The hard way

Guy under the bricks: "I feel like we live in a New Yorker cartoon with no caption."

Guy on the left: "That's some existential ennui."

Guy with the hammer: "I hate penguins, and I'm depressed. Can I have a bank loan?"

Me and Dick Van Dyke

Me and Dick Van Dyke are out to fuck up the shit. DVD calls me and says, "Hey kid, are you busy?" And I say, "No, sir." He says, "What's say you and me go have some fun?" And I say, "Boy howdy, Mr. Van Dyke! Would I ever!"

And sure enough, 45 minutes later, DVD pulls up to my house in a 1998 Porsche Boxster, in great condition save for a nasty gouge trailing across the passenger side.

"Gosh Dick, how did your car get so messed up"

"Never mind that, kid. We're on a tight schedule. We've got to get to Atlantic City."

"WOWWEE! I love Atlantic City!"

And I did. And I was excited that DVDizzle was at the wheel, driving so fast down the Jersey Turnpike that light was bending in the glovebox. As we passed the last rest stop, Dick gave me a bit of sage advice.

"Now, you know I'd never get you in to any trouble, right kid?"

"Sure, Dick. You've always been just swell with me."

"Right -- now I'm going to ask you to do something tonight that you might not be comfortable with, but I'm gonna ask anyway. Is that okay with you, kid?"

I loved when D-to-the-V-back-to-the-D called me 'kid'. He could get me to drop out of the fourth grade if he prefaced the request with 'kid'.

"Sure thing. What can I do?"

And at once, Dick reached into the console and pulled out a blade -- real nasty one.

"Now kid, this is a gravity knife. Not a toy, right?"

"Right, mister."

"Good. When I say the word, I'm going to need you to give this little old thing a strong toss at an old friend of mine, who owes me money. Want you to drive it right into his brainpan, from a distance of three meters. Can you do that for me?"

It was an honor. An honor -- this was Dick, after all. Dear ol' Dick Van Dyke. The childhood hero to millions was asking me if I could throw a blade into the forehead of my fellow man. Of course. Anything for DVD. Anything.

We get to the Borgata, check in at 3 a.m., drop the overnight bags in the player's suite and make our way down to the floor. We're gonna fuck the shit up. Dick makes sure the parking attendant doesn't stash his whip somewheres we can find it in a hurry, should we need to.

We see Willem Dafoe. He waves at Dick, and Dick pretends not to notice.

The Dream Team, the Team Supreme, the Taco Supreme, we get to the wheel -- and it's fucking dead. No action, no luck. Same thing with the dice -- motherfucker is crapping out, left and right. The kind of luck Dick had in El Salvador in ’80.

Looks like we're about to fuck off, when the drink lady appears -- all legs and hair, with a smear of fucking mascara somewhere up where she sees out. Dick gets a blended whiskey with one cube of ice, and I get a rum and grapefruit juice. That's right -- a "Van Dyke." It's no coincidence. My whole life's been leading up to this point.

Without needing to be told, I take the knife out of pocket and drop in into the center of the broad's dirty drink tray. Dick gives me that look... that one look that says Kid, you've done alright. Really, you have. If I had it to do all over again, I'd make sure to take you to that one duck pond for sure, instead of to Milwaukee.

He doesn't have to say it. I just know.

Dick balls his left fist and trembles, ever so slightly, before driving it up into the stomach of the croupier. Dick's right hand belts the barmaid, knocking her over into the sleepy, smokey players to the right.

"Gee whiz, Dick, don't you think they've had enough? You sure gave 'em what's for!"

Dee-Viz-Diz lets a grin lift the corner of his mouth. "You're gosh-darn right. I suppose I have!"

What comes next is seminally important in mine and Dick's night -- fucking-off the bags upstairs, we get his whip out the garage and back over the attendant as he returns to the key closet. Poor bastard moans as Dick spins the wheel up on his upper thigh, reducing it to god-knows-what. I didn't want to look. Poor bastard. Poor bastard.

"Looks like I just made a real boner, huh kid?"

"A real aksey-dent, were there ever one."

"What's say we go home?"

I nodded, but he wasn't looking for my approval. Was I looking for his?

Not this time, no. Certainly not. But we lost the knife, just as we set out to do. And it filled me with such happiness when Dick made that little double-click with his tongue, that he does, as we backed over that kid again, and drove off into the black.

What's wrong with this picture?

"Rev." Epstein?, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

As Lisa Simpson once said, I understand the words I'm seeing but not in that arrangement.

Giant boobs

Janice and the giant boobs, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Janice has giant boobs on her shoulders. I so aced this shot.

Featured in the media

Tony! Toni! Toné has done it again: My domeshtik partner, Janice Erlbaum, is featured in a neat interview at Gothamist. We are all preparing for the next big book, Have You Found Her, to strike next year, so we're just getting started.

Note: The image above has nothing to do with books, Janice Erlbaum, or Tony! Toni! Toné. Thank you.

One shall stand, one shall fall

Omigod, "Transformers" is the greatest movie of 2007. The human stuff -- get rid of it, and give me more punching robots. This was the movie I've been waiting for since I stepped out of the theatre in 1983 after having finished watching "Return of the Jedi."

Optimus Prime is the closest thing I have to a father. He taught me about right and wrong; he taught me about when something is worth fighting for... worth sacrificing for. No organic person has ever done that for me.

When Prime and the Autobots reveal themselves in their robot forms, a tear dropped like quicksilver down my craggy, care-worn cheek. The interchange between Optimus and myself was wordless -- a single lachryma was my way of thanking the Autobot Commander for a life well-spent in the service of those who can't stand up for themselves.

Kenn may not agree, and I can only imagine what Jeff will say, but this was a moment for us all to think of all the things that really mattered, and the chances you've earned. This is an important day in the continual project of character-building... my apprenticeship with Optimus.

Glimpse into the future

Come... step into my dark demesne, traveler. I am Phibes -- Dr. Anton Phibes, and I have seen horrors so unimaginable you would curl up and perish at the mere suggestion of them. I have carried around a darkness in my heart, so black as obsidian coal, since the death of my beloved wife, Victoria. Countless nights have passed as I tread the oak floorboards of this very domicile, scheming revenge on those who botched my wife's medical care and sealed her fate. So long have I been tethered to this gothic aerie like a jessed falcon that I have forgotten the touch of sun on my skin and a smile on my lips.

Those times are over. There can be only one purpose in my life -- revenge. Revenge on those who stole dear, dear, Victoria from me.

Would you allow me to make myself more comfortable, traveler? I wish to remove this mask I wear, which obscures my scarred visage...

ffwwwiipp!


Ahhh... much better. Yes, the sight of this pitted face, denuded of its flesh, puts men off their food, to be sure. But it serves as a constant reminder of my narrow purpose... sweet revenge.

Or, at least that's what the fates had in mind for me until I received a revelation of glorious counter-purpose. While stepping out of my dank marble crypt on a provision run last Saturday, I dropped by the local telephony merchant in the mini-mall nearest, hoping to get a mere peek at that infernal device the man on the crackling radio signal called the iPhone. Gods, what a device!

I extended my coin purse to purchase the largest complement available, and decided upon the largest minute plan upon activation. Now, you'll catch me using the SMS feature to text my brittle, cold assistant, Vulnavia, as she wanders the endless halls of my stone manse. Also, it's nice to have a two-megapixel camera affixed to the rear of the device, so that I may document the rictus in the faces of the damned -- the nine, who robbed me of lovely Victoria -- as I send them off to excruciating demises. I can post the photos immediately to an RSS feed off my blog. You've got to see this thing in action. So elegant.

So it seems my circumstances have changed, however slightly, these days. Whereas I once solely dreamed of vengeance while banging madly on the keys of my pipe organ, I now find the time to mix other pursuits in, like decoupage. I can't help but notice that iTunes does not feature a full range of "Mott the Hoople" albums. Hmm... perhaps I'll have to add a TENTH name to my list of damned souls. Heh heh heh...

The state of terror

Well, hello there, friend -- I'm Winston Churchill, former Prime Minister of the English Empire. It's been a while since we've talked, mostly on account of my being dead for over forty-five years. Nonetheless, let me get a glass of Johnnie Walker Red in my hand... and... aahh. Perfect. Just like the old days. When I still drew breath.

My countrymen, the Britons, have faced many a foe throughout the centuries. And, as I have always said, we shall fight on the seas and oceans, we shall fight with growing confidence and growing strength in the air, we shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender.

But I have to say, that the fight looks pretty good so long as the bad guys are only lobbing burning Jeeps though sliding glass doors. For a minute there, we had a problem on our hands with the Irish. Nasty bit of business, that. Now a pack of sodding rotters from Bangalore are filling up Daimlers with petrol cans and forgetting to detonate them? This sorry lot makes those cabbage-mouthed Irish bastards look like Ghurkas in comparison. What's next -- water balloon assault?

Take it from Uncle Winnie -- I think we stand a good chance of seeing Trafalgar Square make it through this latest bit of international intrigue in one piece. The Gerries had their buzzbombs, and the Jutes had their berzerkers... we can handle a few irate rug merchants with subscriptions to "Popular Mechanics."

Pip pip, then.

Copier warning

Copier warning, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

I enjoy good intentions, really. But I enjoy mangled language even more.

If anyone wants to offer me absolvement, I stand willing to accept it humbly.

Today I am a man!

DSCN1853.JPG, originally uploaded by americancaesar.

Happy 13th birthday to me, Shmuley Ben Smuley, the dopest pink-shirt wearinest guy who has a cake in front of him.

Why do I have to gesture like that? It makes me look fat. Can I not go a minute without hamboning it up?

Coming this fall...

"The Walnuts"! A new spinoff from the Sopranos!

Real life finds... strange but true

Ohhh... I see ye have found me! Well hello there! I'm Seamus O'Rufus McGarnicle Bailey, the last living leprechaun on the green face of God's lovely earth! Since ye've spotted me, it looks like ye will be wantin' that famed pot o'gold they're always sayin' I'm totin' around.

And soon enough ye shall have it! But first, there are a few things we've got to go over to get this fine, fine pot of shiny coins! Thingie number one that this leprechaun must ask you is whether or not you like to eat corned beef sandwiches. Well, do ye? And how do you feel about eating one at a table across from a closet where a wee, supernatural Irishman shall be pleasurin' himself with a handful of Crest toothpaste? And what if, on that closet door, there was a poster of Christopher Atkins, he of "The Blue Lagoon" fame, with its eyes poked out for said wee masturbatin' viewer to peer out of?

What do ye mean, "I'm a freak?" Don't be hatin', player! It's not like I'm some kinda pervy little creep! Who's the bigger arsewipe anyway -- the little self-gratifyin' green man, or the greedy gobshite who hunts around for twee goblins so's that he can steal their gold?

What do ye think about this shank? That's right -- who's the big man now? How about I cut ye? Would ye like that? A little slice across the thigh -- leprechaun justice, we calls it. No rules in the moor and dale other that what we make! Not so smiley once ye've been stabbed! Wait until I get some of me hard, pipe-hitting leprechauns to work over the homes here with a blowtorch! Startin' to get dizzy, are ye? That'll be the steady trickle from the femoral artery. Yer field o' vision will start to get fuzzy in a minute, just before you hit the ground hard.

Remember this wee face, jagoff -- I'm after ye lucky charms now.

CNR

Charles Nelson Reilly is gone, a vibrant character who we haven't seen nearly enough of in recent years, beyond his most interesting turn on the "X-Files" as Jose Chung (look up "Jose Chung's 'From Outer Space' " if you don't know what I'm talking about).

It seems the only appropriate thing to do is show the man at the peak of his skill on "Match Game":

Plus plus plus

TV On the Radio + "Zardoz"...

Kill it

From the "crackers killing shit with revolvers" file, we have this story of an 11-year-old boy in Alabama who was engaged in a hunt with his dad and some uncles when he happened upon a 1,051 pound, 9 foot 4 wild hog.

And what to do when you discover an anomaly of nature, a wonderful quirk of genes and environment, such as this? Kill it, of course. A lot:

"It feels really good," Jamison said in a telephone interview with The Associated Press. "It's a good accomplishment. I probably won't ever kill anything else that big." Jamison, who killed his first deer at age 5, was hunting with father Mike Stone and two guides in east Alabama on May 3 when he bagged Monster Pig. He said he shot the huge animal eight times with a .50-caliber revolver and chased it for three hours through hilly woods before finishing it off with a point-blank shot.

Gee, sounds like a good clean hunt, eh? All you have to do is pick away at the creature with a hand cannon for hours until the thing bleeds to death on your shoes.

Good work, kid. I think I just saw something moving out of the corner of my eye. Was that a walking shark? Or, maybe it was an old lady. You should unload a whole magazine out in its belly just to make sure.

Can you believe it?

Sweet, huh?!

Candidacy

Hi! I'm Maximillian, the psycho mute robot from Disney's not-so-successful 1979 space opus, "The Black Hole," and I'm running for president!

This promises to be a long, drawn-out affair, so I'm appealing to you, the ardent supporters, for your help in spreading the word. Your volunteer efforts and your tax-deductible donations will mean the world to my campaign. Once we get the message out to our base -- the hard-working Americans who make this country great -- that a cold, steel talon-tipped homicidal death machine is running for the highest office in the land, then job will be to win over swing voters... hearts and minds, and all that. And once that crucial group, the so-called "undecideds", are on board with voting for an emotionless, crimson instrument of harm, then we'll have the momentum to overturn the traditional party politics and actually change things in Washington!

My opponents have already started slinging mud in this early campaign -- they spread lies about me having hacked Anthony Perkins' insides to pulp with my spinning handblades, and that I intended malice towards the human and robot crew of the Palomino, including VINC.E.N.T. and Ernest Borgnine. Well, to those detractors, I heartily say... actually, those stories are true. I killed Perkins at the behest of my master, Dr. Hans Reinhardt, and I daresay I would puree any of those that the master said was a threat to our experiments aboard the Cygnus.

So, I ask, my fellow Americans, if you are looking for a change from the "business as usual" politics of Washington and its swelling bureaucracy and partisan gridlock, there is only one name you need to remember come November 11, 2008 -- Maximillian, the relentless killing automaton! Let's send a message to the Senate, and the American people, that only together can we successfully dismember interfering scientist-explorers down to a viscous slurry with our razor-sharp arm-rotors.

Let's make a difference! Maximillian in 2008!

Cultural anthropologist

It's time for our favorite game, "What's in a Coworker's Drawer?" Our contestant this week is Tom, a dude who works in the office a few cubicles over from me. Tom is that guy who is very gracious with his stash of chewing gum, because a three-martini lunch capped off by a pair of highballs can give your mouth a certain stink you need to conceal. Luckily enough, you have Tom's drawer to assist. But, let's go further...

How can you not be fascinated by someone's desk drawer? It has to be a reflection of his or her character, right? All the objects contained therein must betray the life of the stasher. What does this area tell us?

Well, for one, this might be the last sample of "Extra" chewing gum left on planet Earth. Somewhere between bits of "JuicyFruit" encased in amber and a stick of that vile, pink gum that used to come packed in trading cards falls this cultural artifact. Surely as flavorful and texturally lush as the eucharest, "Extra" delivers chewing pleasure for minutes on end. Adjacent to it is the bandolier of Wrigley's Spearmint, the very gum we were looking for in the first place, so we shant say a bad word about it.

Another thing makes itself painfully apparent -- the last known cassette walkman in existence outside of Almaty, Kazakhstan. Convenient that the batteries are near it, just in case someone wants to break out that cassette single of Journey's "Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin" we all keep in our desks and give it a good rocking. I thought that technology this outmoded had a self-meltdown code written into it, like Ethan Hunt's weekly message. I guess the walkman's drive to live on and play Will2Power's "I'm Not In Love" shall keep it alive many more years into the future.

The hairbrush is also a nice touch -- not quite a comb, not quite a bristle-haired brush, but rather the stiffest, most uncomfortable thing you could rake across your scalp. Moving on...

And here we have a "travel-size" Vapo-Rub, the sweet nectar of the sternum area that alerts all around to the fact that you have both a sinusoidal infection AND a clever new solution in the cologne department. I can't for the life of me come up with a good reason why Axe Body Spray hasn't tried to emulate the ’Rub. Chick magnet. Or, more fittingly, pharmacist magnet.

We don't speak ill of our fellow man, but rather, we appreciate all that they do for us. Also, I'd be so busted if someone cracked my drawer open and found the 20 oz. bottle of J.W. Red I keep in there for cold nights. In the summer. I should watch for coworkers bearing cameras... sneaky little fucks.

Middle Eastern Mouse!

ALLAHU AKBAR! Hello boys and girls, I am Farfur! I am the mouse icon of humble purity in the eyes of God! ALLAHU AKBAR! I have come to show you wonderful little children the golden path to God, in God's eyes, by God, the one God for whom the blashphemers and Jews shall be crushed! Yay!

Now, I know some of your parents expressed some misgivings over the "controversy" stirred up a little while ago over my former show on Al-Aqsa TV in the Occupied Territories. Well, I'm proud to say that we've changed networks to Allah's Martyrs Brigade Public Broadcasting Service, and all of that controversy is now over. God is great, and God shall destroy the ones who contributed to our low time-slot shares and overall poor ratings. ALLAHU AKBAR! And, Allah, we could use a higher ad revenue rate this upcoming season. I mean, there really aren't a whole lot of TV's in Gaza tuned to us at this time of night, mostly because there aren't a lot of TV sets left... or electricity... or houses... or viewers.

So, kids, what does Farfur the faithful mouse servant of most holy God who protects the strong and repels the Jew from his land have in store for today's episode? Fun and games! Now, since fun and games are strictly forbidden by God's word, we shall have to make do with what we have in front of us. Gather round and watch me play this board game, "Chutes and Ladders and Jews." Watch as the Jew puts a ladder up on the crib-room of a sleeping faithful Muslim infant and drinks its blood, remaining only long enough to scoop up whatever valuables that Jew may sell to its Zionist cohorts in the United States of America in exchange for rockets and bombs. Watch as God uses the chute to strike the Jew down. ALLAHU AKBAR!

OK then, that's quite enough fun... it's time for learning now. Our last lesson ended just as we got to the part where the American Jew president Ronald Reagan bombed the marine barracks in Lebanon to retain the favor of Zionist co-conspirator Great Britain and its hawk-beaked harpy Jew leader Margaret Thatcher. As we know, after that Ronald Reagan created the movie of "Rambo" with American Jew actor Stallone and put it in our heads that American force will shoot us all with a heavy gun while sweating a lot through a thin shirt. The faithful martyrs of the one God answered this call by striking the World Trade Center back in 1993 in an act of self-defense. ALLAHU AKBAR!

Alright, now the history is over. Time for arts and crafts as we go to commercial. All the faithful children, the strong, you will now play with the pieces of a Kalishnikov rifle and see just how fast you can reassemble it while beating whipped with metal cables. And when we come back after the break, there will be heavy stones cast at the whore who read that book last month. Stick around, we'll have more "Farfur" show right after these messages from our sponsor, Taco Bell!

Think globally...

How am I going to change the world? Easy -- one person at a time. I plan on starting with Thomas Jane.

Fossil fuels are contributing to catastrophic buildup of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere, causing heat to be trapped! Society and industry must come together to find a solution to this problem before global warming alters the temperature profile of the planet. What kind of steps can we take to ensure that this happens? Make sure that Tom Jane is comfortable. Get the guy something to drink. Maybe he's thirsty.

A spate of shocking violence has struck our culture -- gun violence, rooted deep in the fears of the American psyche. As many people want to see firearms restricted as have them remain uncurbed, and while people squabble, nothing is getting done. How can you soothe a terrified nation and come to a reasonable compromise? Ask Tom Jane if he's satisfied with his mobile phone carrier. I can only wonder whether he goes through his minutes all upfront in the month, or if he has a friends and family circle that gives him a break. Plus, does Tom Jane pay a dime for each text message?

What about Thomas Jane's feelings on Darfur? Or about the war in Iraq? Or what about North Korea's nuclear capabilities? Maybe he has something to say about the woeful state of our public schools? I don't know myself, I'm just asking Thomas Jane.

Why did he take "Deep Blue Sea"? That movie sucked, but admittedly, he was the best thing about it. Does he buy his groceries himself, or do he and Patricia Arquette have a staff to take care of things like that? Will he let his children believe in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny? I'm sure that he must have an opinion on "30 Rock". I bet Thomas Jane watches "30 Rock" every Thursday, or at least he TiVos it. I don't think he smokes, but maybe he once did.

He's definitely not Ed Asner. I would bet that he owned a bicycle as a child, and that he still might ride one today. Perhaps, Thomas Jane and I could hang out like buddies who haven't seen each other in a long while and catch up on old business -- sports scores and the like. We could grab some steaks and reminisce about his varied career, and some of the dope roles he's snagged. Then we could even discuss how there's only room in Hollywood for EITHER him or Aaron Eckhart.

Please call me back, Tom. I mean, I know I never called you, but maybe you can initiate and call me? I think we could be good friends. More likely, you would be repulsed at the elaborate fantasy life I've constructed for us and our non-existent friendship. And that would be alright, really. I know I'm a monster. Who goes through the cast of "The Sweetest Thing" looking for someone to complete the painful, dark chasms in their personal life, anyway?

Please don't go, Tom.