Forget disposing of hazardous waste or trying to squeeze Star Jones into a thong, perhaps the most dangerous job on the planet is being a housekeeper for supermodel Naomi Campbell.
On Thursday Campbell was arrested for assault after allegedly beating her 41-year-old cleaning woman.
At 8:30 a.m., according to police, the woman was struck in the back of the head "by an object" at Campbell's residence.
This is not the first time that Campbell has gotten violent with her help as she had twice been accused of striking them with telephones to stress her displeasure over their job performance.
When asked if the offending "object" was a telephone, White ( a NY police spokesman) said he didn't know. An Associated Press report cited police as saying a telephone had been used in the alleged attack.
Regardless of Campbell's weapon of choice the message is clear; if her toilets don't sparkle you're going to get one upside the head AND it will cause enough trauma to send you to the hospital.
Forget Mason "The Line" Dixon, for my money Rocky's opponent in his new film should be replaced by Campbell - and my money's on her.
-BDS
Britney Spears just can't win sometimes.
Once again the pop tart has been thrust into controversy, and for once it has nothing to do with her marriage to that no-talent jerk-off K-Fed.
Although she's not pregnant with Kevin's demon sperm for a second time, Spears is set to give birth in statue form for a pro-life exhibit in Brooklyn. 
"This is a new take on pro-life. Pro-lifers normally promote bloody images of abortion. This is the image of birth," Daniel Edwards said of his work.
The life-size pop princess is naked and pregnant, crouching face-down on a bare-toothed bear rug as the baby's head appears on the opposite end.
This image of Spears has made almost nobody happy as the gallery, which is set to display the statue in April, has been deluged with angry calls and emails.
"We also got calls from Tokyo, England, France. Some people are upset that Britney is being used for this subject matter," said gallery co-owner David Kesting. "Others who are pro-life thought this was degrading to their movement. And some pro-choice people were upset that this is a pro-life monument."
It seems like much ado about nothing as far as I'm concerned. If I happened to be in Brooklyn next month, I might give it a quick look if there was no admission fee.
I couldn't bring myself to pay good money to see Britney lay on top of a stuffed bear, however, if there was a statue of a large bear stuffing Spears then sign me up.
-BDS
Late last week, a Los Angeles judge issued a decree that David Hasselhoff must stay at least 100 yards away from Pamela Bach - his soon-to-be ex-wife.
The divorce seems to have taken a nasty turn as Bach also cast allegations that didn't paint former lifeguard Mitch Buchanan in a very flattering light. 
"[In December, he] grabbed me and pushed me hard into a car. In the past, he has also broken my nose and called me 'whore,' 'cunt,' 'bitch,' 'slut' and 'drug addict' in front of our children," said Bach.
I wouldn't have guessed that living with Hasselhoff would be a picnic, but who knew it would include fistacuffs and vulgar language.
Apparently the judge believes Bach because he granted her the restraining order.
My only problem with the whole process, however, is that the punishment should have been much longer.
Anyone who's ever watched the opening "Baywatch" montage knows that 100 yards means nothing to The Hoff AND that was when he was running in sand.
The man is like greased lightening on asphalt.
-BDS
When you're traveling overseas you tend to do do things that would never happen in the States - like watch really odious movies such as "The Family Stone."
In our defense, this viewing did occur on an airplane, but I still felt ashamed as the end credits rolled because I knew I had just wasted 2 hours of my life on a group of fuck-knuckles who didn't deserve 5 minutes of my precious time.
The first half of the film was merely awkward and unfunny as Sarah Jessica Parker tried to make herself as dull and unlikable as humanly possible.
She was succesful in her attempts, but luckily for her Diane Keeton was running annoyingly amok and Rachel McAdams also showed up to skulk around in a foul mood, which left Dermot Mulroney to hold up the film.
And as anyone with half a brain knows, this is simply not possible as Mulroney is about as interesting as dirt.
Luke Wilson was the only shining light in this otherwise dreadful mess, although Claire Danes was also minimally helpful.
But neither actor could save this putrid film from turning into a maudlin mess in the second half before it mercifully ended with an implausible feel-good Christmas montage.
"The Family Stone" is exactly the type of "comedy" that makes me wonder if we can ever sell a script because if studio execs think this is the height of hilarity then we're in deep, deep trouble.
-BDS
If someone tells you that they're "on the pig's back" in Ireland then life is grand and things could not be better.
The word "back" in the saying, however, is short for backside or butt or ass, and it never really made sense to my brother or me why anyone would equate being on top of the world with fucking a pig. 
But then again, we've never really tried it and I hate to disparage swine considering they're also responsible for bacon and pork chops as well as a horrifying cinematic exchange in "Deliverance," when a pale and portly Ned Beatty is forced to "squeal like a pig" by a group of dentally-challenged mountain men.
Life in Ireland wasn't all pig-fucking as we had an excellent time pub crawling, walking around Dublin, watching hurling matches, eating vegetable soup, and getting hot towel shaves complete with a fine glass of Irish whiskey to enjoy.
The spectacular pints of Guinness also made up for the fact that the food was horrible.
Irish chefs seem to feel that the only natural way to eat is to add copious amounts of salt, butter, mayo and more salt to everything they get their hands on.
A typical breafast for us would consist of sausage, salt-cured ham, fried eggs, and black and white pudding (which is not really pudding but strange parts of meat held together by blood).
But neither the questionable food nor the frigid temperatures kept us down as there was a fine wedding to attend and pints to be consumed and slang to be deciphered.
We found ourselves starting to use terms like "grand" or "cheers" and ending conversations with "thanks a million" by the time we boarded our plane back to Austin.
Now, it's back to work while trying to ride out jet-lag that makes me want to crawl up in a fetal position under my desk and hide.
On the positive side, this post marks our 100th blog and a little celebration might be in order considering nearly 90% of blogs last less than 3 months. With a little luck and some dedication from my brother, we should also have pictures to add some spice to the site within a few weeks.
All this activity makes me extremely happy, and I suppose you could say that I'm on the pig's back where 2 Dollar Productions is concerned.
But then again, "According to Jim" is well past 100 episodes and that show is absolute horseshit.
-BDS
In a few short hours, my brother and I depart for Ireland to spend St. Patty's Day among the true Irish and also plan to watch my best friend get married at an ancient structure near Cork.
It should be a good trip with free-flowing Guinness and old friends and green fields and rain and pub crawls and train rides through the country and a wedding to serve as the catalyst for the whole experience.
We also plan to get some work done on our two comedy scripts because the deadline for the International Screenwriting Awards is fast approaching and we narrowly missed the semi-finals last year.
Two lousy points cost "Last Train to Amsterdam" a place among the internationally elite.
This year, however, we've revised the train and also have "Monkey Business" to enter in hopes of advancing far enough in the contest season to lure an agent to our work.
That's the plan for now, but we'll see how much work we can acomplish on our vacation.
To prepare for Ireland, we spent this past weekend stuffing ourselves full of Tex-Mex and barbecue at various joints around Austin, which as Dan Jenkins once noted could rival Geneva, Buenos Aires, and Paris as the best eating city in the world.
This was necessary because the Emerald Isle has a lot going for it, but food is not at the top of the list. 
On the other hand, the Irish regard Guinness as a food group unto itself and they make and pour it better than anyone. Doctors still prescribe it to cure certain ailments and with any luck at all it will help with writer's block and laziness.
Happy St. Patty's Day,
-BDS
This past week I was unable to escape previews for the Disney remake "The Shaggy Dog," but only yesterday did I realize that Robert Downey Jr. was in the film.
I nearly fell off my couch when I saw him slumming it up in a film that looked awful and boasted a cast that included Tim Allen, Kristen Davis and Danny Glover.
It's no surprise that Allen would partake in this kind of a project as schlock is his middle name. The only decent movie I've ever seen him in was "Big Trouble," which was nothing to write home about.
Kristen Davis could turn up anywhere now that "Sex and the City" is finished, and Glover is also prone to taking the cash and running; witness "Gone Fishin" "Operation Dumbo Drop" and "Saw".
Or better yet, don't waste your time.
It's just sad to see someone like Downey, however, who has considerable talent follow-up a great turn in "Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang" with this shaggy project.
I guess everyone's got to pay the bills, eh?
-BDS
Just when you thought Papa Joe Simpson had the market cornered on swarmy, disgusting comments about his offspring, Donald Trump appeared on "The View" this week and gave his thoughts about the physical charms of his onetime-model daughter Ivanka.
When asked how he would react if Ivanka, a former teen model, posed for Playboy, Trump replied, "It would be really disappointing — not really — but it would depend on what's inside the magazine."
I think we all know exactly what's inside an issue of Playboy magazine Donald.
He added: "I don't think Ivanka would do that, although she does have a very nice figure. I've said if Ivanka weren't my daughter, perhaps I'd be dating her."
It was obvious that the Donald was joking, but any kind of humor that centers around sexual relations with your daughter is just misguided.
Joe Simpson talking about Jessica's "double dds" was filthy. And now Trump has upped the ante by openly talking about dating his daughter.
I would warn them both that it's a slippery slope once it crosses your mind that you have a daughter who's hot.
One minute you're just a lecherous bastard, and the next you're Woody Allen.
-BDS
Last night at the Oscars, the racial drama "Crash" landed with a thud, and played the role of spoiler when it rode off with the best picture award.
There had been rumblings all week that this might happen, however, I was hoping the rumors were created by Lions Gate studio and simply constituted wishful thinking on their part.
But then it turned out to be true.
"Crash" was a good movie with an excellent ensemble cast, but it was not the best picture of the year.
Just because it dealt with race doesn't mean that it should get a free critical pass. It tackled the subject fairly well, but it was still obvious in several places and heavy-handed in others.
The main message was the race plays a huge part in our daily interactions, and that our own prejudices influence our reactions to people, places and situations.
This volatile mix can often lead to horrible and unforseen consequences.
No shit.
I didn't feel that the film tackled racism from a radically different angle; it merely showed once again that prejudice is bad.
"Crash" lacked several things that I liked about "Brokeback Mountain," which was lean and sparse and let the audience draw its own conclusions. "Capote" was also a superior film as it reveled in its ambiguity towards characters.
On the whole, the Oscars were solid and predictable, but Hollywood just couldn't help itself when it came time to hand out the biggest award of the night, and it turned out that a good film leapfrogged some great ones.
I stand by my initial reaction to "Crash," which I blogged about last May. It read:
I saw "Crash" this past weekend, and it was almost exactly as I anticipated from the previews - well-meaning but ultimately a little heavy-handed.
The issue of race is the beginning and end of every action, conversation and thought in "Crash." The movie is set in Los Angeles, but the message is that it could be anywhere, USA and that we all bring our own experiences and prejudices into our daily interactions with other people.
That message is just fine as any movie that makes people examine their own actions in the context of race relations seems more important than any Vin Diesel movie that comes to mind.
The ensemble cast also does a fine job with the material as Don Cheadle and Matt Dillon are particularly good.
My main problem with the movie is that every single problem or issue boils down to race.
Maybe the filmmakers just wanted to drive home their point, but a little more subtlety would have been appreciated.
I'm not going to argue that there's a fair amount of underlying racial hostility, but "Crash" is the kind of movie where a character would be walking down the street and another person could knee them in the crotch, thus making them very angry.
The person who got kneed in the crotch would be justifiably furious, but he wouldn't be mad because he got a sharp, painful object jabbed in his privates but rather because the person who did it was African-American or Hispanic or Muslim or some other nationality that the victim hates.
If a person walked by and kicked me in the crotch, however, I wouldn't care about my assailant's race, religious credo or political idealogy - Whomever it is that just kicked me is going down.
Some things are not about race; sometimes it's simply about the family jewels.
-BDS
The celebrity sex tape club recently added two members to its ranks as a leaked tape showing Kid Rock, Scott Stapp and a bevy of strippers is making the rounds and about to be distributed by the World Wide Red Light District for public consumption.
A 40-second preview clip of the tape is currently available on their website for anyone who's interested.
Personally, I have little desire to view the tape, although I would watch it for 3 days straight if you threatened me with attending a Creed concert as an alternative.
I saw part of the Paris Hilton video (which looked like a really horny version of Baghdad nights as there seemed to be no light anywhere) all of the Pamela Anderson/Tommy Lee one (giant cock, stupid man) but you would have to glue my eyeballs open if anyone came near me with the Fred Durst video.
So at least Stapp and the Kid aren't straddling the very bottom rung of the celebrity ladder; for that one will ALWAYS be reserved for the supremely untalented jerkoff that is Fred Durst.
But not everyone is happy at the impending video release as Stapp himself is crying foul.
Not only does he see the sex tape as an unlawful invasion of his privacy, but he also believes there are far more sinister forces at work.
"Obviously, someone wants to hurt me and doesn't want me to be successful in my solo career," said Stapp, former lead singer of Creed.
That's one theory that could explain Stapp's lack of solo success.
My personal one, however, is that his utter failure will be less a product of the sex tape and more attributable to the fact that he really, really, really sucks.
-BDS
As the Billy Idol classic "Dancing With Myself" blared throughout the Hyatt ballroom in downtown Austin last night, I found myself playing Blackjack surrounded by a table full of lawyers.
Actually, they weren't official lawyers yet as everyone was still enrolled in the UT law program, but it was a testament to the fiercely competitive nature of the group that so many people could get so worked up over playing with fake chips at a "Casino Night" theme party.
I witnessed one guy chastise his date repeatedly for her "loose" betting of chips after she split a pair of 4's and lost.
"99 luftballoons" played as I saw a gentleman at another table swipe a stack of chips from an unsuspecting player to his left.
The poker tables were even more ridiculous as every other player seemed to think that they were the second coming of Doyle Brunson.
I watched in fascination as people tried to read the faces of their opponents, but this was largely in vain due to the high number of players sporting sunglasses to conceal their "tells."
The whole thing felt like a third-rate "Rounders" casting call minus John Turturro in a Turkish steam bath.
It wasn't all cheating, chastising and brutal competition, however, as a hint of generousity also occurred when a Blackjack player magnamiously tipped the dealer with a fake $500 chip before leaving the table to gorge himself on chicken fingers and jalopeno poppers at the buffet table.
On the plus side, there was an open bar that served top-shelf liquor and a cover band called the Spazmatics that ripped through infectious 80s songs with manic energy.
So, when I was forced to decide whether to continue playing Blackjack where the stakes meant nothing (at least to me) or to embarrass myself on the dancefloor to "Whip It," the choice was much easier than whether to hit on 15.
And I whipped it good.
-BDS
I was in a slight funk yesterday, and although the weather was bleak on a working Monday morning, I still couldn't shake the fact that something else felt wrong.
But it wasn't until late in the day that I discovered that it was exactly one year ago that Hunter S. Thompson killed himself at his fortified compound in Woody Creek, Colorado.
Thompson had long stood atop of my literary heroes list, where he served as a constant remainder that boundaries are meant to be tested and that the difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and a lighting bug (I think I stole that from Mark Twain).
His sudden death last year (see February archives for a eulogy) was like a sucker-punch for me despite Thompson's demanding lifestyle where drugs, firearms and a typewriter were never too far away.
It was only fitting for someone like Dr. Thompson that his ashes were scattered over Woody Creek via a 150 ft. fist-shaped cannon which was largely paid for by Johnny Depp, one of his close friends.
His widow, Anita Thompson, posted a private photo of Thompson on http://www.gonzostore.com to mark the one year anniversary of his death.
The caption beneath it was a quote from one of his books and read "At the top of the mountain, we are all Snow Leopards."
We are indeed.
-BDS
My Hobbies Include Nude Taxidermy & Fondling Woodland Animals . . .
It's surprisingly easy to combine these two interests, and even if they aren't entirely true, it beats the lame hobbies that I gave my boss last week to send out in a company-wide introduction email.
I wish I could claim that my list of hobbies/interests forced people to take notice of my unique and individual spirit, but instead I merely replied with stock answers that remained safely inside the boundaries of human decency.
What got reported was that I enjoyed reading anything from "The New York Times to Hunter S. Thompson to US Weekly" when I really wanted to list Native American art, ballroom dancing and pornography as personality qualifiers.
Besides, you can never go wrong with a "Grosse Pointe Blank" reference, eh?
But Felix Lappoo Bell had left the building, and there was only a vaguely interesting person who enjoys watching "Lost" and writing screenplays left in his place.
That information is far from unique, however, and pales in comparison to someone who might list flogging or Dung beetles or in-depth study of the "Police Academy" series or uncontrollable weeping or drinking Mad Dog 20/20 and playing putt-putt golf on their sheet.
I would immediately seek out the person who had the cojones to report some bizarre personality quirk from their initial employment date because it's highly likely that they would someone worth knowing.
It would also be a brilliant way to cover your ass if something strange happened at a later date because you could refer back to your hobby sheet and say "you shouldn't be that surprised by my current behavior because you knew all along that I spent vast amounts of time constructing Egyptian pyramids out of Beligan waffles."
What did you expect?
Oh well, life is full of missed opportunities and I realize that I wasted another one of mine last week.
On the other hand, sometimes a little caution is necessary and even in Austin it's still too weird to admit to an intense longing for a "Golden Girls" reunion special.
Damn you Bea Arthur.
-BDS
I still like Harrison Ford even if I haven't cared about one of his movies since he did "The Fugitive" back in 1993.
Since fleeing from Tommy Lee Jones, however, Ford has played several fairly interchangable roles in hits ("Air Force One," "What Lies Beneath") misses ("K-19: The Widowmaker"(abysmal title)) and debacles like "Hollywood Homicide" where he was forced to reveal his comedic chops AND try to act like he could actually respect Josh Hartnett as a man - a feat which would have surely netted Ford an Oscar nomination if he could have successfully pulled it off.
Ford's new film, "Firewall," opened Friday and it looks servicable if wholly unoriginal. The plot is another one of those "do what I want or I'll hurt your family" types with Ford as an angry bank executive and Paul Bettany slumming as the titular bad guy.
I have no plans to see "Firewall," but I was reminded why I still like Harrison Ford so much after reading an interview he did with the Austin American Statesman.
The intent of the Q&A was seemingly to promote his new film despite Ford's curmudgeonly reputation for publicity. The interview quickly went downhill, however, as the tone was combatitive from the start and it never recovered as Ford gave several short, sarcastic and finally downright bizarre answers.
Some exchanges from the interview went like this:
Q: Is it time for you to stretch a bit? Haven't we seen this character before? Apparently, if you're asking that kind of question.
Q: Any opinions on the war? Not for you.
Q: Anything in particular you want to talk about? No, but thanks so much for the opportunity.
And my personal favorite:
Q: According to popularity polls and magazine pronouncements over the years, you're one of the most popular, sexiest, most talented and magnificent people who ever lived. That doesn't mean anything.
Q: But it's nice? It's better than a slap in the belly with a wet fish, but it doesn't get you through the day.
The wet fish line caused me to laugh out loud during my breakfast due to the hilarious visual nature of the comment.
Then, I started to wonder if this practice of hitting strangers with dripping sea creatures was commonplace in Hollywood. Just because I'd never experienced the sensation didn't mean it wasn't out there and it might be a real, everyday problem for mega-stars like Ford.
After reading the piece, I instictively realized why I still like Harrison Ford and also why the interviewer should have cut him some slack for his gruff demeanor.
I don't care if you were Han Solo and Indiana Jones, a daily routine that forced you to examine the potential motives of strangers, who might also be wielding dripping fish guts intended for your exposed belly, would drive anyone to misanthropy.
-BDS
So I went to see "The Matador" yesterday with my brother and some female companions, and although I enjoyed the film, the movie-going experience is beginning to make me angry.
The movie itself was an enjoyable black comedy, and featured a deliciously sleazy turn by Pierce Brosnan as an aging hitman and Greg Kinnear as a businessman down on his luck.
The duo form an unlikely friendship after meeting in Mexico City, which provides a perfect backdrop for Brosnan to work his dirty charms as well as good place for Kinnear to prove once again that he is consistently underrated as an actor.
"The Matador" is one of those films that will cause you to laugh out loud on occassion, but for the most part, a light chuckle would suffice during Brosnan's constant spewing of lewd vulgarities.
Despite several amusing scenes, however, the movie in no way warranted the loud cacophony of guffaws coming from a group of 6 people sitting directly behind me.
These sorry bastards laughed loud, long and hearty at anything that contained a four-letter word or might have been vaguely funny if not for the horrible, pulsating sound bombarding me from behind.
For vast stretches of the film, I kept wondering how loud they would be able to laugh with my size 11 foot pressed hard against their Adam's apple.
Eventually, I adjusted to these heinous sounds, and it was that point that a little girl started talking loudly about 4 seats to my left.
I wasn't angry at her because she was probably 9 or 10 years old, and children at that age are simply annoying for the majority of their waking hours. No, I couldn't be mad at her, but her father was another story entirely.
What kind of responsible Dad would bring his young daughter to a movie that was rampant with talk of "teenage twat," assasinations and several other instances of amoral behavior?
A girl that age should be watching the talking animals in the "The Chronicles of Narnia" or a butt-ugly Emma Thompson in "Nanny McPhee", but she should most definitely not witness Brosnan guzzle alcohol like it was water and screw anything that moves.
The problem is that I keep running into more and more people who behave like rotten jackals inside movie theaters and think nothing of it.
Talking on cell phones, keeping crying babies inside the theater and providing a running commentary on plot points to your viewing companions is not a right you earn when you buy a movie ticket.
This behavior seems to be escalating, however, and unless it changes soon, then I predict it's only a matter of time before I start wearing combat boots to the show and anyone who feels the need to treat the experience as their own personal theater is going to spend a few days trying to remove tread marks from their neck.
-BDS
"I'm still out here in the wind and rain, look a little older
but I feel no pain," - Warren Zevon, "Lord Byron's Luggage"
Whether it's at a blackjack table in Vegas or with a transexual hooker in Amsterdam, we all push our luck too far sometimes.
These situations create a sense of intense urgency, and how one copes with the pressure can double your bankroll or leave you vaguely ashamed and standing alone in a back alley somewhere near the Red Light District.
But while today happens to be my 29th birthday, I made a vow last year to curtail my encounters with transexual hookers and the last gamble I took was ordering Vietnamese food out of the phone book.
What I do have in common with the above scenarios, however, is a great sense of urgency for the next year.
The main catalyst is the realization that I have only one year remaining before I turn 30, and then it becomes increasingly more difficult to categorize embarrassing escapades as "youthful indiscretions."
This is a bitter pill to swallow my friend, and I plan to cut a deep path across Austin this year to combat this oncoming train of responsibility.
I've got a new job to contend with, two screenplays that need an audience and a potential modeling gig with a bunch of New York queens that might lead to more stories than Caligula at his weekly orgy.
That is a full year for anyone, so I'll save the hookers for my next birthday because right now I need the rest and there's no time in my hectic schedule for Tranny-strumpets - at least until early May.
-BDS
My life shifted again this past Friday when I received an early morning full-time job offer in Austin, and then by the late evening, I also had a future gig lined up in New York City which just might be filled with fortune and fame.
Life tends to run in ebbs and flows, and this past weekend the juices were hearty and delicious and my cup runneth over with a combination of luck, skill and a healthy dose of protein shakes.
My offer to return to Austin on a regular basis was the result of 2 phone screenings followed by a 4-hour interview session and then topped off with another 3 1/2 hour meeting with the company VPs as well as the Founder/CEO.
By the end of the process, I was tired of talking about myself, which was a new feeling that I didn't entirely deserve.
But I was a charming bastard, and the position is a step up from my original job in Austin because this one affords me a $10,000 raise plus better benefits and more paid vacation days.
It is another desk job, but the bills must be paid and I'm sick of driving up and down I-35 every week where I stare at vast stretches of flat concrete and daydream about moving to St. John where I would write in-demand screenplays while eating pinneaples on the white sands of Cinnamon Bay.
Being forced to use a public restroom in Waco always snaps me back to reality, however, and the putrid smells only reinforce the fact that I need hard work and a little luck to make this happen.
Friday night might have started the lucky train rolling as I met with a New York modeling agent who was in town to speak at a convention.
The convention was at a nice hotel in downtown Dallas, and our meeting took place in his hotel room. This scenario sounded like the typical "take your pants off and I'll make you a star" come-on, and I'm sure that's exactly what it looked like to one member of housekeeping staff who walked into the room to deliver extra pillows during the middle of our meeting.
The scene she witnessed was me standing shirtless and wearing only a pair of small, red athletic shorts while a rotound man in his early 50s sat in a chair and watched.
I can only guess at what she told the other staff members when she fled the room smirking like a hyena.
After my shirtless critique, the agent said he saw money in me if I gained 10 pounds of muscle. If this happens he will pay for me to come to New York and live what I consider to be the "Zoolander" life for one week.
The week would consist of photo shoots, casting calls, acting lessons and generally behaving and living like a full-time model - all on somebody else's tab.
I assume that the snorting of cocaine off the buttocks of a 6 ft. tall blonde swimsuit model is also included somewhere in the itenerary.
The agent said he wants to put me on the cover of "Men's Health" and for commercials like "Bowflex" or "Chevy" or something else that would run nationally because that's "where the real money lies."
It sounds far-fetched, but the guy is legit as he's been around for nearly 30 years and has clients in ads ranging from Polo to JC Penney and others doing national TV spots and some acting in movies like the upcoming De Niro/Jolie/Damon flick "The Good Shepard."
At the very least, I should get some good networking opportunities for our scripts and at best I could end up on the magazine stand at a grocery store near you or maybe filling up your television in some erectile disfuntion ad (I have no pride as long as the pay is good and those ads run ALL THE TIME).
Although it sounds great in theory, this money and fame grab is far from certain as 10 lbs of muscle is no easy feat.
But I've got several things to motivate me as I'll be attempting the task with a return to Austin and the other potential benefits like money, fame and asses laced with cocaine will spur me onward when the brain is fuzzy and the body is weak.
-BDS
Dreams are important.
I refuse to categorize them as useless bits of psychological hooey because I do think they can be a valuable tool for creativity as well as the only chance most of us will have to sleep with someone famous.
That being said, however, I don't feel any need to search for the meaning of a dream where I'm standing on some sort of Sun-God road with thousands of naked women screaming and throwing tiny pickles at me.
I've simply got more pressing issues to deal with and trying to decipher the symbolism behind the pickles doesn't rate highly on that list.
Since I have neither the time nor inclination to ponder my own pyschosis, it stands to reason that I could care less about other people's dreams. Over the years, however, I've had dozens of people start out a conversation with the words "I had the strangest dream last night."
And it always starts in that exact manner.
I've never once had someone begin with "I had the most normal and relevant dream last night. Please allow me to share it with you."
That might be refreshing, but instead the person will babble for several minutes about a dream which prominently features them in an unusual situation that generally make absolutely no sense.
The conversation nearly always finishes with the person uttering "Isn't that bizarre?"
And I want to grab them by the shoulders and shake them back and forth while screaming "Not really because it happened to you in a dream you dumbass."
If the situation had occurred while you were awake, it would have been strange and unsettling if a fruitcake was delivered to you via UPS by a giant sausage creature. But as it stands, the story doesn't count for shit because it all happened while you were asleep.
Wake up and tell me something that I actually care about because the only dreams I will actively listen to must involve:
1) A female telling the story
2) I need a major role in the dream and
3) Preferably I'm doing something erotic
If your dream doesn't meet these rigid criteria, please keep it to yourself or share it with a pyschiatrist because they get paid good money to listen to worthless crap.
I, on the other hand, do not.
-BDS
There are few things that can compare to the euphoria one feels after witnessing one of the greatest sports games in history - especially when your team comes out on top.
UT 41 USC 38
UT football is the only sports team that causes me to experience a roller coaster of emotions nearly every week during the season.
Doubt, delirium, and anger get replaced by pride and extreme prejudice in the Longhorns favor when they suck it up and beat what the mainstream press had dubbed "the greatest team in college football history."
But Vince Young and an opportunistic defense ruined the Trojans party on a night where the stars were aligned and a shaggy-looking Matthew McCaughney roamed the sidelines.
Young's performance was the greatest single effort in a major contest EVER, and the guy will never have to pay for food, lodging or women for the rest of his life inside the city of Austin.
To prepare for the game, I invited my brother and a few select rabid UT fans over to watch the game on my Hi-Def TV and stocked the place with Rudy's barbecue and Shiner Boch.
The barbecue tasted great going down, but then it repeatedly threatened to come back up in an ugly way during a game that went back and forth more times than the sexual orientation of Anne Heche.
By the end of the night, my adrenal glands were fried and my emotions were spent.
The drama made the victory all the sweeter, however, and for at least one night everything was right in the universe.
That is a feeling to savor because it doesn't occur very often, and for that reason as well as many others I can honestly say that I love Vince Young and the entire 2006 UT football team.
But Vince will forever hold a special place in my heart.
-BDS
I've always felt that a healthly dose of cynicism is good for the soul, but I check mine at the door whenever it comes to Christmas.
Ever since I was a child, I've always loved all things having to do with the holiday which never lets me down and continually dispenses joy, gifts, food, family, stockings and time off to enjoy these things.
Christmas is easily the best holiday because it combines great food with presents. It's that winning combination which causes the holiday to run circles around birthdays, Easter or the Fourth of July.
I love Christmas so much that I find myself with a partial erection nearly every time I even pass by a decorated tree.
So what if I don't have a full-time job?
Or an optioned screenplay?
Or that I have yet to take up ballroom dancing or study native American art?
I refuse to complain about anything on Christmas Day because there's food to eat, presents to open and a giant 12-foot tree in a my parent's living room.
So, happy holidays to everyone but I've got to run because there are pressing matters to attend to and quelling a raging hard-on is the first order of business.
-BDS
