor not a basketball player for the Celtics.  Anyway, in the course of my walk, I listen and discover that Oliver has this terrible disease called "facial recognition blindness."  He's sees a person's face then forgets it almost immediately after they leave.  Or something close to that as I am distracted by a Harvard co-ed picking her huge pimpled nose.

Anyway, decide to visit Oliver and cheer him up.  Knock, knock and the guy opens his own door, dressed pretty well.  I introduce myself then sneeze and when I straighten up, I have to introduce myself again.  Man, this is going to be a trying day as I invite Oliver for a coffee.  He says yes and we go.  I ask to meet his wife and Oliver says he can't because just that morning, she turned her back at breakfast and now he has no idea who she is.

Go to some place in Cambridge, go figure.  Oliver suggests a cafe with great hot chocolate and we do this.  Sitting at a tiny, French-style table, we order the hot coco and I know it's going to suck when Oliver tells me you can stand a spoon straight up in this cafe's hot chocolate.  Well, I want to drink my hot chocolate, not eat it.  What happens if we order pudding?   Do I have to cut it with a knife.  Just when I am making my point really well, Oliver drops his napkin.  When he straightens up in his seat, he looks at me like I'm Santa.  "Who the hell are you?" he says.  I do the intro again and we continue as if we never...no that's not true.

Hot coco is good even though I AM LICKING MY SPOON!  Walk Oliver home and it's cool because the guy is famous.  All sorts wave and say "hello" and Oliver waves back.  I always ask who these people are as we pass them and Oliver just shakes his head and starts to weep. 

Get the poor guy home and we shake hands.  I excuse myself to take a leak behind some bushes on the side of  his nice house.  After zipping, I try to say goodbye again but Oliver is looking pissed and has a cell in his hand.  He asks me what I'm doing at his home and the cops are coming.  Good luck to them.  But I like Oliver Sachs and hope he gets better. 

PS  I am not spellchecking this.