2 Dollar Productions

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

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

So I finally get to Austin and start adjusting to a full-time office gig, and then on Wednesday afternoon, I got called into the CEO's office where he said "I'm sorry but I'm going to have to let you go."

It wasn't for anything I did or didn't do because most of the office was also fired with the exception of the engineers.

For the life of me, however, I can't figure out why my bosses were pushing so hard to bring me aboard on a full-time basis, and then two weeks later they have the balls to fire me.

At best, it displayed a raging incompetence when it comes to monitoring cash flow and at worst it's just a sleazy, rotten thing to do right before Christmas.

Now, I'm celebrating the holidays by updating my resume and looking into a return engagement to my former life as a personal trainer while I search for a new job in Austin.

This has created a surreal existence because I was just making peace with my old life and beginning to forge a new one when I got blindsided by this firing.

On the plus side, I am getting paid for the remainder of December and I also have a lot of time on my hands these days. The problem is that excess time minus monetary funds equals nothing but horrible daytime television and bad movies like the Steven Seagal vehicle "Out for Justice."

And that combination only leads to lethargy and self-loathing.

I guess the lesson to be learned by this is:

a) I don't belong in an office job
b) This is Karma paying me back for bitching about my new job to anyone who would listen
c) I need turmoil in my life to write anything worth reading
d) My boss is an ignorant toad

Mabye it's all of the above or some combination or maybe there's nothing to be learned at all except to get off my ass and find a new job ASAP.

This will be nearly impossible until at least the new year rolls around, so in the interim, I'll simply live at Xmas parties where the hors d'voures (sp?) are plentiful and booze is free and if you're lucky there might even be presents.

Ho. Ho. Ho.

-BDS

It's that time again.

For the past 8 months, we've been toiling and sweating it out while trying to finish our second screenplay, "Monkey Business," but now the hard part has arrived because we must turn a 100 page script into a brief synopsis that will demand attention from contest readers, potential agents and even the most casual reader.

This "logline", as I've seen it referenced by some contests, is typically the first thing a script reader will see when your entry comes up for inspection.

Therefore, we need one that will pique interest and cultivate a fertile frame of mind for the person who's about to be entranced by the verbal mastery contained in "Monkey Business."

At least that's the idea.

I actually think we came out of the gates swinging with the synopsis for our first script, "Last Train To Amersterdam." It read:

Boy bands, pop culture and polar bears collide during a wild train ride through Europe which explores a seedy universe populated with has-been actors, German barons, heated housewives, and a degenerate train conductor who knows everyone's secrets.

If I saw that logline, I would be anxious to read the thing for the Polar Bear element alone.

As for "Monkey Business," we need a sizzling synopsis for a script that features two friends, one family, a wealthy suburban neighborhood and the Swinger's Sex Club that wreacks havoc on both personal and professional relationships and touches on topics that vary widely from infidelity to friendship to familial responsibility to beastality.

It really runs the gamut, but we need a solution quickly because we have a contest deadline looming in 2 days and a stellar logline waits for no man.

Or beast in this case.

-BDS

I know some people who thrive on change.

They'll order something different off the menu at their favorite restaurant just to keep it interesting. Or maybe they drive home from work by a new route or decide that today they'd really prefer paper over plastic.

I, however, am not one of those people.

For many years now, I have been a creature of habit and when I find something that works for me, I generally stick with it unless I am absolutely forced to change.

As you can imagine, my recent re-location and job shift has really thrown me for a loop because my mind hasn't fully adjusted and my body is rebelling and screaming "why are you covering me up in so many clothes."

This is mainly due to the fact that my work uniform for the past 4 years has consisted of shorts and a t-shirt that might or might not contain sleeves.

Now, it's khakis and button-downs and polo shirts and belts and loafers. This has been a tough adjustment, and therefore I don't consider it strange in the least that I like to go home during my lunch hour and walk around my apartment wearing no pants until I have to go back to the office.

It simply makes sense from a comfort standpoint.

But while my body will adjust, it's my mind that truly worries me. All week long I've felt how I imagine someone who's lost an appendage must feel - because I keep trying to reach for something that just isn't there anymore.

In my mind, my Monday schedule should have read:

6 a.m. - Train Marla
7 a.m. - Read newspaper and drink coffee
8 a.m. - Train Cassandra
9 a.m. - Work myself Out
10 a.m. - Train Brandi & Tiffany
11 a.m. - Train Sonya
12 - 4 p.m. - Free Time
4 p.m - Train Cara
5 p.m. - Train Traci
6 p.m. - Go home

I was extremely adjusted to my middle-of-the-day breaks, and it afforded me time to run errands or sometimes just go to the movies, where you will find a motley crew of people on a Monday afternoon who can justify taking time out their day to see a piece of crap like "Domino."

This past Monday, however, I traded in the movies as well as talking to Brandi and Tiffany for a chance to speak with Arvid and Saibal, a couple of database administrators who are sorely lacking in basic communication skills.

Christ, I should have my head examined shouldn't I?

Maybe, maybe not. But one thing I must do immediately is find a new path and a new routine. It might not be as fun or engaging as my old one, but it must be done and it might even lead to more productivity with our scripts.

I've already discovered that one side benefit of a job that doesn't stimulate you creatively is the overwhelming desire to create something after you leave.

It's either that route or another one where I simply drink myself into a stupor, and I suppose I can't entirely rule that out considering I just started my new occupation. Besides, Hemingway was a drunk and a great author. Same with Fitzgerald. The list goes on and on, although I can't name a single screenwriter who would fit in with that club off the top of my head.

Details.

Anyway, I thought I'd get these kind of posts out of my system after the last one, but right now I've still got a mild case of the blues. However, I expected the first week to be the most difficult, and it will certainly get better.

In the interim, someone once said to me that one thing change will bring is something new, and so I guess it's time I found out exactly what that will entail.

-BDS

"I left a long string of friends, some sheets in the wind and some satisfied women behind," - Billy Joe Shaver, "Ride Me Down Easy"

I've been saying a lot of goodbyes lately and although I've been improving upon my technique with each passing day, it hasn't made it any easier to stomach.

Over the past week, I've said adios at the gym, at restauraunts, on the street, in my car, over the phone, at the bank, in houses, and I even experienced one really awkard last call in a public restroom (where nothing good ever occurs).

The catalyst for this barrage of sentiment is my impending move to Austin on a full-time basis thanks to a job offer at a start-up firm in town. This change will eliminate my weekly commute between Austin and Plano, where I was still working as a personal trainer until today when I threw in the towel (pun intended).

It's not easy telling people goodbye when you 've been seeing them several times a week for the past 4 years.

Like most things that become routine, there will be a void where a dozen or so people used to be and that number swells considerably when you add in other acquantinces who I used to see at the laundry or the bank or at the Wendy's by my old apartment where I am still extremely popular with the largely Hispanic waitstaff.

But it's my old clients that I will miss the most.

It's an interesting phenomenon when you get thrust into someone else's life. Over the years, I've heard about hellacious children, traveling husbands, family pets, hired help, catastrophes big, small and imagined, slights and reconcilliations, pop culture trivia, emergencies, Junior League, fashion, vacation trips and everything else in between.

I didn't always agree with the comments and opinions that were tossed around, but at some stage a shift occurs where you start to overlook certain aspects of someone's personality and simply focus on the positive attributes that we all have to some degree or another.

Besides, nobody's perfect (although I must point out that my nickname in high school was "nobody") and I realize that my own personality is far from ideal.

Another bad thing about goodbyes is that they really wear you down. All week long I've felt like I've been sucker-punched except I can't ever seem to locate the culprit.

Of course, it doesn't help matters when you're attending lunches and dinners every day for a week, where you wind up eating copious amounts of food and drinking far too many Grey Goose vodka tonics and Negro Modelos, which ulimately leads to the foolish decision to smoke a large cigar, but I digress.

My problem with telling everyone goodbye has only been compounded by the sinking feeling that this severing of ties and shift from the gym to an actual office is the thought that keeps running through my head of "this is where the fun stops."

From here on out, it feels like it's time for an "adult" job and all the politics and bullshit and responsibility that runs along side of it.

So, not only have I been saying goodbye to a lot of good people, it also feels like I'm burying the last remnants of my childhood as well.

I really thought that it would help my pysche to write this blog, but looking back over this drivel is only adding to my uneasiness because it's exactly this kind of self-absorbed crap that makes me hate blogs in the first place.

But I guess that writing about how I wish that Freddie Prinze Jr. would be eaten alive by leeches has to occasionally take a backseat to real life issues, eh?

Then again, even the entertainment world has kicked me when I'm down because Fox recently announced that they were cancelling "Arrested Development," which narrowly beats "The Office" for best comedy on television.

When will the madness end?

I can't say I have an answer for that question or that I would be foolish enough to even venture a guess. All I want is a break from goodbyes, a new liver and a winning lottery ticket.

If I can't have all three, I'll take the first one for now because it's been a rough week and it's only Wednesday.

On the other hand, as Steve Earle once noted, sometimes "goodbye is all we've got left to say."

-BDS

As I mentioned last week, I've been doing quite a bit of driving these last few months and now it is not only turning me slightly deranged, but it's also making me into a mean bastard who hates the majority of his fellow drivers.

I have come to loathe these people driving beside me with a fierce passion that has left the simply misanthropic and is currently veering crazily toward wanting to run them off the road and into a ditch before lighting their cars on fire and roasting marshmellows over the flames.

That might sound harsh (and it looks really harsh onscreen), but it's true.

On my most recent journey, however, I tried to turn this unrelenting anger into a productive outlet and so I started a list of motorists who need to die a horrible flaming death.

I found this excercise extremely therapeutic and would recommend it to anyone who feels that they have experienced too much stupidity, buffonery and just plain embarrasing behavior on the roadways.

And with that in mind, here's my list which is subject to change at any given moment:

Motorists Who Need To Be Put Down Like Dogs:

1) Anyone entering a freeway at less than 40 MPH
2) Anyone with a personalized license plate that isn't your initials or that classic Van Halen album "OU812"
3) Anyone gesturing wildly while talking on a cell phone
4) Anyone who doesn't wave to acknowledge that you just let them into your lane to fix some dumb mistake they just made
5) Anyone with a Calvin and Hobbes sticker where one character is urinating
6) Anyone going the speed limit in the left lane of a highway
7) Anyone driving an 18-wheel truck in the left lane
8) Anyone driving a car (not a pickup truck) with more than 1 animal inside of it (unless going to the Vet)
9) Anyone over 50 and bald driving a Corvette (let's try and not fit the exact stereotype of that car, eh?)
10) Anyone driving a PT Cruiser

Much like myself, this list is ever-evolving, but I would strongly recommend trying to stay off of it because my mental state is rapidly detoriating and you can buy marshmellows anywhere.

-BDS

I think my twice weekly commute between Dallas and Austin is starting to turn me sideways because lately I've been having strange thoughts nearly every time I find myself on I-35.

For instance, this week I was fixated on a scenario that involves James McMurtry (a musician I enjoy), his song "Ole Slew Foot" and someone dressed up in bear costume. But first a little background is needed to fully appreciate the sequence of events.

McMurtry's new album, "Childish Things," has this song (Slew Foot) about a troublesome bear who boasts a humungous rump, a prediliction for stealing honey and a very quick and agile gait.

I've seen McMurtry in concert numerous times, and I could not shake the idea that it would be intensly funny to rent a bear costume and attend his next musical set while holding a homemade sign reading "Ole Slew Foot."

I would stand near the stage at The Continental Club in Austin to make sure that James could see me, and once he started playing the song (because who could refuse a request from a rabid fan in a bear suit) then I would throw the sign to the ground and start charging around the dancefloor and chasing people around the room until they threw me out.

Just think of the visual.

Now that would be a concert that nobody attending would soon forget. The only problem with my scenario is that I wouldn't get to enjoy the scene as I would be inside a bear costume and unable to see the crowd's reaction.

Therefore, the only solution that makes any sense would be to pay someone else to be in the bear suit and then I could just sit back with a cold Shiner Bock and enjoy the rampage.

I spent all my time from Dallas to Waco thinking about this scene, and I could not shake a smile from my face nor the certainty in my heart that I could make it happen.

Besides, as Dr. Hunter Thompson once wrote, "When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro."

And nothing says professional like a man in a bear suit.

-BDS

I saw the preview for the new Charlize Theron vehicle, "North Country," last week and I can't say that I was too excited about the experience.

The film appears to be one of those Oscar-baiting, strip-mining, well-meaning, lesson-learning plots where Theron must fight to preserve her dignity as well as her right to work in some shithole mine somewhere in the north country where the days are long and the accents are silly.

"North Country" is already generating good buzz, and while I'd bet that it's a quality project, I still have very little desire to see it.

The mine looks dark, dank and depressing (why anyone would fight to work in this pit is utterly beyond me) and since Theron's character spends her days toiling there, she tends to resemble this putrid hovel.

Theron looks extremely average and it's hard to be even remotely sexy when you're covered in mine gunk all day long.

After the preview ended, I was a little sad about Theron's plight concerning this mining issue, but I was even more concerned with her continuation of a disturbing trend where actresses break onto the movie scene with a head-turningly sexy debuts and then spend the rest of their careers shunning the very hotness that caused them to leave their mark in the first place.

Theron first came to my attention after her part in "Two Days in the Valley." I didn't know who she was, but I certainly wanted to find out after watching her pummel Teri Hatcher and hump James Spader like a hyena.

Quite simply, she was phenomenal. She was also blonde and chiseled and wearing a white nightie for large parts of the film.

Theron is by no means an anomaly in this regard, however, as she is merely following in the footsteps of many other big stars who have never again looked as good as they did in their early movies.

A few examples:

Cameron Diaz - In the movie "The Mask," Diaz was voluptous and curvy with all of her facial gifts intact. She has never looked as good again as she has turned to period pieces, bad romantic comedies and apparently lost all her curves even before she started dating Justin Timberlake.

Julia Roberts - She looked great in "Pretty Woman" even if she did use a body double. Regardless, she was still damn sexy, and the only movie where she's come close to rivaling her work as Richard Gere's hooker was in "Erin Brockavich," a film where she played a legal crusader who merely dressed like a hooker.

Jennifer Connelly - Few people saw the Don Johnson classic "The Hot Spot," but it's definitely worth a rental as Connelly is simply smoking. How Johnson got with her and Virginia Madsen in the film is a secret I'd like to know, but Connelly has never again come close to her magic in this film (with the possible exception of "Career Opportunities").

Catherine Zeta-Jones - She is on the fence because she hasn't completely shunned her physical charms thanks to good-looking turns in "Intolerable Cruelty" and "Chicago" (except for the haircut). But for my money, she has never rivaled her role as a sexy Spanish senorita in "The Mask of Zorro."

That is just a partial list, but the message is clear - if you discover a young actress and believe her to be stunningly sexy then you better savor every minute of it because the only certainty is that she'll change.

She'll go period ("Mary Reilly") or Irish ("Michael Collins") or both ("Gangs of New York") or she may simply get herself stranded in the North Country and they never return the same way again.

-BDS

It's good to be a Viking these days.

The football team might be going nowhere this season, but apparently that didn't stop roughly 17 Minnesota players from chartering two boats on Lake Minnetonka that were loaded to the gills with liquor and prostitutes.

The team and state officials are now embroiled in a scandal that threatens their season as well as the very morals of Minnesota after boat crew members complained to the local authorities concerning prostitution and lewd behavior aboard the floating party barges.

The boats were scheduled to take a leisurely 2 1/2 hour cruise on the lake, but the captains returned the Vikings to the dock after less than an hour.

There were reports of open acts of sex, heavy drinking, aggresive propositioning of female boat crew members, and urinating on private property among other lascivious behavior.

The truly fightening thing is that they were able to accomplish all this in less than an hour. I can only imagine in vivid detail over and over again what might have transpired had the entire cruise taken place as scheduled.

State officals were suitably outraged as Gov. Tim Pawlenty declared "If the allegations are true, it's awful. We understand that athletes aren't necessarily role models, but we at least expect them to abide by the basic laws of the state."

And of human decency he might have added.

That kind of morally corrupt behavior is not generally tolerated in public even if you are a rich athlete. The players should have taken a page from the Stanley Kubrick film "Eyes Wide Shut" and realized that the wealthy have been conducting themselves like pure animals for centuries, but they must do it behind closed doors.

And wearing elaborate animal masks might help to disguise the participants.

As it stands, this is a scandal that will hound the team for the rest of the season and beyond. You can already write the Vikings out of the play-offs, although they probably won't care because the off-season will come sooner and there's always a party somewhere.

My recommendation would be to try South Beach the next time they're up for a little debauchery.

-BDS

I generally try to contain my gloating - except when it comes to Chris O' Donnell and Freddie Prinze Jr.

A few blogs ago, I mentioned that these two "stars" were headlining new television shows that looked abysmal and I also predicted that they would struggle to find an audience (or at least anyone who would admit to watching them).

So far, I am at least half-right as O'Donnel's lawyer show, "Head Cases," has already received the ax after only two episodes.

I might have been wrong about O'Donnell having absolutely no talent, however, because I believe that it takes a very real and very special talent to bomb so badly after only two hours on television that the network decided to cut their losses and shut down production.

With the premiere of "Freddie" only a week or so away, I can only hope that he follows in O'Donnel's mighty footsteps and perhaps even surpasses them. It would be pretty special to air just a single episode before being canned.

Unfortunately, "Freddie" might be around a little longer as it is being packaged with "The George Lopez Show" as some sort of Chicano power hour of television.

I believe this is only wishful thinking on the part of ABC execs because while it is technically true that Prinze is part Hispanic; he's still a full-time tool in my book.

-BDS