I have two nieces.

Niece #1 just turned seven in November and Niece #2 is about to celebrate her fourth birthday in a few weeks. I would love to tell you their names.

But unfortuantely, that information is classified!

My sister Missy has informed me that I am not allowed to post the names or pictures of my nieces on the internet. My sister is convinced that one of my tens of readers will look upon the beatific faces of her angelic offspring and immediately hatch a plan to kidnap them.

I guess I should never told her that previously owned was recently voted Blog of the Year by the inmates of the Florida Department of Corrections. I'd like to send a shout-out to my boys in lock-down. Keep the faith! And thanks for the endorsement Gov. Bush!

I see my sister's point. My nieces are extremely cute.

And they're half Korean. Which means one thing. When they grow up black guys are going to love them. If you don't know what I'm talking about, just watch a rap video. To paraphrase the poet 50 Cent, black guys love Asian chicks like a fat kid love cake.

Luckily my nieces have Tito the Racist Dog to protect them!

Tito the Racist Dog is a a four year-old, Golden Retriever/German Sheppard mix. And he only barks at black men.

Now before you call the NAACP, my sister and her husband Dave adopted Tito the Racist Dog earlier this year, not knowing that the damage had already been done by the previous owner. Of course, my sister couldn't send Tito back. She's adopted too. My parents didn't send her back to Korea just because she cried every time my grandmother picked her up!

Anyway, who would have thought that a black dog named Tito would be a racist?! He is part German, so that might explain it. But he doesn't bark at my sister's neighbor Mr. Goldstein, which you would think a racist German dog might do.

Which brings me back to my nieces. Their Mom is 100% Korean. Their father is half Native American. Their uncle (me) is half Hispanic (I think). Our little family is one big melting pot!

Maybe, just maybe, Tito the Racist Dog will learn from our example; to live in peace and harmony with all races.

I have a dream,
that one day Tito the Racist dog will bark at no man because of the color of his skin, but rather because of the content of his character.

I also have a dream, that one day my sister will let me post pictures of my nieces without black bars on their eyes.

I have a dream today.



My sister is marrried to a guy named Dave.

Dave is the loving father of my nieces Emily and Laura. As you see from his hat, Dave was recently voted "Greatest Dad." Congratulations Dave! Your family is very proud of you.

Dave was hoping to win the title of "World's Greatest Dad" but that honor went to Niran Asawawatanaporn of Phuket, Thailand.

It was a pretty close race. But the judges went with Mr. Asawawatanaporn because he saved his nine children from the Tsunami. Please! The Tsunami is so last year! It's going to be 2006! It's a new year people! And who wants to think about super depressing things that happened last year?

Dave lets his two daughters eat all the candy they want! How is that not the World's Greatest Dad?!

In addition to his award for Greatest Dad, Mr. Asawawatanaporn's beloved pet buffalo also received a prize.
Apparently Rotjana the Buffalo carried the entire family on her back for two weeks, until they reached dry land. Again, I disagree with the judges on this one!

Everybody knows that the Greatest Buffalo is...

...Pro Football Hall of Famer Jim Kelly! What does Rotjana the Buffalo know about the no huddle offense?!

Please help me rectify this injustice! Forward this to your friends! Call your congressman!

The United States of America is the Greatest Country in the World! Let's keep the Greatest where they belong!



I spent Christmas at my sister Missy's place in South Florida. Here is a picture of my sister and me.

Do you see the family resemblance? People say we look like twins!

My sister was born in Pusan, South Korea. My parents adopted her when she was two years old. I was five. I went with my parents to the pick her up at the airport when she came over from Korea. Years later, when my teacher asked me where babies came from, I said “Terminal 7. But they have to go through customs first."

Missy spent the first two years of her life sleeping on a bamboo mat in an orphanage. Her Korean name was Hyun Sil Hahn, which means "Get me the fuck out of here!" Actually, in Korean they say the last name first, so it's really Hahn Hyun Sil, or "The Fuck out of here, get me!"

When my parents adopted my sister they changed her name to Missy, because it sounded kind of Asian but not too Asian. But we grew up in a Jewish neighborhood, so everybody thought her name was Mitzi.

Mitzi McKinley - The Irish Catholic South Korean Jew.

When we were growing up I didn't want the other kids to know that I was adopted. So I told everybody that Missy was really a foreign exchange student who just refused to go home.

My sister was the only Asian kid in our school, and the other kids used to be really mean to her and tease her a lot. Of course, I defended her. Because that's what Americans do when South Koreans are under attack.

Far be in from me to violate U.S. foreign policy. That would be unpatriotic.



Don't you hate it when you forget to fully charge your parents before Christmas?

My nieces - age 3 and 7 - were right in the middle of opening their presents on Christmas morning, when Poppy (L) and Bubba (R) just conked out. My Mom (a.k.a Bubba ) was looking in the Yellow Pages for places to get replacement battteries, but everything was closed for Christmas. Their speech started getting slower and for some reason my Mom started pulling up the collar of her dress. I think she was trying to access her battery pack!

My sister tells me that the new batteries should get to her apartment by January 3, 2006. Good luck until then Sis! Hopefully my Mom won't sink any more into that couch! That position can't be good for her osteoporosis!

Remember, when you get your kids grandparents for Christmas, make sure that battteries ARE included!



Dear Lord. Yesterday we celebrated the birth of your only begotten Son. Parents joined together with their children, as Mary and Joseph did with the baby Jesus on that sacred night more than 2,000 years ago.

But today, dear Father, we can't wait to get the hell away from these people! What is it about your Son's birthday that seems to cause familial strife?

Adult children were not meant to share close quarters with their parents for any more than a few hours. Once the second day begins, everything starts to go downhill.

God, we ask that you bless us with parents who understand that it's better to leave too early rather than too late. And we ask also that you bestow upon us the patience to ignore snide comments and to avoid pointless bickering.

And finally Lord, we pray that our parents will bless us with some money from the house they just sold, which was supposed to be our inheritance.

We ask this in the name of your Son, our Lord Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God for ever and ever. Amen.





Ingredients you will need for this trick:

1) Tree (does not have to be real)
2) Kids (do have to be real, but don't have to be yours)
3) Approximately $1,000 (does not have to be real, or yours - in fact it's more fun if it's neither!)

Merry Capitalist Christmas!



Earlier today I wrote about a conversation I had at LaGuardia Airport with a woman dressed as an ELF. Well, it turns out that she was a passenger on my flight to Ft. Lauderdale! When I saw her on the plane I vowed that somehow I would get a picture of her for all you non-believers. And you thought that the transcript of our conversation was just some moderately amusing piece of comedic fluff!

So here, with out further ado, is photographic proof of the existence of the ELF:

This picture reminds me of another famous photo taken to document the existence of a thought-to-be-mythical being:

Like the brave person who snapped this candid shot of Bigfoot, I took pictures of the ELF at my own peril. As you might imagine, it is somewhat difficult to take flash photos of people without them realizing they are being photographed. But that did not stop your intrepid photo-journalist!

When we got to the baggage claim area, the ELF sat down on the floor and pulled out a plastic baggy filled with cold medications. So, in addition to being an ELF, she may also be a meth mule!

It's pure genius! Security would never hassle a chubby, middle-aged woman dressed as an ELF! She could probably get away with carrying a ton of the stuff across state lines, like maybe in an over-stuffed backpack...

I'm on to you ELF LADY! People may think your bag is filled with presents for all the good little boys and girls, but I know better. Well you tell speedy ole' St. Nick and all his elfish henchmen that I'm on to your evil plan.

Attention, good Christians of the world! Lock your doors! Seal your fireplaces! Santa is going to fill your children's stockings with crystal methamphetamine.

It's two minutes 'til Christmas. Hurry! There's still time!


Okay that whole thing about not carrying unwrapped presents through security is bullshit. I just spent forty minutes on line at the Delta terminal at LaGuardia airport here in New York and everybody had sacks filled with wrapped presents. Can the x-ray machine see through wrapping paper? What if the wrapping paper is made of lead-based material? Hypothetically speaking, of course.

There was a woman on line dressed as an elf, with pointy ears and a hat. She was with her teenage daughter who was wearing a Santa cap, and a big belly (for her sake I hope it was part of the costume).

Here's an excerpt of my conversation with the ELF and SANTA:

ME: Happy Halloween!
MOM/ELF: What are you talking about?
ME: You're dressed in costumes, in public and this is not a theme park. So it must be Halloween!
MOM/ELF: It's Christmas Eve.
ME: Then why are you guys dressed up in costumes.
MOM/ELF: Because it's festive.
ME: How old is your daughter?
ME: Let me guess. "Sweet 16 and never been kissed," right?
DAUGHTER/SANTA: Yeah, how did you know?
ME: Just a hunch. Hey, can I take a picture of you guys together and put it on the internet?
MOM/ELF: Security!
ME: Wait a minute! What are you doing? Don't unwrap my presents! That's not plastic explosives, it's Play-Doh!



I just heard on the news that you can't carry wrapped Christmas presents onto a plane at U.S. airports. Apparently the terrorists have infiltrated Santa's workshop. What looks like a beautifully wrapped gift may actually be a radiological dirty bomb! Damn you al Qaeda! You guys are like the Grich who Stole Christmas, except with long beards and a fanatical devotion to Allah. And you don't like green eggs and ham because pork is not halal.

This sucks for me because I just spent half an hour wrapping the presents I'll be bringing to my family in Florida on Saturday. Thank God I found out about this before I got to the airport. Presents are only meant to be unwrapped one time. Unwrapping a present is like losing your virginity. Once you've opened it, you can't close it back up.

There 's no way those TSA officials are going to violate the wrapped Christmas presents of 9 million air travellers. Stuff is going to fall through the cracks. I hope Osama doesn't know about this. Knowing him, he'll dress one of his guys in a Dallas Cowboys sweatshirt and gift-wrap the plastic explosives.



The New York City transit workers strike is over, and I'm excited about taking the subway again tomorrow morning.

But I feel like it's going to be weird. Should I say something? Or should I just act like nothing happened? Honestly, I'm a little hurt. I think my greatest fear is that I will tell a transit worker how I feel, and they won't even care.

So, if you will bear with me during these trying times, I would like to express my feelings to the New York City subway system - in writing:

Dear Subway,

I stood on that subway platform, but you never came for me. You deserted me, just like my birth mother. Why? What is it about me that makes people want to leave me behind?

I remember the first time we met, when I was a freshman at NYU. It was love at first sight. I looked forward to riding you each day. And I did just that, for twenty years. Then you decided that wasn't enough, and you left me. And now you expect me to act like nothing happened.

I gave you everything you asked for: tokens, Metrocards. First it was $1, then $1.50, then $2; cash at the beginning, and then my credit card. I never even complained, not even about the rats. But that wasn't good enough for you.

I will forgive you for what you did, but I won't forget. Maybe, in time, I will learn to trust you again. I apologize if this is difficult for you to read, but it's just as hard for me to write.

You know I'll be back, because I need you. And you need me. We're right for each other. We belong together. You are the wind beneath my wings.

I missed you, Subway. I love you .




So it looks like the New York City transit worker's strike is over.

This is bad news for all the New Yorkers who were hoping to avoid family gatherings this Christmas. What a gift it would have been to be able to say to your mother-in-law, "We'd love to come for Christmas dinner, but the trains aren't running! Please mail us our presents. Better yet, just send us a check and we'll buy them ourselves."

I'm happy that the subways and buses will be running again. I'm getting tired of sharing cabs with chatty weirdos. It's just too bad they couldn't wait until the day after Christmas to go back to work. So much discomfort and awkwardness would have been avoided!

Oh well, I guess there's always next year. If the TWU signs a one-year contract today it will expire December 22
, 2006.

Maybe The Christmas Strike can become a New York City Holiday tradition, like the Radio City Christmas Spectacular, or the big tree in Rockefeller Center or the paralyzing seasonal depression.

The end of the transit strike is going to ruin Christmas for millions of New Yorkers! Bah humbug!



Last night I went to the "Holiday Party" for the production company for whom I just started working.

I've been on this freelance job for less than a week, but I still got the same free food and alcoholic beverages that longtime staff members got
. The party started at 5 pm with drinks and appetizers. Then came the dinner. Three drinks and two plates of food later, I found myself at the buffet table loading up on thirds of the free shrip cocktail. The owner of the company stood behind me in line and looked at me as if to say, "Who the fuck are you and why are you eating all my shrimp cocktail?"

So I looked at him and I said, "Hi I'm Will McKinley. I'm a freelancer. Thank you so much for your hospitality! I feel very honored to have been included in your Holiday Party this year. You know, as a freelancer, a lot of time you feel like you are not part of the family. That's particularly hard for me, because I'm adopted. Sometimes I feel like nobody really loves me, you know?"

He smiled politely as he loaded his plate with baked ziti (which, by the way, was delicious). I felt that he and I were bonding, so I continued. "Sure, I struggle with depression," I said. "But who doesn't, right? I cry sometimes, for no reason. I'll just be sitting in my apartment watching Sesame Street and the tears will just start flowing, and I don't really know why. My doctor tells me that it's a chemical imbalance. Don't get me wrong, I'm on plenty of medication. My bathroom looks like an explosion at Duane Reede! But sometimes I don't take my medicine because it makes me tired. Stay away from me on those days! I am not kidding! Sometimes when I don't take my medicine I do bad things, things that I shouldn't do, you know? Like eat all the shrimp cocktail so there's none left for the guy who's paying for it! But that's what the Holidays are all about, isn't it? Giving to the less fortunate! And I don't care what those girls over there from the Accounting Department say, you are not a cheap, soul-sucking, little homo cunt bitch. Anyway, Happy Holidays and thanks for the shrimp cocktail!"

Just between you and me, dear reader, I think
somebody may be getting a a little sumthin' extra in his Christmas envelope!


Wouldn't it be cool if this whole New York City transit strike was just a very elaborate episode of Punk'd? Maybe the trains are really running after all, and we just don't know it. Mayor Bloomberg will have a press conference and Ashton Kutcher will jump out in his ironic trucker cap and Bloomberg will be like, "No (bleeping) way! Dude! You are so (bleep)ing dead! I am not kidding!"

And then it will be revealed that Transit Workers Union local president Roger Toussaint is really some Carribean dude who scores weed for Ashton.

If this theory turns out to be true I will never say another bad thing about Ashton Kutcher for the rest of my life. If it's not true, then I will still hate him.



I bundled up this morning and left my apartment, prepared to make the twenty minute trek to work because of the New York City transit strike. I walked half a block and saw ten unoccupied cabs heading my way. I have never had such an easy time getting a cab at Rush Hour.

I got in the cab and asked the driver to take me from 8th Avenue & 14th Street to 6th Avenue and 27th Street. "That's gonna be $10," the driver demanded.

"Why?" I asked. "The ride should cost half that, tip included."

"It's because of the strike," the cab driver replied. I noticed that his I.D. card had been removed from the display - a sure sign that there was some hanky panky afoot.

When I got to work I heard similar stories. $35 for a ride from the Upper West Side, in a cab filled with people who were also paying $35 (or more). Everybody was bitching and moaning.

But not me. I say, "Go get 'em cabbies!" You gotta make hay while the sun shines!

Most of these cab drivers are from dirt poor countries in the Middle East, Africa and Europe. If they can make some extra bread in time for Christmas (or whatever end-of-the-year holiday they celebrate) good for them!

They've learned the the First Rule of New York City:

It's all about the hustle.



Friday night I hosted a stand-up show at New York Comedy Club.

"New York Comedy Club" is not really an accurate name for this establishment. The "New York" part is correct; it is definitely located in New York City. But the "comedy" part of the name is definitely open for some debate. As for "Club" well, if your definition of "club" is "looks and smells like a Times Square porno theater in the 1970s" then New York Comedy Club is the place for you!

Once a month, two twenty-something comics produce this show, which features a combination of "pro" as well as "up-and-coming" comedians. The last time I hosted the show I did very well, which surprised me. This time I did my opening monologue and the response was not great. Almost everyone in the audience was a friend of one of the comics. All the comics were in their 20's and all their friends were in their 20's. I am not in my 20's, and I haven't been in seven years. (I will wait a moment while you do the math.)

My material is personal, autobiographical and not particularly relatable to young twenty-somethings, out for a night of partying and hooking up. I don't have any jokes about drugs, condoms or the Paris Hilton sex video. I could write some, but just because you can do something doesn't mean you should.

After my opening I sat in the back of the room trying to figure out how I could get out of hosting the rest of the show. I could go up on stage and fall over, claiming I had gotten dysentery from the watered-down drinks. Or I could just walk out and hope that nobody noticed I was gone. Or maybe God would show mercy upon me and strike me dead on the spot.

All the while I sat there, on a broken folding chair, with my feet sticking to the floor of a shitty comedy club, wondering why I had wasted the last four years of my life pursuing this Trojan horse of an art form.

Then a comic named Lizzy Cooperman did her set. Her material was smart, darkly comic and very funny. And the audience was with her 100%. And when they didn't get a punchline, Lizzy didn't back down or pander. She committed fully to her material, and her quirky persona.

I laughed out loud, which I never do at other comedians. I'm not much of a laugher, unless I'm high, and I don't ever smoke or drink before doing stand-up. I'm like a comedy Mormon, except I'm not a polygamist. I don't even want to be married to one woman right now, let alone many! So maybe that it a flawed metaphor.

I felt inspired and energized by Lizzy's set. I went back up on stage and tried a joke that I would never try in front of a twenty-something, comedy club crowd. And it worked. The rest of the show went well, with the exception of my failed attempt to pick up an attractive female audience member named Marie.

Apparently, "are you attracted to 37 year-old guys with receding hairlines?" is not a guaranteed panty-remover.

Undaunted, I went back to my tiny studio apartment and called my ex-girlfriend Maggie. She came over and we smoked some weed, watched some porn and hooked up. Then I slept until noon.

It's really too bad I have nothing in common with people in their twenties.



Last night at midnight, transit workers here in New York City were supposed to go on strike. Seven million New Yorkers who rely on New York City subways and buses top get to work each day would have been out of luck. The midnight deadline passed and the talks stretched past dawn.

At 7:15 am, after the morning commute had already begun, Transport Workers Union President Roger Toussaint announced that no agreement had been reached with the city. But – inexplicably – the subways and buses continued to run. There was some vague threat of a “limited” strike by two private bus lines that serve 50,000 customers in Queens. But the crippling, shut-down-the-city work stoppage that we were bracing for does not appear to be happening anytime soon.

I am so disappointed.

I sat up until well past 2 am, listening to the radio for updates, just like I did during snowstorms when I was a kid.

And I don’t think I’m alone. Just about everyone in my office was planning to “work from home” if the strike had occurred. And when it didn’t, just about everyone was late – including me. Why? The subways and buses were running with no delays.

Obviously, my co-workers and I are engaging in a sympathy strike.

We feel so strongly about healthcare for transit workers and their families that we are prepared to stay home – indefinitely - in support of our brothers and sisters in the TWU!

We’re on your side, New York City transit workers! Go on strike and stay out until every single demand is met. Days, weeks, months – whatever it takes.

The lazy, white collar workers of New York City are behind you 100%!


I was 30 the first time I did drugs. I was a very good little boy through my teens and my twenties, "just saying no" and all. I commuted to college, and spent ten years in a relationship with an older woman, who was also a single Mom. She had never done any drugs and she wasn't about to start just because I was "curious" about an aspect of life that I had never experienced.

Then, on my 30th birthday, I started dating Maggie, the college intern. She wasn't a Chemistry major, but she should have been. For the past seven years - with Maggie - I've been doing the kind of experimenting that most people do when they are half my age. And I've come to the following realization:

love drugs.

I love the fact that illegal drugs are illegal, taboo, frowned upon, dangerous. I love the ceremony involved with doing drugs. I love the customs, the practices, the paraphernalia, the traditions. I love getting high.

I love drugs and everything about them. Except addiction.

Thank God I didn't do any of this before I was 30. If I had started experimenting in high school and college I would be dead right now. Or I'd be a lazy, shiftless under-achiever, which is even worse.

When I was younger I had all this neurotic energy flowing from deep inside me and I channeled it into creative pursuits. I started working when I was a sophomore in high school; researching (and later writing) for actor Jonathan Frid, star of the 1960's television series
Dark Shadows.

I earned my first TV writing credit at 15, and my second at 18. When I graduated college I began a career in corporate communications. Within two years I was a producer. Two years later I was a senior producer. Work was my drug, and it consumed my life.

Then I almost died, and when I came back from the precipice I decided that there was one reason that I had been spared: so that I could do the things that I had never done because I was afraid.

Let me make one thing clear: I would never tell a kid to try drugs. But the great thing about experimenting with drugs as an older person is that you do it with a heightened sense of perspective. I know what the risks are. I know how far is too far, and I don't go there.

The first time I did Ecstasy was the best I have ever felt in my life. And there's the problem. I spent my entire young adulthood plagued by debilitating depression. If I had tried Ecstasy when I was 18 I would have done it ALL THE TIME, and my brain would now look like a hunk of Swiss cheese. I am smart enough now to know that once in a very long while is enough. And I have legal anti-depressants to help balance my mood.

Maybe you are the kind of person who gets high on life. Maybe a child's giggle or the wet kiss of a puppy is all you need to feel joy. Congratulations. I need drugs. I need chemicals flowing through my blood stream. I need smoke in my lungs. I need artificially produced endorphins flooding my central nervous system.

I love drugs. And yes, if I could marry them, I would.



I just saw a story on MSNBC about a female skydiver who, after her parachute failed to open, fell face-first into a parking lot from thousands of feet in the air AND LIVED TO TELL ABOUT IT. They showed this woman on TV. She looks like she fell out of a plane and on to her face.

But here's the best part: she's planning to do it again.

I don't understand why people engage in leisure time activities that might kill them. I rarely use the words "fun" and "kill" in the same sentences. They don't really occupy the same place in my brain.

I know that there are plenty of people who jump out of planes and land safely. But I don't want plenty I want all. When you can tell me that there is a 100% guarantee that I will not be crippled or killed, then maybe I will jump out of a plane. The same thing goes for bungee jumping, downhill skiing, horseback riding, etc. Fun that just might sever your spinal column is not my idea of fun.

You might think I've missed out on things. And you're right. I've missed out on being a quadriplegic. I don't want to be a quadriplegic. I don't want to be even a uni-plegic. I want to be completely non-plegic.

All of those activities hold the potential for injury caused by your own errors. Can you imagine being the living result of your own fuck-up? This topic is really depressing me.

Go commune with danger, if you must. Good luck with it! I'll be here, in my smoke-filled room, communing with nature in a slightly more meta-physical way.



Yesterday I started a new freelance job.

I'm working as a production coordinator on a large event for a computer company, scheduled to take place in Las Vegas in mid-January. The last time I did a job in Vegas I hooked up with a girl on the crew. It was a perfect night: a little gambling, a little drinking, a little canoodling. I love the word "canoodling." Outside of Page 6 of the New York Post (i.e. "Brad Pitt Caught Canoodling with Angelina Jolie"), Americans really do not use "canoodling" nearly enough. The great thing about the word is, it can mean a variety of things: anything from a sweet kiss to a long session of passionate whoopie (another under-used euphemism).

Don't get me wrong. I like talking dirty as much as the next guy (actually more, but that's only because my first exposure to sex was my uncle's hard-core porno magazine when I was ten years old and I've been ruined ever since). But using euphemisms in bed is a real turn-on for me. Whenever I say "I wanna f*ck you" to a girl, it sounds mean and threatening - like I'm going to punish her for being stupid enough to go to bed with me. So, instead of outright vulgarity, recently I've been trying euphemisms.

LIke, "Oh baby. I wanna copulate you. I wanna copulate you so hard, you're gonna beg me for more copulation."

It's working for me. Why not try it tonight?!



Last night I watched a show on CNN about the potential Avian Influenza pandemic. I was not really worried about the bird flu, because I am not a bird. And, even though I am adopted, I am relatively sure that I am not even part bird. I have had very little interaction with birds in my life, unless you count that time I fed the ducks at the pond in Hewlett Bay Park. But that was 1972, so I think I'm safe.

In Southeast Asian countries like Thailand, people keep chickens as pets. I think it's odd to have edible pets. When I was a kid we had a cat named Sparky, but it never occurred to me to eat him. I can't speak for my sister Missy. She spent the first two years of her life in South Korea, where customs are somewhat different.

During the CNN broadcast, one gentleman in Bankok was shown kissing his pet chicken directly on the beak. I'd like to send a message to all my readers in Thailand: please do not kiss your pet chickens directly on the beak! Actually, do not kiss them on any part of their bodies. But If you must beak-kiss them, please do not French! A friendly kiss on the cheek is always welcome, even by poultry! Of course, once you have cooked them you can do whatever you want. Get freaky on that Chicken Cordon Bleu!

Here's a interesting quote from the United States Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website:

There currently is no commercially available vaccine to protect humans against H5N1 (avian influenza) virus that is being seen in Asia and Europe

I hope Osama bin Laden has not surfed the CDC website! I'm not trying to give anybody any ideas, but spreading bird flu in the United States should be JOB ONE for al Qaeda. The problem with al Qaeda is that they are obsessed with blowing things up. This really goes for terrorists in general. It's all car bombs, and suicide missions and flying planes into buildings. Terrorists love the sound of BOOM! For a group of people who hate American popular culture, they seem very influenced by action movies!

How about a good, old-fashioned pandemic? It's a much more subtle approach to terrorism.

The one good thing about living in America is, you know that the government will do everything within its power to protect us if something really terrible happened to a major U.S. city. Sure, you can say that Hurricane Katrina was a good test of U.S. government's level of preparedness in the event of a chemical or biological attack or outbreak. And yes, you can also say that the government failed miserably. But with good reason!

Hurricane Katrina was not an attack by terrorists, it was an act of GOD. One thing you should know about George W. Bush is, what God says goes! The Lord works in mysterious ways, so if it was God's will to wash all those poor people out of the Gulf Coast, then so be it! Now we can rebuild, and make New Orleans safe for all the tourists who like to come and get drunk and go to strip clubs and take off their tops at Mardi Gras for plastic beads.

It's all part of His Divine Plan!

So Osama, or Zarqawi, or whomever is in charge now - if you're reading this - make sure that you send the H5N1-infected chickens to economically disadvantaged neighborhoods in the United States. If you get lost on the way, just look for the liquor store and the check cashing place. Better yet, just drop the birds in front of the local KFC.

Because black people love chicken even more than Southeast Asians!



My American Airlines flight from Orlando to LaGuardia Airport in New York was scheduled to leave Friday afternoon at 2:45 pm. First it was delayed by an hour, then two, then three. I guess the inch of snow that fell in New York City on Thursdsay crippled air traffic for the entire Eastern Seaboard.

We finally boarded the plane at 6:30 pm. Moments later the captain made the following annoucement: "Ladies and gentlemen. If we don't leave the gate RIGHT NOW we will lose our spot in the lineup and have to cancel this flight. If you do not sit down RIGHT NOW we cannot leave the gate."
I don't recall ever being threatened by the captain of an airplane. They are usually so friendly when they say good-bye to you.

Immediately after the annoucement the seated passengers starting screaming at the people stuck in the aisle. "Sit the fuck down!" a woman in front of me yelled. "I am not spending another night in this town." Two flight attendants then ran down the aisle, one from the front and one from the back, ambushing the unseated passengers. "Just sit anywhere!" they yelled, pushing people into empty seats. An elderly woman fell into my lap on her way to the seat next to me. She looked mortified and avoided eye contact with me for the entire flight.

There's a reason that American is the only major US airline that has avoided bankruptcy. How about this for their new slogan:

American Airlines. Do what you're told and there won't be any trouble.

Then they can change their name to Italian-American Airlines.



I'm here in Orlando, at the Walt Disney World Dolphin hotel, working on a training job for a pharmaceutical company. We have constructed a temporary TV studio in one of the hotel ballrooms, with lights, cameras and a full crew, and on Friday morning we will be producing a live "broadcast" to hundreds to sales reps gathered in conference rooms throughout the hotel.

I've been working on this job for five weeks, a total of 26 days. The actual broadcast that we are producing is three hours long. When the show is over at 11 am I will have made more than
$12,000 as a production coordinator on this project - all for a three-hour show. And I am just one of MANY people working on this job. Plus I get a $65 per day meal allowance, yet every meal I have eaten since I've been here has been catered and/or paid for by the production company.

Now you know why pharmaceutical drugs are so expensive.

In 1996, I spent five weeks working as the First Assistant Director on a feature film called
Night Vision. I made $1,200. Actually I lost money, because I had to pay for my own airfare to Dallas, and put myself up in the Motel 6, where I shared my room with a mouse. But it was the most fun job I ever worked on. We closed a bridge and blew stuff up, I did some stunt driving and I got to interact with a number of topless starlets. Plus I got to work with Fred "The Hammer" Williamson - considered by some (and himself) to be "the black Clint Eastwood."

Why is it that the fun jobs never pay, and the jobs that do pay are never fun? I would really love to figure out a way to make this much money doing something fun - more fun than educating pharmaceutical sales reps about hypertension medication.

Until then I will continue to sell out to the highest bidder.

Now if I could only get the pharmaceutical sales reps to take off their tops and blow stuff up...


Somebody just told me that the average cost for a week at Disney World for a family of four is $6,000!

I've been here for four days now, and it's rained every day. Do these people get some kind of rebate? Think about the poor little kids. They will be scarred for life. In 2025 they'll be crying on a shrink's couch, because the only time they ever went to Disney World it rained every day. And that's when Mommy and Daddy started fighting, which led to the divorce and Mommy's problems with prescription medications.

That is very funny to me.

I have come to the realization that I am not a nice person. Actually I have always sort of suspected it, but now I am sure.



Many of you didn't believe me when I wrote yesterday that condoms were for sale at Disney World. So I took some pictures to prove it:This is me in front of Tubbi's Buffeteria, a combination restaurant/convenience store within the Walt Disney World Dolphin Hotel. Nothing gets my appetite going like a drawing of an obese child! I can almost hear Tubbi saying, "Mom, when I grow up, can I have Type II Diabetes? Please! I promise to eat my hamburger and potato chips!"
Inside the store. Here is the "sundries" section. Look at the left side of the picture, and you will see...
TROJAN CONDOMS FOR SALE AT DISNEY WORLD! Two types to chose from, including the "spermicidal lubricant" variety. Spermicide, as the name implies, kills living sperm. Many devout Christians believe that this is as bad as a late-term abortion. Way to go, Disney World!
And while you're buying your Disney Condoms, why not pick up a pack of Disney Cigarettes! Who doesn't love a cigarette after sex? And next to the Magic Kingdom, the Cancer Ward is the Happiest Place on Earth!
Boy, they sure sell a lot of Marboro Lights at Disney World! And not so many Newports. I wonder if that has anything to do with the fact that I haven't seen a black person since I've been here. I'm kidding, of course! Plenty of black people work here!

So there you have it. And you thought Disney World was just for kids! Now I just have to find somebody to use my Disney Condoms on!



Actually, I'm already here. And I'm having a MAGICAL DAY! That's me, on Mickey's left, wearing the striped shirt. Aren't I cute?!
I'm staying at the Dolphin Hotel, which is not magical at all. It's actually kind of cheezy.
I'll be here all week, working on a pharmaceutical training meeting.

DISNEY FACT #1: You can't buy gum at any of the Disney parks. They don't sell gum in the gift shops, because they think that people will spit it out on the ground.

DISNEY FACT #2: You can buy condoms and lube in the gift shop here at The Dolphin Hotel, and the adjacent hotel called The Swan.

DISNEY FACT #3: It's okay to engage in sodomy at Disney World! Just don't chew gum while you're doing it.



Greetings from the Savanna Club, a community for active seniors nestled on the fabled Treasure Coast of Florida, in Port St. Lucie. I'm staying at my parents new house in this retirement community, and driving up to Orlando early Monday morning for a pharmaceutical training job.

After they sold their house on Long Island this past summer, my Mom and Dad bought this ranch-style home on the east coast of Florida for $133,000. I thought this was a ridiculously low price for a house, and now I finally understand how they got such a good deal: they don't own the land. They own the house, but not the land that the house was built on. Actually, the house wasn't built. It was assembled. It's a pre-fabricated house. My parents spent $133,000 on a FAKE house that sits on land they DO NOT OWN.

And this is my inheritance. It could have been worse. They could have bought the Brooklyn Bridge.

Don't get me wrong. The house is very nice, and my parents are extremely happy here. And their neighbors seem to be in an remarkably good mood, considering that they've all come here to die. Maybe not tomorrow, or the next day, but sooner rather than later they will be shuffling off the mortal coil. That's what retirement really is: the halfway house between life and death. You slow down. You take it easy. You rest. Next thing you know, you're dead.

But here's the best part. If my parents drop dead tomorrow, I will inherit a house that I cannot live in - even if I wanted to. At least one person in the house needs to be 55 or over.

Not only that but, according to the Savanna Club 2005 Homeowners Directory, you also can't own a dog that weighs over 35 lbs, or a cat that weights over 20 lbs! How do you enforce a rule like that? Is there a Pet Weigher who travels from pre-fabricated house to pre-fabricated house making sure that Fido and Fluffy don't tip the scales? Can you imagine how stressful that must be for the 19.5 lb. kitty? That's the kind of thing that can lead to Feline Bulimia!

I went for a walk around the "neighborhood" this afternoon and every person I saw waved to me. I have never met any of these people. Who waves to strangers? I live in New York City. I don't even say hello to my next-door neighbor.

The whole thing seems a little shady to me. Everyone is in too good of a mood. I think this may be some kind of a cult compound, like Jonestown. If my parents try to serve me Kool-Aid for breakfast, I will be out of the Savanna Club faster than an overweight kitty.

If you don't see another post from me in 24 hours, somebody call the cops.



Last night I went to see the British trip-hop group Morcheeba at the Nokia Theater in Times Square. The Nokia Theater opened in September of 2005, after a $21 million renovation that transformed the Loews Astor Plaza movie house into a modern concert venue. For thirty years, the 1440 seat Astor Plaza was one of the largest single-screen movie palaces in New York City. It was home to the New York City premieres of all three original Star Wars films, as well as Superman, Raiders of the Lost Ark and many of the James Bond movies. The first time I went to the Astor Plaza was in 1986 when I saw Oliver Stone's Platoon, on assignment for my NYU film theory class.

It was sad to see the Astor Plaza close, but the the new theater is very cool. The space is elegantly designed and there are numerous bars, spacious bathrooms and snacks. But who cares about all that? The most important thing you need to know about the Nokia Theater Times Square is that you can smoke pot there.

I went to the Morcheeba show with my ex-girlfriend Maggie. When Maggie and I first met I was a 29 year-old, uptight prick who had never gotten high. Maggie was a 22 year-old college senior who had a bong surgically attached to her right hand. Although we officially broke up more than three years ago, Maggie and I still spend almost all of our free time together. And most of that time we are high. I know this sounds like a irresponsible lifestyle for a 37 year-old man. But I work hard all day, I write, I perform stand-up comedy and at the end of the day I need to chill out and relax. Some people have a cocktail, I have a bong hit, or two or three. Maybe I should have done this in my teens and twenties, but I didn't. So cut me some slack, okay?

Maggie and I have gone to dozens of concerts over the years and we've been high for every one of them. The only time we didn't smoke was when we went to the opera. I wish we had. Maybe I wouldn't have fallen asleep. I was worried that we wouldn't be able to smoke at the Nokia Theater, considering its locale in the heart of the family-friendly theme park that now passes for Times Square.

We got to the show early and scoped out the scene: there was a mosh pit at the front of the house, a center standing-room section and a non-reserved seating area in what had formerly been the balcony of the movie theater. We secured seats in the back of the house, assuming that that is where the stoners would hang out. As we waited for the concert to begin, we made individual
reconnaissance missions to the bathroom for some pre-show drug abuse. Be aware that security at the Nokia theater is somewhat incognito. They all wear stylish baggy jeans and grey sweatshirts with "nokia" emblazoned on the chest. They don't look like security, and that's the point. Occasionally these guys will hang out in and around the restrooms. That would be a bad time to try to spark up the bushes, as the kids say.

I waited until the coast was clear and went to the handicapped stall in the back corner of the men's room for a few hits. Maggie did the same in the ladies room. Our missions went without a hitch, and were duplicated two more times before the show began. As we got closer to show time we began to be surrounded by a crowd of people that did not look like they would enjoy the sweet smell of burning marijuana. It made perfect sense. Who sits down at rock concerts? Old people, pregnant women and dorks. We were none of those (anymore), so we moved down front to the mosh pit.

The opening act was a high-voiced, sitar-playing Asian woman named Gabby La La. If you think it's not possible to rock out to an Asian ukelele player who sounds like Betty Boop, then you need to listen to Gabby La La's new album Be Careful What You Wish For. Gabby sounds like a cross between Bjork and Shonen Knife, with a bit of Tiny Tim thrown in for flavor. The highlight of Gabby's intensely idiosyncratic set was the audience sing-along to the song Boogie Woogie Man in a Black Dress. After each chorus, Gabby said "Good!" complementing the crowd for their ability to sing nonsense in unison.

Next came Morcheeba. I was first introduced to the band with their 1998 album Big Calm, which has got to be the all time best record to listen to while getting high and/or having sex. Every time I hear a song from that album I get an erection, which can be awkward when a co-worker is playing it in the neighboring cubicle. Skye Edwards, the ethereal-sounding lead singer of the band's first four albums, has left to pursue a solo career, and has been replaced on Antidote by the Janis Joplin-esque Daisy Martey. But for the live shows, the band has hired yet another vocalist - Jody Sternberg - who does an amazing job of imitating the vocal styles of both Skye and Daisy, while also playing a mean saxophone and flute. It was odd watching someone else sing these songs, but when you're baked you don't really worry about shit like that.

But again, none of this is the point. Down in the mosh pit, people started smoking and we joined in the fun. It helped that the first word from Morcheeba front man Ross Godfrey's mouth was "marijuana." It was an order, and we obeyed.

Thank God the Nokia Theater sells snacks. Because when you're high, nothing hits the spot like a bag of Sun Chips, and a black & white cookie, and a cinamon stick and...

So feel free to bring your weed to the Nokia Theater Times Square. If you're discreet, nobody will bother you. I'm thinking that my next phone may be a Nokia. Any company that supports marijuana use is a-ok in my book.



I carry this gigantic backpack everywhere I go. I look like a European tourist. And I wonder why I don't get second looks from women.

I did finally get a comment from a girl this morning on the way to work. "Get a smaller backpack, asshole!" she said, as she struggled to get past me on the crowded elevator. I think we have a Love Connection. Somebody call Chuck Woolery!

I'm a mobile professional and, as such, I have to travel with a lot of gear. And I often sleep at my ex-girlfriend Maggie's apartment, so I always need to be prepared for things that might happen when you sleep with your ex (wink wink). Here is a list of things in my backpack right now:

-Powerbook + power/extension cord (for writing)
-iPod + USB cable + charger + headphones (for recording my standup sets)
-Treo 600 + charger (for phone and email)
-Digital camera + USB cable (for pictures of me and all my famous friends)
-my "comedy notebook" (to capture my brilliance)
-supply case (w/ stapler, tape, Post-It's, calculator, stopwatch, tape measure)
-Purel Hand Sanitizer (NYC subway poles can give you cholera!)
-nail clippers (good grooming is important, even on the go!)
-pressed powder compact (just in case I get shiny)
-condoms (just in case I get lucky)
-extra underwear and socks (see above)

The contents of my backpack are worth more than $3,000. That's a lot of bling to be carrying around. You should really consider robbing me.

They love me at airports. Here I am, a guy with a shaved head, carrying a backpack filled with electronic equipment and cables. A few weeks ago I went to Florida to vist my family, and the TSA officials detained me at West Palm Beach airport. A very aggressive young woman with a mullet searched through every single item in my over-stuffed backpack, including my Trojan For Her Pleasure condoms. She seemed genuinely disappointed that I was not actually trying to blow up the plane. So I finally said, "I have a nail clipper in my change purse. That's gotta be illegal right?

"Okay," the TSA official sighed. "I'll confiscate it."

"Thanks," I said as I headed to my gate. "May Allah's blessings shine upon you!"

Turns out they don't have a good sense of humor at the airport nowadays. But it was nice to finally have a woman chase me.