2 Dollar Productions

"A thousand thousand slimy things lived on, and so did I,"
- Sam Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

Few things in the world are worse than a raging hangover.

Having your toenails ripped off by a pair of rusty pliers or being strapped to a chair and forced to listen to Clay Aiken on a constant loop come to mind immediately, but most things are mere child's play compared to a hangover that beats you like a gong for the better part of a day and only lets you go when it gets bored.

I can't count the number of mornings I have gotten out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom muttering "never again" under my stank breath. Never again will I poison my body with booze and end up at Jack N The Box at 2:30 am and order the Bacon Ultimate Cheeseburger combo.

These are all lies, however, because hangovers are like bad luggage or herpes - you can never rid yourself of them.

The best you can hope for is to find ways to cope with an enemy that fights dirty and one that will put your head in a vice faster than a Mafia Don. If you expect a fair fight from a hangover you've lost before you ever started and can expect a day of misery, despair and pain.

The only sensible solution is to go on the offensive.

So, with that in mind here's a recent battleplan that turned into a rousing success for me in the lifelong battle that rages on and on.

8:30 am - Rise and stumble into a hot bathtub with a full glass of water. You might think that sleeping later is smart, but I think the real key is to face the hangover head-on and conquer it.

9 am - Shower and brush your teeth for 17 minutes

9:17 am - Breakfast - This must be undertaken with some skill and you need 1 large pot of strong coffee, 1 glass of O.J., 32 oz. of water, 4 pieces of bacon, 4 scrambled eggs with onion and cheese, side of hash browns, 2 pieces of whole wheat toast, 1 grapefruit, 1 glass of milk and a slice of pie. In addition, take a multi-vitamin, 2 C's, 2 aspirin, and some Ginseng.

11 am - Leave your residence immediately and start moving or you will fall in a heap on your couch and never recover.

11:15 am - As long as it isn't raining, drop the top on your car and put Bob Dylan's "Desolation Row" on repeat as you drive to your local Best Buy or wherever you buy your DVDs.

11:30 am - Buy a good DVD or two to watch in the afternoon while stretched out on your couch. My recent additions of "Raging Bull," "Sex, Lies and Videotape," and "Wonder Boys" were an immense help.

12:15 pm - Visit KFC for 5 of their new '99 cent snacker sandwiches.

12:30 pm - Head to Sonic for a Butterfinger Blast and then go back to your place and shower off the nasty alcohol sweats that are ALWAYS around the next day.

1:15 - pm - Bring 2 good pillows and your DVDs and your Snackers and put your Blast in the freezer as you find the couch and throw the first movie into the player.

The rest of the afternoon should be spent guzzling water, eating Snackers and watching movies. After the first film, make sure you eat the Blast before you start the next one and then drift in and out of sleep as the new one plays in the background.

If you follow this system you should be feeling human again by mid-afternoon and ready to strap another one on for the evening. A hangover is an adaptable enemy, however, so I would recommend changing this routine almost immediately, although the best solution I can fathom would be to stay 18 years old forever.

I never remember having a hangover when I was that age.

-BDS

Everybody is Irish on St. Patty's Day.

The actual amount of Irish blood flowing through your body can be minimal or even nonexistent, but on this day, it doesn't matter as millions of Americans will use the holiday and their "Irish roots" to justify a large indulgence of green beer, Jameson whiskey and all things related to cabbage.

The population of Ireland is a mere 3.9 million people, yet nearly 34 million Americans claim to have Irish ancestory, according to a recent newspaper survey.

I'm not a numbers cruncher, but something seems amiss with those statistics or the more likely scenario is that many people are simply lying to cover their predilection for public drunkeness.

Regardless, I have always loved St. Patty's Day and have fond remembrances of drinking Black and Tans until morning and then watching other people throw up a horrible green liquid into their hands and onto their shoes as I made my way to Denny's for a nice greasy breakfast.

I have never had an ounce of symphathy for these animals, however, as anyone stupid enough to drink green beer gets what they deserve. The beer distributors who came up with this idea must chuckle to themselves every time they pass a puddle of green vomit on the morning after St. Patty's Day.

So, my advice would be to stick with normal beer colors like black (Guinness) or gold (Harp) or amber (whiskey) and leave the green beer for freshmen college students, hopeless dorks from your office or those with 1/100 Irish in them who only claim the ancestory to rid themselves of the shame of wearing stupid green hats and talking about how much they love Bennigans.

-BDS

I picked up the newspaper today and it was filled with sex.

Sex stretched from the front page to the editorials and finished with a flourish in the religion section. It was hard to miss the writing on the wall, and the message wasn't pretty - America seems to be turning into a sex factory full of lust-crazed degenerates who are poised to give the French a run for their money when it comes to perversion.

I missed out on the sexual revolution of the 60s and 70s by not having the good sense to be born yet, but the onset of AIDS in the 80s combined with the stern warnings that sex equaled death effectively squashed the libidos of many young Americans.

But this is no longer the case, and the playing field of high school sex has altered so dramatically in the 10 years since I left it that what was considered hitting a triple in my day wouldn't get you out of the dugout now.

From the sound of things, kids are merely killing time in history class before getting blowjobs at lunch and setting up orgies for the weekend. A 16-year-old student at a Richardson High School wrote an editorial urging parents to face reality, and the reality is that "It's an orgy out there; casual sex is growing like weeds."

Her summation of the current state of high school sex affairs was succinct and informative.

"Here are the facts in our terms: Friends-with-benefits are trendy, trains are becoming more popular, orgies are more accepted than ever, and oral sex is more casual than denim."

I might have enjoyed high school a little bit more had this kind of behavior been more rampant. Besides, I wore jeans to class almost every day, and that's a lot of denim and hummers in any given week.

Maybe Supreme Court Justice Antonin Scalia saw this all coming when he decried the 2003 court ruling which struck down the Texas sodomy law. Scalia warned that the ruling would have dire and far-reaching effects and unleash a "massive disruption of the current social order."

I was all for striking down the sodomy law, which always seemed asinine because anyone who wants the government to legislate what goes on in my bedroom is almost certainly some far-right religious lunatic.

Scalia was all for peeking his head in, however, and wrote in his dissent that "this effectively decrees the end of all morals legislation."

Could it be that Scalia was onto something?

Maybe the pendulum has swung and a new moral code has sprung up when nobody was looking. It's possible that a new sexual revolution is taking place and starting in the high schools before taking to the streets for public orgies, flogging and perversion on a scale that would make Caligula blush.

It's hard to say for sure, but don't be surprised if your neighbor starts coming home with sacks of whips and people start shopping for groceries dressed like the Gimp from "Pulp Fiction."

The "train" is coming to the station, and you better be prepared to climb aboard or you will be left in the dust.

-BDS

I don't watch nearly as much MTV as I did when I was a teenager.

I lived through the "I want my MTV" salad days of the network, but after "Jackass" left the air, I catch only occasional glimpses of the channel and I feel fine with this arrangement. The other day, however, I managed to find some actual music videos as I was surfing and noticed that rapper 50 Cent had the number one slot with "Candy Shop."

Although I can't argue with the video, which features 50 and a group of sleazy sex madams holed up in some kind of mansion where chocolate sauce, whips and oversized bathtubs are the norm, I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdly juvenile lyrics that were pouring from his mouth and that he appeared to be taking them seriously.

"I'll take you to the candy shop, and let you lick my lollipop, oh girl don't you stop . . .

I'll melt in your mouth not in your hand," - excerpts from "Candy Shop"

I wrote something similar but far more clever during my middle school years, but nobobdy was waving a recording contract at me and telling me how they would rent out a giant house full of girls for my amusement.

Instead, Mrs. Chapman took up my piece of scribbled paper and sent me to in-school suspension, thus proving once again that life is often unfair. On the flip side, 50 did get shot 9 times before making it big so I suppose everything balances out in the end.

It won't be balancing out much longer for Sandra Bullock, however, if she keeps turning down film roles like the character that Hillary Swank ultimately played in "Million Dollar Baby." I just read that Bullock was originally approached to play the white trash boxer in the movie, but after demanding too much money she was told to take a walk.

It's hard to imagine any actress doing a better job than Swank, but Bullock could have used the opportunity to stretch herself and give it the old college try. Eventually, she came around and agreed to work for less money, but by that point the producers and Eastwood had decided to go with Swank and Bullock was left out in the cold with only "Miss Congeniality 2: Armed and Fabulous" to keep her warm.

I didn't see the original "Miss Congeniality," but I'm willing to bet at least 50 cents that the film didn't leave many unanswered questions that demanded a sequel, and I would bet a whole dollar that the forthcoming sequel is anything but fabulous.

-BDS

I know that everyone has their own personal list of things or acts that they absolutely will not, cannot or shall not do under any circumstances.

My own personal list includes things like never owning a mini-van or Taurus, never being seen in public with a little Paris Hilton-like terrier, never referring to myself in the third person, refusing to watch home makeover shows, etc.

I also thought wearing a Speedo fit somewhere on this list, but after my photo shoot on Sunday, I realize now that my list must be revised.

First off, I don't own a Speedo, and I think this matters when you consider the circumstances that dictated my wearing one - But I'm getting ahead of myself.

I got to the shoot on a brisk Sunday morning to find the photographer (gay of course, not that there's anything wrong with that), and his assistant (also gay, not that there's anything wrong with that) unloading the camera equipment out of their Ford Explorer.

He had chosen a park near Oak Lawn in Dallas to shoot me. It came furnished with some nice graffiti-laden concrete walls, a small cold creek running through it, plenty of green grass and as a bonus some lucky kid was kicking a soccer ball against the wall while this all occurred.

After mussing my hair with styling product, I put on jeans and a white "wife-beater." I also got to wear my old beat-to-hell Red Wing boots, which reminded me of college and beer and managed to put me a little bit at ease.

Unfortunately, that was the last time I wore a shirt for the next two hours and it was definitely chilly while roaming the park in early March when you're only wearing your white Jockey boxers for warmth. Selah.

Anyway, I quickly progressed (or regressed) from my jeans/beater ensemble to workout shorts sans shirt before moving into my white cotton Jockey boxers. It was at this point that the oil and lip balm appeared out of the assistant's bag, and he wielded them like a crazed transvestite hopped up on speed.

In no time at all I was greased like a pig with lips that shined like new state quarters.

After the boxers were finished, the flesh-colored Speedo was next and I faced the moment of truth. I was bumping up against my own idealogy, but I thought of Tom Cruise in "Risky Business" and remembered how he said sometimes "you have to say what the fuck and make your move."

So I did.

In this case, however, that move was up against a concrete wall with my leg cocked at such an angle that it will appear to all the world that I was naked when he shot me from the side. The photographer said something about "being sexy" and loving "the lines in my legs," but I didn't hear much as I kindly let my mind wander.

When the shoot was over, I felt strangely good as I drove back to my apartment with top down and Steve Earle playing loudly. Sometimes it's good to break your own rules as long as it doesn't hurt anyone else or involve animals.

Rules were of course made to broken, but we'll see if that cliche holds firm in a few short weeks when the proofs come back from the shoot.

In the meantime, the Bryan is going to enjoy chucking his diet out the window, tossing pack a few pints and maybe getting some work done on our next screenplay.

But I'm not buying a Speedo.

-BDS

About a month ago I posted a blog detailing a rather bizarre offer involving my participation in a shirtless modeling gig that is due to be featured in a coffee table book.

I had spoken with the photographer, and we both agreed that it was something I would pursue if for no other reason than it sounded like a good story. He talked in generalities about a March/April shoot that he described as typical Abercrombie & Fitch stuff with guys running around outdoors with no shirts.

After I got off the phone, I immediately started a diet/workout routine which consisted of 5 days a week of weight training, 3 weekly cardio sessions, low carbs, no sugar, no alcohol, no drugs, high protein and I have been following this regime for the past month.

It has not been fun and I would not recommend it for anyone.

During this time, I have been easily irritated, boasted consistently low energy and the food is flat-out boring. It also doesn't help matters when your sex drive could be accurately compared to a mortally wounded tree sloth.

But the wait is over and the photo shoot is supposedly on for this Sunday in Oak Lawn. For those of you unfamiliar with the Dallas scene, let's just say that the area isn't a bastion for heterosexual males if you catch my drift.

So, I'm basically riding this thing out on a wing and a prayer and I just hope that nothing goes sideways when I show up in a few short days.

All I do know is that I don't care how much alcohol they ply me with at the location, my pants are staying firmly affixed to my torso. And before anyone calls me a prude, just consider that my grandparents will almost certainly have this thing sitting on their coffee table for the world to see someday.

A shirtless grandson is an interesting and vaguely risque picture to show their neighbors, but a full frontal shot turns you into the black sheep pervert of the family who doesn't get spoken about during the holidays.

-BDS

I am sick of my TV, and am making the decree that I will refuse to watch it until some decent shows start again or Joe Rogan is forced off the air (does this clown really deserve to host TWO television shows).

Typically, I can escape to the movies to re-charge my creative engine, but there has been no respite at my local Tinseltown since the beginning of 2005. This is due with the fact that the usual slate of movies which open in January and February are almost universally deplorable and should be avoided like the plague; witness "Son of the Mask," "Boogeyman," "The Wedding Date," "Man of the House," and "Cursed."

You know you're in trouble when "Hitch" seems like the only lifeline you have available.

To fill this celluoid void, I have been watching a lot of TV, but with the exception of "Arrested Development" and "Lost" there's just not much that has caught my attention. I stopped watching reality shows a year ago (with the exception of "The Bachelorette" this year and that was a tremendously bad decision) and most sitcoms are so awful that even the laugh track sounds embarrassed.

There appears to be hope on the horizon, however, as "The Shield" and "Deadwood" are scheduled to kick off their respective seasons during March. Besides, there's always the NCAA tournament to drain your time, your wallet and to lose the respect of any female who wanders into your general vicinity.

When I was traveling through Europe last year I seemed to remember that the TV programming had a different feel to it. My best friend in Ireland confirmed this to me over the phone recently, but qualified his statement with the warning that different "did not necessarily mean better."

It might not have been better per se, but I thought it had less rigid standards than our programming since Janet Jackson's nipple came out to say hello during the Super Bowl.

But it seems that Europeans can be angered over indencency just as much as a group of Baptists from the Deep South. Recently, Rebecca Loos (David Beckham's ex-assistant who was rumored to have slept with him) appeared on a reality show called "The Farm" and sparked an outrage after she masturbated a pig and collected its semen.

Several viewers complained that her antics were akin to bestiality, but in the end, cooler heads prevailed as the regulatory body decided that her actions had not been "degrading or harmful to the boar."

Personally, I think the ruling is a victory for both viewers AND boars throughout the world.

-BDS

The Oscars have come and gone and Martin Scorcese has once again left the building empty-handed.

I can't say that he deserved to win this year, however, as I felt that Clint Eastwood's "Million Dollar Baby" had a far greater emotional impact than "The Aviator." Scorcese has had legimite beefs in the past after getting shafted for "Raging Bull" and "Goodfellas," but this year he may have just been beaten.

Regardless, I won one Oscar bet and pushed on the other. It was my own fault for not winning both as I bet with my heart (taking Viginia Madsen over Cate Blanchett) instead of my head. And that is never a smart way to wager unless you're some sort of masochist who enjoys being fleeced.

This year's show did move along at a surprisingly brisk pace, although the producers should simply cut ALL musical performances (which somehow featured Beyonce in nearly every song) from the set.

I did enjoy Chris Rock's hosting style as he kept things moving and didn't try to get in the way of the show. He also got some good jabs in about President Bush, Tobey Maguire, Nicole Kidman, and a trip to a Magic Johnson theater provided some hilarious moments - the best being the man whose entire list of favorite movies of the past year began and ended with "The Chronicles of Riddick."

Ouch.

As a lead-up to the Oscars I decided to watch a past winner, "American Beauty," prior to the show. I hadn't seen the movie for several years, and while it wasn't quite as good as I remembered it to be, it still boasted a great cast and some excellent performances.

Everyone knows and has raved about Kevin Spacey, Annette Bening and Mena Suvari in the film, but after re-watching it I have to say that Peter Gallagaher (lately of "O.C." fame) has been unjustly overlooked.

In the film, he sports a silly head of dyed gray hair to play Buddy Kane, the "King" of local real estate. He comes into play several times in the movie, but none were more memorable than his decision to take Bening to a cheap hotel to consumate their affair.

It's hard to deliver a line such as "How does it feel to be nailed by the King?" but Gallagher does it with aplomb. Bening doesn't back down an inch, however, and even one-ups him with the retort "Oh, fuck me your majesty."

No wonder the film won so many awards.

Also appearing in the movie as a bizarre loner who enjoys taping people and inanimate objects while peeping from the shadows is Wes Bently. Bently got good notices for his performance and seemed to be poised to hit big after the movie was such a success, but I had to wonder where he's gone since then?

Maybe he's off chasing plastic bags around the country because I can't recall a single film he's been in since "American Beauty." This got me thinking about other actors who seemed destined to explode onto the scene, but instead detoured into obscurity.

I'm not talking about people like Corey Feldman, who had no discernible talent to being with, but instead about people like Bently; people who appeared in good films with fine performances and yet they went nowhere.

I'd like to start a list, but I have no time on a Monday morning as work beckons and I must heed the call. I will ponder other actors who should be placed on this list, but any help would be appreciated because the inherent nature of the project makes it difficult.

If these actors have disappeared from view then it's no surprise that it would be hard to remember them. Maybe they really should bring back those milk cartons with the pictures on them.

It could be a great help to us all.

-BDS

Deep thinking about "The O.C." is both an oxymoron and an exercise in futility. Despite this sentiment, here's 5 lessons I took from the latest episode.

1) School seems to be out indefinitely. I mean seriously have any of these kids been to school in months? At least on "Beverly Hills 90210" there were actual storylines that involved teenagers who attended class once in awhile.

2) Ryan is in dire need of a haircut. It looks like an otter fell, then died on his head and he hasn't been able to shake it off yet.

3) Zach appears to be 31 years old and still attending high school (even if there are no actual classes at the school - only a coffee bar). Since he's 31, however, it makes sense that he's more mature than ANY high schooler in the history of the world.

4) The homoerotic tension between Ryan and Seth seems to be reaching a fever pitch. Examples include the duo standing at opposing doors in the rain while gazing longingly at each other, then later sitting cross-legged across from each other on Seth's boat in the living room and the icing on the cake was when Summer repeatedly mentioned that Seth left her for Ryan.

5) If you didn't see the upside/down Spider-Man kiss foreshadowing 15 minutes into the episode you're not paying close enough attention or don't know your pop culture.

For years the University of Texas at Austin had turned down requests from film companies that asked for the school's endorsement. They carefully screened these inquiries before deciding that they would not allow the Longhorn emblem to be shown nor the campus to be featured in any movie that they did not deem suitable entertainment.

The wait will soon be over, however, as the Tommy Lee Jones vehicle "Man of the House" starts Friday.

From the previews that have been airing incessantly it appears that my former college has endorsed the film in a big way. Burnt orange is everywhere, on everyone and many scenes appear to be set at the football stadium.

Unfortunately, the movie looks terrible.

Perhaps it was Mr. Jone's impressive resume ("Lonesome Dove," "The Fugitive," "JFK," not "Volcano") that provided the incentive. Surely it wasn't Cedric the Entertainer, who bounces through the previews covered in orange and gyrating like a hyena.

On the other hand, the board might have been swayed by director Stephen Herek's presence, the acclaimed auteur of "The Mighty Ducks" and the huge piece of garbage "Life or Something Like It."

Regardless of the reason for the school's cooperation, the partnership has left me disappointed. I just can't believe that Dartmouth college gets "Animal House" and UT gets saddled with "Man of the House."

Sometimes, life or something like it just doesn't seem fair.

-BDS

"It never got weird enough for me," - Hunter S. Thompson

I wasn't planning on blogging today, but after I picked up the newspaper this morning and discovered that Hunter S. Thompson, inventor of Gonzo journalism as well as some of the most astute political writing of modern times, died last night - I just couldn't help myself.

Thompson shot himself at his famous fortified compound in Woody Creek, Colorado. He was 67 years old.

I've followed Thompson's work for many years, and his brand of fiery prose combined with a great appreciation for the value of words kept me motivated throughout my undergraduate journalism tenure at the University of Texas at Austin.

I even had a Gonzo symbol tattooed on my back during this time period, and I'm still glad I had it done.

Thompson was a counterculture icon to many, a deranged maniac to numerous others, but what I admired most about the man was that he always lived life on his own terms. That philosphy is easy to talk about, but hard to put into action.

Hunter managed to do it nearly every day of his life.

The man owned peacocks, traveled the world, shot heavy artillery, took almost every drug known to man and beast, wrote several ground-breaking articles and books, raced motorcycles at extremely high speeds, bet heavily, called politicians on their bullshit, enjoyed dove bars and hot tubs and cherished his freedom to indulge in all of his passions.

A self-described "Southern gentlemen" from Kentucky, Thompson struck out at anyone, any organziation or anything that threatened these freedoms for himself, his friends and other Americans.

He wrote consistently about what he lamented as the "death of the American dream" in widely praised books such as "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas," "Songs of the Doomed" and "Generation of Swine."

Although he was known for his prodigious drug intake as well as his participatory role in his stories, it would be too easy to dismiss his ravings as that of some wounded beast hopped up on illicit substances.

His life-long political writing combined the best of both worlds as his predictions about candidates were eerily accurate and he also produced a classic political tome, "Fear and Loathing on the Campaign Trail '72," from his occasionally drug-altered view of the national landscape.

He also took it as his duty to help run Richard Nixon out of office, an intelligent stance echoed by many journalists but almost none kept up the flogging of this corrupt man as much as Thompson.

Nixon once said that his nemisis represented "that dark, venal, and incurably violent side of the American character."

That might be partially true, but then where did that leave Nixon?

Thompson continued his political writing for the rest of his life and also wrote several other good books such as "The Rum Diary," "Screwjack," and "Kingdom of Fear."

It's always sad when someone you admire and appreciate is suddenly gone forever. There will be no more books, columns for Espn.com, or interviews with the legendary "Doctor of Gonzo journalism."

One thing is certain, however, and that is the world is a less interesting place now that Dr. Thompson has moved out of it.

I only hope that wherever he's gone that he finds an endless supply of Chivas Regal, a good piece of land and a sturdy typewriter waiting for him.

-BDS

It's Sunday afternoon and there's little to watch and nothing to bet on because no sane person would give you any odds on the NBA All-Star game or the Daytona 500. Besides, I could care less about the All-Star game and NASCAR racing holds all the appeal of a taser gun to the crotch for me.

So, in lieu of working on our new script I decided to read my recently arrived Details magazine, which featured Kevin Federline (a.ka. Mr. Britney Spears) on the cover.

It was late last week that I first heard about his interview on some kind of hard news program like "Extra."

Supposedly, Kevin was a surprisingly thoughtful and articulate fellow according to some "celebrity expert" being interviewed on the show. This seemed strange to me despite the fact that I had never heard him utter a word on television or even read any trace of a thought from Federline in print.

I was basing this viewpoint on virtually no concrete facts, but instead on the seemingly endless supply of pictures featuring him sporting ridiculous combinations of baggy jeans, wife-beaters and NY Yankees baseball caps that were incapable of being worn straight on his head.

After reading the interview, however, while I won't say I was correct in my assumption I certainly wasn't wrong. What emerged was the portrait of a young man as a dancing artist, and as a bonus, Britney Spears showed up to help Kevin with some colorful quotes.

Here's some of my favorites:

On What He Did Before Dancing:

KF: Nothing. Shit. I was delivering pizzas and up to no good.

On meeting and falling in love with Britney:

KF: Shit, it just happened to be that she had everything and then some. Shit, I could go on forever about my love for this girl.

On Spear's supporting him (personal note: emotionally of course)

KF: I mean she's fucking proud of me. I could be sitting at home doing nothing. I could be playing fucking video games.

And finally on his future career ambitions:

KF: Shit, well yeah, we're starting a clothing line. We're going to hopefully launch that by the end of summer or Christmastime of next year, or this year.

Shit, it was clear to me that there was more to this Federline guy than I could have possibly imagined.

It's no wonder that Spears seems so determined to have a kid with this guy, but she did acknowledge the problems of children and touring as she cited Celine Dion's show in Vegas as an inspiration.

BS: Everybody comes to her. When I have kids, I'm so there. That's what I'm doing: "Come to me, motherfuckers."

Personally, I just think it's great these two crazy kids found each other because, shit, it's not easy to find an unemployed former dancer who plays video games AND can make and deliver a mean Pepperoni pie.

Not too easy indeed.

-BDS

Now that Valentine's Day is finished it's time for the antithesis of romance - a divorce.

A good friend of mine is visiting his attorney today to sign his final divorce papers, and he couldn't be happier.

He's been living with his soon to be ex-wife in their house for several months now, a situation which arose because of Texas laws that make it mandatory that couples wait before formally divorcing. The financial incentive, however, was the main reason for the living situation as neither party wanted to pay for a mortgage as well as apartment rent/utilities/etc.

It's not difficult to imagine that this has been an uncomfortable living situation despite owning a two-story house.

Imagine your worst roommate from college (I once drunkenly punched a birthday cake intended for my horrible roommate and baked by his ugly girlfriend after I discovered it in our refrigerator), multiply that by a thousand and you might have a clue as to the level of frustration that my friend been feeling since the beginning of 2005.

Things have been very tense at the house, and there were also several periodic flare-ups like the time she used his airline miles to book a first-class ticket to visit her sister (after it had been decided that he would receive the miles in the settlement).

I recommended to my friend that he start watching pornography at uncomfortably loud levels all day and night, but I'm not sure if he took me up on the suggestion.

Regardless, the deed has been done, his ex-wife is moving to Houston (which is punishment enough as far as I'm concerned) and it's time to release my friend back into the wild.

I only hope that he finds the dating scene somewhat familiar or it will grind his nuts like a tractor combine, although I bet that's a feeling he's used to by now.

-BDS

It's Valentine's Day again, but I don't want to write a typical rant about how February 14th is a manufactured "Hallmark Holiday," how florists might as well bend you over the counter as they hand over your flowers or how the service sucks at all restaurants and their price-fixed choices should be flushed down the toilet (if I'm forking over hundreds of dollars I'll order ANYTHING I want off the menu).

No. That line of thought would be too easy, too traditional. Instead, I want to talk about Fred Durst.

To the casual observer it might seem that the concept of romance AND Fred Durst could never exist together under any circumstances. But they do.

Just ask several Playboy Playmates, Britney Spears, Halle Berry and numerous other extremely attractive women who have been rumored to have taken a roll in the hay with Durst before they kept a "Rollin' Rollin' Rollin'" themselves.

Many of these women will barely admit to even knowing Durst after their supposed interactions, but who can really blame them? The important thing to me is that something might have happened in the first place.

I mean what kind of hidden depths does Durst posses that I cannot find?

From my perspective he's a man who enjoys shouting, writing mediocre to embarassing lyrics, prone to excessively using a backwards baseball hat to hide his receding hairline, doesn't appear to care for personal hygiene, and has been accused by several people (including former band members) of being a giant asshole.

Romantic indeed. But, the guy has to have something going for him and maybe it's his spiritual side.

"The spirit inside of me is a predator of energy and balance," - Fred Durst (taken from his blog)

That must be it.

I've always felt the spirit inside of me was like a tornado of karma, fusion and lunch meat. That sorry package, however, is nothing compared to Mr. Fred Durst, a man who knows no bounds or limits when it comes to romance or keeping his spiritual side in balance.

I think we all could learn something from him on Valentine's Day 2005.

-BDS

I must say that my co-writer and elder brother is providing a lot of fodder for me to write about lately. So...topless coffee-table book modeling, eh? Exciting. True. Strange. To be sure. However, I believe that I will approach this situation with cautious optimism.

I say 'cautious' because I experienced a similar situation in college. When I first arrived at my campus, a young, bright-eyed 18 year old, I did not know the kind of fiendish savages that are just waiting to take advantage of people like me. So, it was not long before I learned that starring in an "Art Film" actually meant being a "secondary character in low budget amateur porn."

I fear that in a short time my co-author will be forced to learn the ugly truth that "topless coffee table book modeling" actually means "donkey fluffer in Tiajuana."

Editors Note to PETA: No one here at 2DollarProductions endorses or condones beastiality. No donkeys were fellated in the making of this post.

-JWS

For the past few months I've been hearing about Bright Eyes and the band's lead singer 24-year-old Conor Oberst, who people have been referring to as a "young Bob Dylan."

I had vaguely heard of the band before they recently released two simultaneous CDs, but with all the good reviews and general fanfare I decided I should probably check them out. The music was certainly better than a lot of the current popular nonsense that usually fills the airwaves. He also gets points from me for signing up EmmyLou Harris to sing vocals on several tracks.

However, after a recent Bright Eyes show in Fort Worth, according to Oberst I'm probably not smart enough to understand his complexity because I happen to live in Texas.

During the concert, Oberst slurred to audience:

"I don't know if you know this, but I hate your fucking state. I'd put a fucking gun to my head before I'd live in your state."

Since I'm from Texas, I should own a gun (according to Oberst's pin-headed logic), but unfortunately I don't have one handy to lend to him. Missed opportunities I suppose.

He continued by saying that if you were at the concert that you weren't "a normal Texan" because "if you were a normal Texan, you'd probably be roping steers and raping Indians."

Raping Indians?

The Indians by and large went the way of the buffalo many years ago, which is probably around the same time Oberst was making music in his basement, doing his deep thinking and masturbating furiously while trying to rough out the tough Nebraska winters.

That's right friends - he's from Nebraska - which the last time I checked wasn't exactly a bastion of liberal-minded activism.

Maybe if he grew up on the East or West coast he could claim ignorance about his recent statements, but he didn't and it's exactly his kind of bullshit views that piss me off to no end.

It's the same school of thought that assumes that if you live in Texas that you voted for George W. Bush twice, ride horses to work while wearing your ten-gallon hat and sleep with your sister on the weekends.

To be sure that kind of stuff does happen here, but it happens everywhere and is not limited to the borders of Texas, South Dakota, California, Nebraska or any other state in the Union.

So Conor, if you hate Texas so much just stay out the state and concentrate on making better music and eating something (if you were any thinner a stiff wind would blow your skinny ass down).

Besides, I'm listening to Bob Dylan's "Blood on the Tracks" while I write this missive, and I have to say to Conor that I know Bob Dylan's work and you sir are no Bob Dylan.

Not by a long shot.

-BDS

Just when I was feeling lost and adrift a bizarre offer came from nowhere to shake up my world and cause my priorities to adjust.

It all started with an email (thanks Gabrielle) asking for male fitness models who would be interested in appearing in a coffee table book. It was described as something akin to an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue - i.e. a bunch of shirtless guys playing sports or shooting pool or lounging around - minus the vaguely creepy underage aspect.

So, I sent some pictures into this photographer and he called me last night. He said that he definitely wants to shoot me for the book and that if I was a few inches taller I could be doing runway work.

Anyway, he's going to L.A. to shoot something, and then he's coming to Texas at the end of February to meet with me and go over details of the shoot, which he thinks will be in March or April. I suppose the warmer weather means less hard nipples or something.

In addition, he told me that this group from NYC, The Lyons Agency, does all the major booking for fitness shoots across the U.S. and they will be hosting a convention in May in Dallas for $700 for the weekend.

However, he said I don't have to pay that fee and he'll take me to meet the head guy in his hotel suite downtown for FREE.

It's certainly an odd situation, but at the very least the book will be a cool thing to do and something I can have sitting on my coffee table if for no other reason than it will be one less copy that will be sitting in gay bathhouses across the country.

Weird stuff, but at the very least it will be worth a story or two, and besides I've always said when the going gets weird the weird turn pro.

That being said, however, does this seem strange to anyone else?

-BDS

I just read a blurb about Martha Stewart which provoked both sympathy and loathing in my heart. Apparently, Ms. Stewart has a new worry to contend with in prison besides the shower room, holiday decorating contests (which her team lost despite claims about pay-offs to the guards) and bad food.

These concerns are merely trivial compared to the cruel and unusual punishment that the sadistic wardens had been saving for her all along. They had been toying with her with the start, but now the fangs have come out, the claws have been bared and the gauntlet has been thrown down - Stewart is taking line-dancing lessons.

Line-dancing is by far the worst, most idiotic kind of dancing that one could find in any part of the world. I would rumba, foxtrot, do the "lambada," lean back, breakdance or hustle before I would resort to line-dancing.

The very name conjures up images of overweight people who are squeezed into too tight blue jeans and listening to Billy Ray Cyrus. Then the mass of denim starts flailing about like they're having a collective seizure.

I pity the poor fool who stands in their way.

Although I have never had much love for anything or any product with Martha Stewart on the label, I must admit that I finally felt sorry for her - at least until I read she signed up voluntarily.

And then I remembered why I didn't much care that she went to prison in the first place.

-BDS

Like any decent American I watched the Super Bowl last night, and the game actually turned out to be worth it. In addition, my bets paid off handsomely and I have a little more cash in my pocket and a Grande latte from Starbucks coming my way.

Although you can't count on winning bets or even a good football game in most years, you can usually depend on the commercials to make your viewing worthwhile. Besides, at $2.4 million per 30-second spot there's a lot of pressure on these companies to make ads that are watchable, illuminating and memorable. Sometimes they even suceed.

This year there were still the perennial advertising heavyweights such as Budweiser, who pulled off some good spots (the skydiving one was by far their best with the stupid designated driver dance being not so hot).

But there were also several new offerings that were worthwhile from companies like Ameriquest (loved the boyfriend mix-up where he appears to be butchering his girlfriend's cat when she arrives home) and the new Internet offering GoDaddy.com, which thumbed its nose at the FCC with its blatantly gratuitous ad featuring a buxom woman in front of panel of bureaucrats.

For the rest of the competition, however, it was a zoo out there. Literally.

I don't know if there was a discount on animal performers or if everyone was using the same ad agency, but the general consensus seemed to be that when all else fails throw some non-mammals onscreen and get out of their way.

Giraffes, storks, bears and especially monkeys were running amok everywhere I looked. Generally, members of the ape family do bring a smile to my face, but by the 3rd or 4th Careerbuilder.com monkey spot I felt like finding a gun and starting a monkey massacre. And I've never shot anything or anyone in my life.

At least Fed Ex acknowledged the inherent cliche of animal performers during their ad, which also featured Burt Reynolds, cute kids, cheerleaders and of course a bear. On the plus side, I can't deny there seemed to be a certain karmic justice to watching the aforementioned bear kick Burt Reynolds in the crotch.

But now that the football season if officially over I feel a certain sense of loss in both my heart and my wallet. I have a hard time betting on the NBA, but the NCAA tournament is right around the corner.

In the interim, it's time to finally send our script off to the various contests we want to enter and certainly time to start a new one. I already have an idea, and I don't want to get too far ahead of myself but it just might involve some monkeys . . .

You've got to give the people what they want, eh?

-BDS

At long last there might finally be hope in this unflaggingly Republican state as musician/author/columnist Kinky Friedman recently announced his intention to run for Governor.

Although I would be hard-pressed to wager green money that the Kinkster will take down Rick Perry (or whomever comes out of the Republican camp) and pull off a Jesse Ventura-style victory, his presence alone ensures that the race will boast a little bit of humor.

For instance, this is what Kinky had to say about Perry and Sen. Kay Bailey Hutchinson at his press conference:

"Rick Perry is like Gray Davis minus the personality"

And about Hutchinson . . .

"She's twice the man Perry is"

Those quotes might be slightly wrong, but not by much, and in addition to his bits of levity there was also a steady stream of common sense that ran through Kinky's head.

"We're the number one state in executions, yet we're 49th in education spending," he reminded the crowd.

As far as I'm concerned common sense and a sense of humor are two qualities that are sorely lacking in far too many politicians and I intend to watch the upcoming race with great interest. Besides, anyone who can graduate from a UT honors program AND pen lyrics like "Get your biscuits in the oven and your buns in the bed" is a walking contradiction to interesting to ignore.

-BDS