It Wasn’t As Good as the Mer-loot

As we all know, the main reason to spend time with your family is that it’s fun to goof on them.

Case in point: my family members from Rhode Island, which is pretty much all of them. The classically goofed-on Massachusetts accent is one where the letter “R” is dropped from words – “pahk the cah,” etc.

The Rhode Island accent is one where “R” is added to words it has no business visiting. While driving down to Little Rhody on Sunday, it suddenly became imperative to have alcohol that evening. (For some reason, family brings out that impulse in me. Go figure.)

I called my mom and asked her to – if she had any in the house -- bring over a bottle of white wine to the in-laws’.

She called back a minute later informing me that she was bringing a bottle of “chardonair.”

Now, you’re probably thinking she meant “chardonnay.” Hell, she probably thought she meant “chardonnay.” But trust me. I drank a glass of this stuff. It was vile. If I had spread it on my legs, I’m pretty sure it would have stripped the hair off them.

Later, we stopped at a gas station and pulled up to the full service pump. We stopped the attendant from filling the tank when we saw how outrageous the price was for full service and left to find another station.

“What’s wrong?” asked Jak-El.

“Their gas is bad,” I said, figuring this was the easiest explanation.

“They’ve got bad gas?” he asked.

“Yep, just like Grandpa,” added the husband.

So, of course, “Grandpa has bad gas” became the catchphrase for the rest of the weekend. Everyone, except for my father-in-law, thought this was hilarious.

“It would be funny if he was saying ‘Grand*ma* has bad gas’,” he harrumphed.

No, it really wouldn’t have.

I’m giving my sons plenty of things to goof on about me, so they’ll have a reason to come visit me in the nursing home. Or jail. Whichever comes first.

Happy Wednesday.

Something Completely Different

Forgive the detour into serious post-ville, this is for a good cause.

A friend from work forwarded this to me last week, and I thought it was worth sharing:

“I have a dear friend George Tabb who is a bit of a punk rock legend, author, do-gooder, and all-around nice guy, who is having serious and mysterious health problems which he thinks link back to the 9/11 attack on the WTC, three blocks away from his then-apartment.

“Anyway, there is a massive grassroots effort currently underway using MySpace to raise money for George's hospital bills and awareness for the plight of all the victims of the terrorist attack and the current administration's indifference to its aftermath. Here are two links to check out if your interest is piqued."

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile=76796038

http://profile.myspace.com/index.cfm?fuseaction=user.viewprofile=78481091=48fcaae2-5c39-4b5e-806e-046dfcbb24a6

(Note: I'm having trouble getting these links to work. For some reason, whenever I try to use them, MySpace is now asking me to log in as a user, which you shouldn't have to do to view these pages. *sigh* Hopefully others will have more luck. You can also learn about George by looking him up on Amazon, if you have the time. He looks like a very interesting author, and I've ordered one of his books myself.)

If you can, check it out.

I hate it when the universe gets in the way of my irregular attempts to be a good person.

Tomorrow, I promise we’ll return to the regularly scheduled foolishness.

UPDATE: Try this!

Help George Tabb




Just Keep Entering Those Numbers, Okay?

Sure, some of you go in for that fancy book learnin’. Me? I’m a simple girl. I turn on the television. Here’s what I’ve learned from this season’s finales.

Don’t let friends practice on you to get their piercing license.

Smiling is a sign of weakness.

Falling into a Lazarus Pit and then getting trapped in a cave-in isn’t a good idea.

If you anger the universe, it will slap you.

Don’t let your girlfriend cut the cord on the machine that’s keeping your heart pumping.

If you shoot someone, always make sure William Shatner is in the vicinity.

Never let a janitor into your house.

If you know you’re past self if coming to visit you in the future, bake cookies for yourself. Preferably chocolate chip.

Never voluntarily commit yourself into an asylum.

And finally, if a friend banishes you to the Phantom Zone, then they’re not *really* your friend, are they?

Happy Long Weekend.

What Aquaman Has In Common With the Führer

They’re both wonderful dancers.



Happy Wednesday.

Why Aquaman Can Still Kick Your Ass, Post Crisis

Mom: Who's your favorite Disney character?

Jak-El: Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mouse Clubhouse. Goofy works in his garden and Ruddo goes in his house.

Mom: Ruddo? Rudolph?

Jak-El: No. Rudd-iol.

Mom: Riddler?

Jak-El: No. *sigh* RUH-DO.

Mom: Oh. Pluto?

Jak-El: Yes! Pluto.

Mom: Who would win in a fight, Goofy or Aquaman?

Jak-El: Aquaman!

Mom: Why?

Jak-El: Aquaman would go under the water glug, glug, glug. But he doesn't have a submarine.

Mom: What does he have?

Jak-El: He has paper on his nose.

And *that* is why Aquaman can still kick your ass.

Happy Tuesday.

In the Right Light, If You Squint, Kathy Ireland. Or, Maybe Kathy Griffin. Or Lois Griffin. But Not Merv Griffin. Never Merv Griffin. I Hope.

Who do I look like? Daria from that old MTV cartoon? An old Mandy Moore? A young Phyllis Diller? My dad? I have no idea.

Who do you look like? Over the years, I’ve been told I resemble:

Martha Quinn: When the husband and I were first dating, he commented often that I looked like this original MTV video jockey (yes kids, back in the day MTV ran music videos. Who knew?) I’m just thankful he didn’t think I looked like Mark Goodman.

Pat Benetar: This way off base gem comes from a very cute but very dumb jock I went to high school with (think Joey Tribbiani on steroids). I was dressed as Chrissie Hynde for some homecoming dress-up day thing, and he thought I looked like Pat Benetar. This apparently made him have a crush on me, and he called me every night for about three weeks. I eventually stopped taking the calls, since (a) I wasn’t interested, (b) he wanted to start something with me but didn’t want to break up with his girlfriend and (c) I found out that his girlfriend wanted to beat up whoever he was calling. (She didn’t know it was me and could seriously have kicked my ass, possibly even worse than Aquaman.)

Debbie Gibson: In the early 1990s. a very drunk guy in a dance club stumbled up to me and seriously asked if I was Ms. Gibson. I said yes, and it was nice meeting him but I had to get back to my friends Madonna and Tiffany. He stumbled away, stunned at this primo celebrity encounter.

Pam Dawber: In college, when we were casting who would play everyone in a movie about the school newspaper (because Hollywood was just beating down our door, don’t cha’ know), some of my friends thought a young Mindy would be perfect for me.

How about you?

Happy Monday.

The Weekend in Random Quotes

“Do you have any veal issues?”

“Your brother does not need to suck on your poop.”

“I have no idea where we are.”

“Mom, you play the monkey song?”

“Do you think they’d have a band or a DJ at a Doctor Who dinner/dance?”

“It’s time for AniBraniacs…”

“I don’t care. I’m not having sex with an animal. Especially a porcupine.”

“This bread is good. It tastes nothing like dog.”

“Mom, you play the monkey song?”

“Dip is awesome.”

“Very impressive. But please don’t put your foot in your mouth at the dinner table.”

“Da!” “Dadada!” “Dada!” “Dadadadada!”

“Mom, you play the monkey song again? Pleasse?”

“I’ll drink if you’ll drink.”

“I’ve got a dollar. I’m goin’ to the moo-vees!”

“Kill it. Kill all of it.”

“Wait a minute. This song isn’t about monkeys…”

Happy Sunday.

Why I Should Go to Bed Earlier on Thursday Night

Coarse language. Parental discretion advised

(10:46 p.m., my living room)

Lois: God, I hate “ER.” Why am I watching this?

Husband: Because you had to watch “Will & Grace.”

Lois: It’s so ridiculous. Every week, someone tries to shoot up the place. Or blow it up. Or a helicopter crashes into it. Why would anyone ever go to this hospital?

Husband: Maybe they have good snacks.

Lois: But all the vending machines are always getting shot up.

Husband: Exactly. So you can take the snacks for free.

Lois: Huh.

* * *

(11 p.m.)

Husband: Well…that was the feel good show of the year, wasn’t it?

Lois: F**king “ER.” That’s what I stopped watching this show. F**kwads. I hate this show. Like I’m not going to have nightmares about this, stupid f**kers. F**king “ER.”

Husband: Well, at least Luka didn’t die….

Lois: No, he didn’t die. He just had to lie paralyzed on a f**king gurney and watch his girlfriend probably have a f**king miscarriage. And then there’s that nurse who got taken hostage with her son by her stupid escaped prisoner ex-husband. And the poor big sweet guy is bleeding from every orifith…

Husband: Orifith? Oh, you talk so thexy. (starts switching channels)

Lois: Orifice. F**king “ER.” Oh, Paul McCartney. There’s another f**king idiot.

Husband: What did he do?

Lois: Oh, he’s divorcing his one legged wife and blaming the media for their problems. Shouldn’t that idiot be used to the media after 40+ years?

Husband: One leg? She must be really young.

Lois: Younger than him, about half his age I think….hey, cake or death?

Husband: I’m kind of full…

Lois: Is that your answer?

Husband: I’m just not hungry. And I’m tired.

Lois: Maybe a mild coma then?

Husband: Why don’t you go to bed?

Lois: F**king “ER.” Why do they always have to kill children? I’m surprised that kid in the strawberry costume survived the hour. Oh, wait. I know. They’re saving that for next season, when we find out he’s fatally allergic to berries.

Husband: Go to bed please.

And *that* is why I should go to bed earlier on Thursday nights.

Happy Friday.

Brushes With Greatness, Extended Dance Mix

In the mid-1980s, when I was in college, Providence-based radio station WHJY ran a “WKRP in Cincinnati” themed Thanksgiving promotion in the parking lot of a Rhode Island shopping mall.

The event was based on the classic “WKRP” episode where the station decides to give away live turkeys by dropping them out of a helicopter. (“As God as my witness,” said station manager Arthur Carlson, “I thought turkeys could fly.”) WHJY—which I guess didn’t want to anger PETA—opted for paper birds instead, and hired actor Richard Sanders, who played newsman Les Nessman on the show, to recreate his commentary. (“Oh, the humanity! The turkeys are hitting the ground like sacks of wet cement! Not since the Hindenberg tragedy has there been anything like this!”)

My friend (we’ll call him Vivian) heard about the promotion on the way to campus that morning, and burst into the college newspaper office, insisting that I go with him. Since I had nothing else to do other than go to class or study, I said sure. After all, my parents were paying for me to get an education, and what could be more educational than this?

We took off for Warwick, first making a detour to Vivian’s house. I waited in car while he went inside to “pick up something.” About 10 minutes later Vivian emerges, clutching a tape recorder and decked out in full Les Nessman regalia—sport coat, classes, bow tie, the works.

We were running late and listened to the event beginning on the radio as we pulled into the parking lot. On cue, we could see the paper turkeys drifting out of the helicopter—disappointingly nothing like wet cement.

Vivian parked the car and started desperately looking around the parking lot for Sanders. As we darted between cars, he kept yelling, “C’mon Bailey, hurry up!” (With my long brown hair and bewildered expression, I guess I looked the part.)

Finally, we got up close to Sanders, who was sitting in the back seat of a car, ready to escape the silliness. Vivian knocks on the window, thrusts a microphone in Sanders face and says in a psychotic voice, “Mr. Nessman, I’m your biggest fan!”

Clearly, Sanders had never had a stalker before. A look of fear crossed his face as he croaked out “thank you” and rolled up the window.

I’ve never looked at a paper turkey the same way since.

Son of Brushes With Greatness

As always, feel free to add your own, one-up me or just dance along to the beat.

1. I once ate a piece of Michael Palin’s birthday cake at a book signing.

2. I waited on Talking Head Tina Weymouth’s parents at a retail store in Newport. I guessed who they were based on (a) the name on their credit card and (b) the Tom Tom Club tour jackets they were wearing. They were the nicest, cutest proud parents one could ever hope to meet.

3. That same summer, I also waited on the actor who played Jake Meyer on “General Hospital.” He was a complete jackass.

4. Yet again that summer, I sold a pair of shoes to a guy who I was later told was a very famous NFL player. I was more impressed by the fact he tipped me $5.

5. My son was almost a villain in “Superman II.”

6. Cartoonist Evan Dorkin once pelted my husband with butterscotch candy.

7. I ate lunch at a New York restaurant two tables away from JFK Jr. and didn’t even recognize him.

8. I bought a soda from Rupert Jee at the Hello Deli. I did recognize him.

9. At a trade show, I interviewed Dave Barry, who was very, very cool.

10. I had a long conversation with Dick Van Patten at yet another trade show. He seemed like the loneliest man on earth. Apparently, eight was not enough.

Happy Tuesday.

The Boy Ain’t Right

As you’ve probably noticed, my three-year-old son’s “nom de blog” is Jak-El.

I just learned that, according to IMDB.com, in an early version of the script for “Superman II,” there were four Kryptonian exile villains instead of three. The fourth member, Jak-El, was supposed to be an evil prankster and source of comic relief, sort of like the Riddler.

In an early script, he is reportedly described as 'a psychopathic jokester, whose pranks and "practical jokes" are only funny to him when they cause death and suffering to others.' The character was later dropped and never cast.

Oh boy. This explains soooooo much.

Forget about military school. How old does a kid have to be before you exile him to the Phantom Zone?

Happy Monday.

Why Australia is Better Than Canada

This isn’t a because I have a koala bias. And I’m not making my judgment based on anything foolish like cuisine or numbers of diseases cured or literature or any of that crap.

No, I’m thinking of an area that has a far greater impact on humankind.

Children’s television.

Australia gave the world the Wiggles. And Canada? Canada, damn them, gave the world (*shudder*) the Doodlebops.

If you’re a parent of a child under the age of four, you’re nodding your head in agreement.

Don’t get me wrong. The Wiggles are certainly not my first choice when I think of what band I’d like to see in concert (even though they may be the only live show I end up seeing this summer, God help me).

But the Wiggles are tolerable and pleasant. For the uninitiated, the Wiggles are four Australian guys who each have their own little gimmick (Greg does magic, Anthony eats a lot, Jeff sleeps all the time and Murray love playing the guitar). They each wear a different brightly colored shirt all the time so kids can easily tell them apart.

The music is, well, its kid’s music. Here’s a typical lyric of one of their originals, “Fruit Salad.”

Fruit salad.
Yummy yummy.
Fruit salad.
Yummy yummy.
Fruit salad.
Yummy yummy.
Yummy, yummy, yummy yummy Fruit Sa-laaad!

(BTW, the chef singing on “Fruit Salad” is Paul Hester from Crowded House. He committed suicide last year. It is unknown if his death was Wiggles or fruit related.)

What it really comes down to is this: if you’re a parent and you have to sit through an episode or live concert of the Wiggles, you won’t feel like you have to dig your eyes and ears out with a fork.

The Doodlebops are another story. I hate these Canadian freaks. I think they’re clowns, possibly from a hell dimension. They scare me, much in the way Pufnstuf used to scare me. I could never figure out what the heck that doofus was supposed to be either.

The Doodlebops are creepy looking and their music makes the Wiggles seem like the Stones in comparison.

There’s probably only one person who hates the Doodlebops more than us poor parents who have to listen to them. That would be the woman who plays DeeDee Doodle. Her voice sounds like she was classically trained and has aspirations for Broadway.

I bet she reaches for that fork every damn day.

I’ll go see the Wiggles again. I’ll go see “Sesame Street Live.” Hell, I’ll go see “Barney & Bill O’Reilly on Ice.” But the Doodlebops? Sorry kiddos. Mommy is sitting this one out. Talk to Daddy after he’s had a few hits of scotch and maybe he’ll take you.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Dead Fish and Debbie Gibson

I'm consuming lots of caffeine today, as I fell asleep during last week's episode of "The Office" after looking forward to it all day.

In honor of tonight's season finale, I'd like to start the "This Just In Co-Worker Hall of Fame." Here's a few of the interesting folks I've toiled with over the years. Feel free to add your own nominees.

Disclaimer: I currently work with none of these people. And at least one of them is dead.

1. The editor with the bad combover (is there such a thing as a *good* combover?) who wrote a memo addressed to me taking me to task for not using enough verbs (“Verbs are the building blocks of good sentence structure…”), put the memo in my personnel file but never actually showed it to me. I think he was ashamed of his own lack of good verb usage.

2. The Dwight-esque Debbie Gibson worshiping coworker who talked me into critiquing his science fiction short story, which was horrible. Thank goodness he wasn’t a deputy…

3. The septuagenarian prim and proper publisher who would sit in her office belching loudly after lunch.

4. The reporter who spent an afternoon acting out and singing selections from his self-written musical, “I’m Schizophrenic and So Am I.” (This was actually very cool. And what was even cooler was that my editor would only let him do it if he went and bought us ice cream first.)

5. The psycho teen who dumped a truckload of dead fish on the porch of the restaurant I used to work at after he’d been fired for (a) goofing off all the time and (b) taking advantage of the free food for employees policy. If only the spaz had come back and ate all the fish, that weekend would have been a lot less stinky.


Happy Thursday (again).

Unhappy Gilmores

It's part of my genetic makeup that I have to be insanely obsessed with at least one television show at any given time.

"Buffy" and "Angel" are ongoing obsessions, and the new "Doctor Who" will likely join that cannon. But one show I'm obsessed with that will likely never generate action figures is "Gilmore Girls."

I think I like it so much because my life is just like Lorelai Gilmore's. Well, except for the fact that I had two sons instead of daughter. And I had them in my 30s and not when I was in high school. And my significant other doesn't run a diner. And I don't run an inn. But otherwise, we're identical.

Okay, the real similarities are that we're both fiercely protective moms, make tons of (sometimes obscure) pop culture references, enjoy junk food and love the sound of our own voices (just ask the husband).

Soooo..anyway. Here's two paragraphs you won't give a rat's hiney about if you don't watch "Gilmore Girls." I watched the season finale Tuesday night and am a little bummed and confused. The last five seasons of the show have built up to the Luke and Lorelai romance, only to have this season tear it down with the last scene, where Lorelai sleeps with Christopher, the father of her daughter Rory, after Luke puts off marrying her yet again. She clearly regretted it in the morning after shot. It was so sad.

The corker? After what a putz Luke has been, and seeing the chemistry between Lorelai and Chris, I'm kinda thinking maybe she should hook up with Chris again. Never thought I'd say that.

What sucks most about season finales is that I know we'll soon see the start of the summer television season, which means I'll be watching too many reality shows. This summer, we can look forward to:

Survivor: Revere Beach – "Survivas, this challenge will be wicked' hahd…"

Rock Star: Herman's Hermits – "Sorry, but I just don't believe you am Henry the Eighth…"

and my personal favorite…

Ham…Or No Ham – "Pick the right suitcase and you can win one million hams!"

Happy Thursday.

Brushes With Greatness, Vol. I

All true, all the time! Except when it isn’t!

1. My grandmother was best friends with Survivor winner Richard Hatch’s grandmother.

2. My great aunt and uncle were close pals with “Our Town” author Thornton Wilder.

3. My second cousin’s son’s father’s stepfather is the guy who played Huggy Bear on “Starsky & Hutch.” (No, not Snoop Dogg. The dude from the original TV series.)

4. My husband and I once rode the Snow White ride at Disney World with novelist/comic book writer Peter David and his daughter Ariel.

5. I’ve been hugged by Herschell Gordon Lewis, the director of “Gore Gore Girls” and “Blood Feast.”

Final thought for the day: On second thought, who *hasn’t* been hugged by Herschell Gordon Lewis?

Happy Tuesday.

God Bless Marble Cake!

This past weekend, the husband and I had Dan-El baptized. You’re probably sitting at home wondering, “Lois, should I have *my* _______ (son, daughter, turtle) baptized?” Yes, you should—and here’s why.

1. Cake! Any formal religious occasion calls for cake, preferably something involving chocolate. And don’t skimp and buy one at the grocery store. Get a really nice cake, because you’ll be stuck with the leftovers.

Instead of a cross (no liturgical pastry, please), we opted for a simple round cake that said “God Bless Dan-El.” What we *really* wanted – in keeping with the whole water theme – was a cake shaped like a sailboat that said “Welcome Aboard, Dan-El!” The grandparents were not amused.

Jak-El thought the cake should have featured Batman. We weren’t necessarily against it, but the grandparents were even less amused by the idea of “Holy Bat Blessings, Dan-El!” than they were with the SS Jesus.

2. Swag! Bathe the kid in the privacy of your own home, you get nothing. Pour a little water on his head in public and get showered with goodies. See who writes the big checks! See who regifts things they didn’t want for their own kid! It’s fun.

3. Salvation! If you believe in such things, the whole concept of your kid not going to hell is kind of appealing. Personally, I think that God has a much more complicated rationale to decide whether someone goes to heaven or hell. It involves what baseball team you root for, your political affiliation and whether you think cavemen or astronauts would win in a fair fight.

Final Thought for the Day: The correct answers are Red Sox, Whig and cavemen. No need to thank me now—just buy me a drink at the Moses Bar & Grille when we’re all in the great beyond together laughing at the Yankees fans and Torries.

Happy Monday.

Why Aquaman Can Kick Your Ass

Mom: SpongeBob is over. Do you want to watch more SpongeBob?

Jak-El: I want Patrick.

Mom: Okay. More SpongeBob.

Jak-El: No, I want Patrick.

Mom: Patrick is a character on SpongeBob. He doesn’t have his own show. Here’s SpongeBob.

Jak-El: I-DON’T-WANT-SPONGEBOBBBBBB!!!!!

Mom: Okay, fine. Here’s “Blue’s Clues.”

Jak-El: I don’t want Blue! I want Patrick!

Mom: Look, SpongeBob. Look, Patrick. Happy?….Hey, SpongeBob is dressed like Aquaman.

Jak-El: Aquaman!

Mom: Who would win in a fight, SpongeBob or Aquaman?

Jak-El: Aquaman!

Mom: Who would win in a fight, Aquaman or Spider-Man?

Jak-El: Aquaman!

Mom: What if the fight was on the side of a building?

Jak-El: Aquaman would go under the water and drink all the water. Glug, glug, glug, glug.

And *that* is why Aquaman can kick your ass.

Final thought for the day: Best line of TV from last week: “He’s not just drunk. He’s *Uncle Roger* drunk.”—Randy, on “My Name is Earl”

Happy Sunday.

Watch Along With Patty!

At this point, does anyone really, really understand what’s happening on “Alias?” And does anyone care?

I loved this show to death when it first came on, couldn’t get enough of it. Then all the Rambaldi crap started and it was X-Men all over again…

I followed the X-Men comics for years, until I realized that I was buying 5+ X-Men books a month and had absolutely no idea what was going on in them. I promptly dropped all of them and was a happy camper, until frickin’ Grant Morrison took over an X-book and pulled me back in and now I’m reading multiple X-titles again…grumble, grumble, grumble..

Where was I? Oh yeah, “Alias.”

So last night’s episode was good and all, but with an evil Syd clone in the picture (oh, yeah, more clones…groan) and Sloane apparently totally and completely on the dark side, does this finally mean someone will explain what all that Rambaldi stuff meant?

I asked the husband if he knew what was going on.

“Remember, Rambaldi had a bunch of inventions…?”

Yeah, yeah, I know, I said. But what did that have to do with Sydney?

“I think she was the key to some sort of prophecy…?”

Yeah, but what?

“There was that machine….”

Right, the big doomsday machine they built. What was that for again?

“They didn’t really explain that, did they?”

So there ya’ have it. All clear? Okey dokey!

I think I’m just going to go into Patty Hearst mode for this one and love my captor. I’ve watched this show for five years and it’s holding me prisoner until the end. I can’t give up at this point, so I’ll just go along for the ride.

It’s the same way I managed to enjoy the “Lord of the Rings” movies: ignore the fact I can’t keep track of the mumbo jumbo and just look at the pretty scenery, or in this case, Michael Vartan. Why Jennifer Garner left him for Ben Affleck is beyond me.

Matt Damon? That would make sense, but Affleck is spoiled goods after J.Lo, much in the way that Brad Pitt is spoiled goods after dumping Jennifer Aniston for Angelina, and Tom Cruise is spoiled goods for turning into a raving lunatic.

Final thought for the day: I was replaced by an evil clone 8 years ago. It was a good move on my part. I’m sipping cocktails in Bermuda while that stupid clone is changing diapers and trying to lose baby weight. Bwahahahahahaha!

Happy Thursday.

Batman Likes It Deep Dish

And after a day of monkeys, the blog descends into a public service announcement…

If you’re a dork like me, you know that today is new comic book day. You’ve probably stopped by your local shop, picked up your pull list and read the latest issue of “Infinite Crisis” while eating your tasty good sandwich at lunch.

Comics are a good thing. Good, fine All-American entertainment. I don’t proselytize about comics to people who don’t care. There’s no point. Comics are great—but if you’re not open minded about the art form, you’re not going to consider them, no matter how terrific I tell you Geoff Johns can write or Rags Morales can draw.

But if you are open minded and not currently a card carrying comic book dork, then this Saturday is the perfect time to do something about that. May 6 is Free Comic Book Day.

Not “free with purchase.” Or “free if you know the secret password.” Or “free if you tell your local comic book retailer in the right light he looks just like Bruce Wayne.”

No. I mean free. You go into a comic book store, and you get free comics. Simple as that. Bring the kids! Go to FreeComicBookDay.com
to find out what comics are being given out for free (yes! They’re really free!) and to find out the location of your nearest comics monger.

And mention this blog when you go in for your free comics and get a free slice of pie!

Okay, I’m lying about that part. The comics are free but there’s no pie. If I sold periodicals, I wouldn’t want you browsing with your grubby little pie hands either.

But think of all the pie you could buy with the money you save on comics. Apple pie, rhubarb pie…heck, get some shepherd’s pie and make a meal out of it. You could feed a family of four with the money you save on comics! Not only will you be getting something fun to read, but you’ll be helping the economy.

Comic books. If you don’t read them, the terrorists get all the pie.

Final thought of the day: Always, always match your pie to your comic. Pumpkin is appropriate for “JSA,” while blueberry goes well with “Avengers.”

Happy Wednesday.

A Damn Dirty Post

A loyal reader complained to me yesterday that this blog didn't feature enough about monkeys.

I'd just like to clear the air. This blog has nothing against simians of any stripe. I'm quite fond of monkeys. There's very little in this world that can't be improved by monkeys.

I once had an imaginary friend that was an ape. And he was a *real* imaginary friend. Not one of those fake imaginary friends. Mr. Woggles was real.

Woggles was born in Teaneck, NJ, the illegitimate love child of Penelope Pennington and Yellowboy.

Ms. Pennington was a paralegal with a prestigious New York Law firm. Yellowboy, contrary to what his name would lead you to believe, was not a superhero. Yellowboy was a private investigator, and not a good one at that. His specialty was solving cases involving missing poodles.

Since there aren't that many reported cases of missing poodles, Yellowboy would kidnap poodles and then wait for their owners to contact him with the case. The problem, of course, was that the owners were actually relived the annoying dogs were gone and went about their lives happily canine free.

After going bankrupt from feeding the 64 poodles he had accumulated, Yellowboy disappeared into the New Jersey night never to be seen again. He resurfaced briefly in 2004 at a tryout for "American Idol," singing a medley of Brian Adams songs. Canada was not amused.

(And yes, Yellowboy and Pennington were human. It was a temporal anomaly that they had an ape for a child. Or nanotechnology. Take your pick.)

Woggles left Teaneck in the early 1990s to pursue his dream of starting a newspaper devoted to the British soap opera "Eastenders." His hopes were crushed when he discovered there was already a publication about the show (who knew?), and he turned to the world of business journalism.

He soon snagged a prestigious spot as a reporter with Meat! Magazine. Unfortunately, he misunderstood the editorial direction of Meat! and was fired after publication of his first article, an in-depth (and lavishly illustrated) expose on the Teaneck "gentlemen's" club, Hunka Chunka. The magazine's audience – Midwestern deli managers – were not amused.

I met Woggles about two years later, when he strolled into my cubicle at yet another business magazine, mistaking it for the shoe department at Henri Bendel. We became fast friends, and he was actually rented a room in our house for several years, until my husband got tired of Woggles using his toothbrush.

I haven't seen Woggles recently and am hoping that if he reads this, he'll be in touch. Jak-El and Dan-El miss their Unka' Monkey.

Final Thought for the Day: Okay, I wrote about monkeys. Are ya' happy now? Are ya'?

Happy Tuesday.

Sit Down and Read This NOW!

Got a recruit from the Legion of Super Sitters to watch Dan-El on Saturday and took Jak-El to see "Ice Age II."

It's not a bad movie. Not as good as the first, but interesting to see how the computer animation has improved. And, Ray Romano was born to play a mammoth.

Of course, there's nothing that enhances the cinema experience more than having to repeatedly hiss to a three-year-old "Sit down. NOW. Do you want to leave? Sit down. I mean it. SIT DOWN NOW or we'll leave."

Of course, the child knows this is a hollow threat. After we've paid $21.50 for movie tickets and $13 for snacks, there's no way in hell we're leaving unless the theater is on fire. And then, we'll go only if the screen has melted.

The afternoon made me think about my dad, who probably wouldn't have minded kids chattering and running around during a movie. It would have just added to his entertainment value.

I only remember going to the movies twice with my parents when I was a kid. Once was to a drive-in to see "The Million Dollar Duck." (We had to leave early because the sight of a gigantic duck scared the crap out of me and I wouldn't stop crying.) The other time was to "Bedknobs and Broomsticks." I think then I was old enough to behave.

But if I didn't, my dad was probably culpable. He was always fond of trying to make me crack up laughing in church, because (a) he was bored and (b) it would annoy my mom. Many a giggle fit was started by my dad singing made up words to hymns.

I know if he were still shuffling along this mortal coil, he'd be a regular reader of this blog, simply because I wrote it. He was always a faithful reader of everything I wrote. My first job out of college was reporting for a small town weekly paper, and dad would read each issue cover to cover. Even the police log, which typically featured entries like:

10 a.m. Barking dog reported on Kennedy Lane.

2:15 p.m. Bicycle reported stolen on Carter Street.

2:32 p.m. Bicycle found on Carter Street. Was borrowed by brother of owner.

3:12 p.m. Two barking dogs reported on Kennedy Lane.

Hey, I said it was a small town. The place had one murder in the last 50 years, which "officially" was unsolved. Unofficially, everyone in town knew who had done it, and why and how it had been covered up.

Anyway, I'm sure somewhere in the great beyond, my dad is reading this. They probably have very fast Internet connections there, with no pop-up ads or spam. Unless you like pop-up ads and spam. Then there's spam as far as the eye can see.

Spam, spam, spam.

Final thought for the day: Diet Coke and popcorn is a damn fine meal.

Happy Monday.