Piles of Paper & Real Cowardly Racism

June 21, 2012:  It’s a combination day, where I’m toiling through my paper pile and sorting through the myriad mental observations cluttering my precarious mind (Space Case and my Youtube video, of course, among them) ...

I jot notes and ideas, paragraphs, thoughts, and more and more on folded up pieces of paper, and it’s only every so often that I review the enormous collection I’ve accumulated—the somewhat unused ones that weren’t for a current story or project—the ones that collect in my drawers and atop my night table …

For instance, here’s one in which I briefly recount an interesting dream wherein I was riding on a bus with Hitler and asked him for his autograph.  (I can’t detail this one, because somehow the paper got all wet and the thick red ink ran all over the place.) I remember I was somewhat embarrassed about asking him—he was, after all, Hitler—but I think we eventually fell into a kind of light conversation, keeping it off the war and his being a Nazi.

And speaking of Hitler, I wanted to share the great moment I had yesterday at the Motor Vehicle office in Norwalk, CT. It was incredibly crowded, but I was still all the chipper comrade where my friends on line were concerned, bantering away with the friendly convivial gloss particular to civil service stress. Of course, all we all kept talking about—the lady in front of me, and the lady in back—was the longness of the lines, etc., and how long and long they were, and how grouchy the workers would be when we finally got up to the front of the line the following afternoon, etc., etc.

“And you notice, ubba-zubba-zubba,” the woman behind me said quite confidentially.

“I’m sorry, what?” I said, being deaf and all.

“They’re mostly minorities,” she whispered about the workers, quite sure I’d understand her point.

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I simply asked, “Are you a racist?” and it wasn’t a rhetorical question. I’m just surprised when I meet one, at least in Fairfield County, Connecticut.

“No, no!” she assured me quickly. “I’m not racist.” And I always find it interesting how rarely a racist will admit to being racist. That kind of annoys me. I find the lack of conviction even more appalling than the practice. If I were a racist I’d be adamant about my racism; I’d be the raciest! But nowadays, you can’t even draw passion from a bigot. I mean, what’s the world coming to?!

Ironically, she was sent to the front of the line by a sort of wandering information guy who felt her case was worthier than mine (or something), and replaced behind me by a very dark-skinned woman who in all probability was some kind of minority or other. (I didn’t ask, but had I known I was going to Blah-ugh! about this, I might have.)

Anyway, when I finally reached the front of the line, the minority worker—I mean, she was clearly not in the majority—was remarkably friendly and polite (except when she called me Tubby, which I didn’t appreciate). No, seriously, she was a princess, and I even made a point of complimenting her, and said, “Y’know, you’ve been really polite, lady. You were basically as polite as a normal person.”

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well, I mean, as a minority, it’s not quite as usual for you to be so civil, even though you’re a civil servant, and so I just wanted to mention that you carried your handling with the articulate dignity of a dignified and articulate gentleman, but like a lady gentleman.” (I may not be quoting myself here exactly, but it was that kind of idea I expressed, and she was thankful to the end.

“Oh, thank you, sir, thank you,” she said in that way minorities have. “You really have been nice to be so pollutioning and acknowledgating,”she said she said.

“Yes, I am,” I sighed, "and thank you for being so articulate and dignified, as minorities have such a hard time being. You is truly a articulate and dignified lady gemmun!” I rambled.

Ah, yes! Another breakthrough in minority-normality relations.  We’ve come a long way, baby, and that’s not even beginning to dive into the large, long messy pile of papers with all sorts of other ideas I have cluttering about on my bed at just this very moment …

The Odd Couple & 1984-Style Revisionist History

June 17, 2012:  I just again reread George Orwell's frightening "1984" and currently find it much less a "prophetic" vision of a dystopian future, than a brutal assessment of the world in which we already live.

Make no mistake -- it is a corrupt corporate-controlled 1984 world, and I'm not sure there's anything left to be done about it. Worse -- more significantly -- I'm not even sure that many people really care anymore anyway, and that's the most frightening aspect, to me ...

One of the remarkable operations of a 1984 world is the revising of history -- something you'll remember (or NOT remember, if you're adept at applying doublethink) from reading the book. To me, it's hysterical to see it happen so often in once instance where gas prices are concerned. One day the cost shoots up, say from $3.60 to $4.00 per gallon, and the helpless population gets pointlessly up-in-arms, and plays out its derision with flaccid expressions of benign protest ... Then, maybe two weeks go by, and prices drops from $4.00 to $3.85 per gallon! The media heralds the news: "Gas Prices Drop!" ... And the population is pleased, and pacified once again (if it ever needed to be) and the public and its' permanently damaged short-term memory rest comfortably until the next time ... Yeesh! What a species mankind is ...

But more importantly, what does this have to do with The Odd Couple? Please understand, The Odd Couple -- (which I'm too lazy to keep putting in quotes) -- is one of the most brilliant humorous shows ever on TV -- here or in Germany! The writing is absolutely fantastic, and Jack Klugman and Tony Randall are in a class by themselves with their magnificent performances of Oscar Madison and Felix Unger.

I'm proud to own the DVDs for all five seasons, which originally ran from 1969 to 1974, and even prouder to have indoctrinated my children into an intelligent appreciation of real comic genius. (We also own catalogues of "All in the Family," "The Honeymooners," and "I Love Lucy," as well as 14 seasons of "The Simpsons.")

But what is now -- and will remain -- so awfully disturbing to me -- having mainly fostered my Odd Couple appreciation through the WPIX (channel 11 in NY) reruns of the show in my formative years -- is to see the numerous sections that have been cut from the original episodes for DVD release. These, unfortunately, all seem to center around song numbers that Show Runner Garry Marshall -- I guess a cheap bastard, despite how awesome his show was, including some hysterical cameo roles he played -- did not fight to have put in the DVDs. There are perhaps a dozen song numbers that I vividly remember being sung, usually by Felix, sometimes Oscar, or from an ensemble -- that have been mercilessly butchered from these classic shows.

The worst part -- again, for me -- (this all being about me, after all) -- is that my children WILL NEVER KNOW that these moments were an important part of these brilliant episodes. Of course, I try and explain -- pointing out why there's an awkward cut (before Felix sings "Cocktails for Two," or when the cast is singing "Give My Regards To Broadway" on the subway train). Still, what a terrible shame to not enjoy those gem-like moments, some of which are actually pretty significant to the overall episode.

I'll always wonder why they couldn't leave these moments in. They played, after all, on television reruns for years and years. How petty do those songwriters and publishing companies have to have been to block their use?! What reason could they have had, really? How much money could they even expect for them?! Could Paramount not have shelled out a few extra dollars to preserve the shows in their entirety? And couldn't Marshall, who I have to assume became a zillionaire after then creating "Happy Days" AND "Laverne & Shirley," (which I hope he'll always remain embarrassed by) throw a couple thousand bucks into the pot to clear the bloody rights?! (How does one make a show as brilliant as The Odd Couple, and then -- now situated up on High -- not demand a proper preservation of that artwork?!!)

No, not today, not in 2012. As far as the world is concerned, Jaye P. Morgan was never singing "Sunshine of My Life," and Felix did not sing "Peg O' My Heart" to his plant. Nor Felix did not serenade Oscar and Blanche on their honeymoon with "I Love You Truly" while Murray played the harmonica, and Murray, Oscar and Myrna did not croon Felix to sleep singing "Dream." The boys did not break into "I Want the Sun in the Morning and the Moon at Night," nor did Felix sing the torchsong "Quarter to Three" during the poker game in the hotel, or "Look for the Silver Lining" during their monks' retreat ...

It never happened. I must have imagined it ... probably because I'm unloyal to the state because I think too much, and harbor these awful delusions that could damage the tranquility of this new Morning in America ...

Ah ... Yes ... I need to stop thinking so much ... Stop thinking so much ... Stop noticing things ... Rest ... Rest and sleep ... Sleep ... Sleep ... Zzzzzzzz ...

Unfinished Business ...

June 12, 2012:  Before anything else, I just spotted this new review of my novel "Space Case" at Amazon ... And while I'm blushing -- and only in part because I'm sitting here in my underwear -- I felt YOU -- my loyal fans (such as you are) -- would enjoy hearing what an unprompted "Space Case" purchaser -- someone who actually shelled out money to read my drivel! -- what they had to say about this devilishly unique novel ...

""Space Case" by Jarret Liotta is funny, imaginative and refreshingly creative. I thoroughly enjoyed reading as this delightfully amusing adventure unfolded. Mr. Liotta draws a humorous picture of life here on earth and gives us a matter-of-fact, non-judgemental look at the natural dysfunction that is inherent in human nature. "Space Case" was a quick read that left a smile on my face."

Wow! Is that awesome?! ... And let's be honest, am I not awesome?! ... And while you're considering that, I'll again remind you to buy the f***ing book already, because you know deep in your heart that you ought to buy it, even if it means going without frogurt for a weekend ...

And everyone, even those with the shortest attention span, should really take a minute (and 20 seconds) to not only enjoy my clever, excruciatingly witty youtube promo video for Space Case, but you should -- and yes, here I am shoulding on you! -- forward it around to friends. For the love of god, people, get this ball rolling! You see, I don't have friends that I can forward to. I don't have that luxury! But you do ... So it becomes somehow criminal of you not to use all your powers to get this veritable zeppelin up and off the German runway, so to speak.

Now, next note of business -- I'm embarrassed, in my last Blah-ugh!, to have neglected two of the most important facets of Kolchak and The Night Stalker. 1) How could I forget to mention that the great Richard Matheson wrote the screenplays for the first two movies. This is important because Matheson, whom many of you will solely identify as the author of the startling "The Legend of Hell House," was the original Twilight Zone writer who crafted, among many other brilliant scripts, my very all-time favorite episode "Third From the Sun" (with the great Fritz Weaver and Edward Andrews) ... 2) I don't know how I could be so negligent as to write about The Night Stalker without fervently recognizing the incredible and rather groundbreaking music composed for the first picture, along with the theme, and especially that great whistling part that Kolchak whistles in the series ...

Okay, and since the past is on my mind, driving home today I noted a whole new selection of trees that had been brought down by CL&P and their Westport, CT, assigned assassins, which was depressing. I guess I naively thought my brilliant Blah-ugh! entry of several weeks ago, couple with the great Dan Woog's follow-up, would curb the pointless overkilling of trees that have the audacity to be growing within yards of power lines ... But alas, once again the population proves itself too stupid to listen to me, even though I (like Kolchak) am right again ...

Lastly, major kudos out to the Westport Public Library (and Marta Campbell & Bill Derry especially) -- not only because they were kind enough to host me Wednesday night in what may have been the surprise event of the season -- that is, it certainly surprised me, because I managed to get through an entire hour-long speaking engagement without having to use the bathroom -- but for so much more that they do (the library, I mean, in case you too had forgotten due to my ridiculously incoherent run-on sentence) ... (Has anyone figured out yet that, as a Blah-ugh! writer, I'm much too lazy to bother rereading my sentences as I write them?!) ...

Anyway, the point is that the library purchased "Death Wish 2" on my behalf, and I'm simply giddy about this. The people who work in the video section of the library are just an awesome collection, so to speak, and kind to a fault, as evidenced by how nice they are to me, which clearly demonstrates some mistake on their part. But beyond all that, I'm so magnificently pleased that my request was granted, and promptly, and they replaced a missing gem from their collection and brought a grand wave of joy upon this old and soulless soul. Hurrah! as they say in England. Westport Library is the shits! (as they say in L.A.)

So that's all for tonight, because, believe it or not, I want to put on another "Night Stalker" episode and let my harsh late-night dinner start digesting. It's going to be a sunny day tomorrow and this really makes me sad, because I like rain and the idea of rain ... My neighbor is pressuring me to cut my lawn, and this makes me hate them, but I have to realize that not everyone thinks the way I do, and that makes me hate everyone else ...

Summer is coming, and I hate summer, but it's good because it means fall will eventually come, even if it's after winter, which I like, but sometimes get suspicious of when it's trying to sneak its way past the other seasons ...

NEXT WEEK I'll hopefully be able to offer the quintessential review of "Death Wish 2."

Carl Kolchak - Great American Hero

June 7, 2012:  Carl Kolchak is a true American hero, and even though he's a fictional character, he still means more to me than most of the people I know ... (excepting those who've vehemently supported SPACE CASE, and the thoughtful people who continue plugging my new Youtube video of course!)

Alternately known as The Night Stalker, Kolchak is the abrasive aging reporter who breaks stories involving vampires and other-worldly figures. Originally created by a weak writer named Jeff Rice in a hard-to-read novella, and portrayed by the ever-freckled Darren McGavin (the belligerent, beleagured "Old Man" in the classic film "Christmas Story"), he first appeared in a brilliant 1971/2 TV movie that featured not only the voluptuously vapid Carol Lindley, but Claude Akins and Simon Oakland as well. The subsequent short-lived TV series was supposedly the inspiration for Chris Carter's creation of "The X-Files, and McGavin was honored with a small recurring role on that show before his death (at some point, from something). Also, one of its main writers and story consultants was one David Chase, who went on to create "The Sopranos."

Kolchak the character is many things, but mostly -- for me -- he's the truth-teller that no one wants to believe. He's the voice of reality that everyone wants to silence and ignore. He's the gadfly that people wish would just go away. He's the conscious conscience who passionately fights for not only truth, but the vital need that it be dissemated.

One of the other things that I really like about him is that, despite his slightly crass demeanor, (which in television seems to lend itself to the caricature of an oaf), Carl's also extremely intelligent. W,hile he's intolerant of people in general -- or seems to be -- it's not without reason, because like so many of us, he's surrounded by idiots and individuals whose fear has robbed them of keeping strong convictions.

Further, despite his innate frailty, he's forever finding himself in supernatural situations that demand bravery. With morose resolve, he descends into the sewer to slay a swamp monster, crawls into an abandoned car to sew shut the mouth of a dormant zombie, slinks into the Seattle underground in search of a timeless serial killer, and, of course, (as certainly someone must remember), stands his ground against a sword-wielding headless motorcyclist ...

I love Kolchak, and give him significant credit for helping inspire me to become a writer. (Of course, some of you might use the word "blame.") And as I grew and went out into this weird, wild world stuffed with dangerous creeping people who dwell underneath all sorts of physical and spiritual rocks, the example of Carl Kolchak has often reminded me of the value of fighting for a righteous cause, arguing for an unpopular truth, even if all the odds are against you, even if the publications won't print the facts, and even if you're feeling all alone in the world ... again!

When last I checked IMDB.com -- the movie site -- I was happily astounded to see that a remake involving none other than my friend Johnny Depp was in development. It pleased me at the time, but now I'm not so sure. Despite what a grand actor like Johnny might think, there are some things that shouldn't even be touched or any attempts made to expand upon them or replicate their magic. He already made that mistake with Willy Wonka ... Beatles music is another example of that kind of thing ... I'm pretty convinced that Kolchak, The Night Stalker, is another ...

But so goes our stupid world, where the fetid winds of box office projections, egomania, questionable taste and the like all blow up my skirt.

Kudos to all who shared in the original creation of Carl Kolchak, and I pledge my ongoing allegiance to such a vigorous fine figure of truth, justice and the American Way.

Sociopathic Corporate Madness is Making My Groin Hurt

June 3, 2012:  Finally, I want to get to this issue of the Killer Bees, because tonight they're feeling like the perfect metaphor for the new Fear that's gripping me around the ankles, throat and genitals, and all simultaneously ... And wasn't it Anne Sexton who spoke of that "awful rowing toward god?" ... or perhaps that was Dan Woog, referencing those idiots on the Saugatuck River in Westport.

The point is, I'm drowning in the awful visions of corporate domination and one-percent control and private GOP armies and the like, and the Fear has me, like it did in the early '80s when Reagan first came to power and I was sure a nuclear strike was imminent, and that it would be hitting ME in particular ... It's like the Killer Bees, which were poised to attack when I was just a little lad, if you can imagine such a thing, me being all grown up and devilishly handsome and all, but at that time existing on pure Fear, adrenalin, and iced tea ...

But you see the question comes to mind for me: What the hell happened to the Killer Bees anyway?! I mean, I was told they were attacking. We all were! They were allegedly flying north from Mexico, as all dangerous things are wont to do. There were kitcsh TV movies about them, where dopey victims were stung repeatedly beyond recognition and the heroes outran them to the last, but not before stomping a few of the worse ones into pulp ... So where are they now?!

It's interesting, for I remember someone telling me -- some idiot in the never-ending series of idiots I've known -- that "the scientists" -- and that's what he said -- would merely meet the Bees at the border -- the Rio Grande River, I guess -- and they would spray them and solve the whole problem. Such a comforting image it still evokes -- a small group of Gary Larsen-type white-coated nerds shooting a few puffs of gas out over the water with one of those little metal pumping cannisters, and halting dead the rampaging cloud of gangland Bees in an instant ...

I guess that's what happened, because after the 70's I stopped hearing anything about Killer Bees ... Except, just three weeks ago I found a book at the library that's right now, at this very moment, sitting in the other room (probably overdue, actually), and there are probably additional answers there waiting to be realized ...

But you know what? I don't want to know them! I don't want to know anything, except that SPACE CASE is selling and you're going to buy a THIRD copy and will bring a harum of gorgeous women to my speaking engagement this Wednesday night at the Westport Library ... That's all I want to hear about! F*** the Killer Bees and Reagan and the crooked governors ...

But no, my stomach is being wrenched by the new knowledge of widespread corruption and union crushing and proletariat neutering and supreme court stacking and graft, and ongoing corporate malfeasance and chicanery and scum selling lies and scum telling lies and liars lying with straight-faced sociopathic integrity and old fools believing them and young fools as well ... Ouch! It makes my stomach hurt! Ouch! I AM Charlie Brown, you see, and my stomach always hurts ...

But wait! For now I'll quote Robert Plant, who bubbled so specifically in that lovely "The Song Remains the Same" movie rendition of "Stairway to Heaven," "But there's good news! Listen!" Yes! Why not?! Why not good news, for the Killer Bees are away from my radar after all, and all dead and buried at the bottom of the Rio Grande, for all I know ... and that's where one day soon we may find all these malfeasants and supplicating nitwits and schmucks and greedheads after all ... Aren't they just Killer Bees, really, on a demented rampage to keep alive and sting out at anything they THINK threatens them -- a fear-fueled frenzy of sociopathic stupidity ...

Even as we speak, there are probably focused, intelligent scientists in nerdy white lab coats who are developing vaccines for bullshit and marketed media manipulation and stupidity, and they'll be innoculating mankind before I know it ... And these lovely simply honest smart men (and women -- a few hot ones, with horn-rimmed glasses!) will be using their antiquated DDT puffer devises to soundly gas the bloodsucking parasites and heinous stinging bastards ...

They'll wait for them by the side of the River Styx, or some such river, and make it clear to them that they'll never be allowed in to heaven, which is probably here on earth after all ...

And heaven should be a place without sociopaths, Killer Bees or plastic surgery, and we'll all sit together by a quiet springtime stream and read aloud from the Bagvhad Gita, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, and Space Case ...

Memories of Coleytown Cafeteria Food

May 29, 2012:  Before I talk about the Killer Bees, as I've been promising to do (and the Brady Bunch), let me spend a few heartfelt minutes recounting the marvelous memories of the food they used to serve in the cafeteria of my old elementary school.

In yet another example of what seems to be a never-ending litany of things that were once, in the past, so much better, and now (because of greed and stupidity, and peripherals thereof) have come to suck shit, I can tell you we had awesome cafeteria food at Coleytown Elementary School in Westport, Connecticut, in the mid-1970s.

For starters, we ate on real plates -- unbreakable pink plastic plates that were washed every day by Herb the Janitor. How insane it is now that, with all our environmental overtures about recycling and all that bullshit, we only use the most disposable things we can in cafeterias and each day the custodians cart off a ton of plastic and styrofoam to the dumpster for god-knows-what stupid reason. (I don't even care what the reason is, even if you say the plastic plates put kids' health at risk, because I still maintain it's stupid and I stand by that, and I would much rather gamble on some kids getting a few cases of chemical poisoning than change my mind about it.)

Perhaps the most memorable lunch was Thursday's meatball grinder. "One or two meatballs," the cafeteria lady always asked each student before filling their grinder roll with the best sweet, saucy stuff you could imagine for the 60-cent price of a little red ticket. (I could never imagine why anyone would answer "One," but I guess some fools did.)

Spaghetti and meat sauce was also great, with a tasty salad and a mountain of pasta as good as you'd get in any family restaurant. (All the food seemed to be hearty and homemade, unlike the pre-prepped crap they pawn off today through the food service companies that inadvertently abuse our schools.)

Another awesome day was Wednesdays, when we often had turkey and mashed potatoes. The mashed were served with an ice cream scoop, and still today, it's hard to imagine anything tasting better. The turkey, which was lovely chunks of meat mixed into a sweet, gooey gravy, was delectable, and the spongy, olive-drab canned green beans were out of this world too (even though I usually didn't eat them).

Hamburgers and hot dogs were great days too, although in fifth grade I developed a reputation because I would literally smother these items with the condiments -- literally enough ketchup, mustard and relish to garnish six, heaped on my dog or hamburger. The cafeteria ladies would get mad at me, but I adamantly stood by my rights, like the little shit I was. (On a parallel note, I'm reminded of my best friend Debbie G. -- I think it was her -- and I making the creative discovery/proclamation some time around first grade that, as boys had hot dogs, what girls had must certainly be called hamburgers.)

Want more amazing? When we got to fifth grade we discovered that, since we were the last class eating, we could ask for seconds, and even thirds. The generous cafeteria ladies would heap enormous additional portions on our plates -- tons of turkey, spaghetti, extra french fries, and multiple ice cream scoops of mashed or, even better, delicious white rice prepared so perfectly sticky and tasty, I never ever since have tasted such a magnificent comforting delicacy.

And yet there was even more to experience than just amazing food. There was drama, entertainment, and mystery. I'll never forget the fearful risk one ran of being served by the woman who had no thumb. Usually she handled the desserts at the end of the line, but if it happened to come about that she was serving, it ended up warranting many minutes of discussion afterward. ("I saw it!" we'd exclaim, recounting the horror of how the skin had grown over the remaining knuckle.)

Most memorable, however, was the most surly lunch lady of them all, who, without fail -- day after day, for five straight years of my elementary experience -- would walk out into the large noisy lunchroom, literally holding up a big spoon like a character from Oliver Twist, and every single day, in a vaguely English voice that also sounded just like Fred Flintstone's mother-in-law, she would declare, "One lunch ticket missin'!"

She'd stand there waving the spoon like a pennant for a breath-holding moment while we all fell silent ... and waited, scared to speak ... until some stupid kid finally stood up and ran over to return the little ticket he'd forgotten to drop in the large, stout tin can with the paper pasted around outside. (It was probably the same kid each day, too.)

Day after day -- every day -- she said this, spoon in hand, every day ... And I've never forgotten the one and only time ever, in fifth grade, when she came out and shocked us all by announcing, "Two lunch tickets missin'!" (It's a moment burned in my memory as deeply as someone perhaps remembers where they were when Kennedy was shot.)

It was a delicious time, literally, and the memory is made all that much better by knowing that my new novel Space Case, which really isn't as new as it used to be, is now available in hard copy at Amazon. Get yours today and take a big bite!

The Brady Bunch & Me (and You ... and SPACE CASE)

May 20, 2012:  Where do I begin? I'm acutely aware that my film and entertainment-related posts are clearly the most popular, so going forward I've decided to make every effort to please you. (Yes, I know -- it's so unlike me!) Toward that end, I was finally going to offer the second part of the popular "Very Brady" analysis, which you were promised three years ago. (The fact that I'm finally following through demonstrates something, but I'm not entirely sure what ... especially since, by the time this Blah-ugh! entry is over, I may not have even followed through after all ...) For you see,  as Marcia Brady was so famously taught to say by Greg in that brilliant episode where she finally gets the date with quarterback Doug Simpson (Big Man on Campus), and therefore has to break her lame date with nebish Charlie, son of the wallpaper guy, who stupidly ties his smelly shoe to the bench and falls over ... "Something suddenly came up!" (or as Marcia says it, "seddinly")

And what came up was my dinner, although not literally. Actually, I am sitting here in my utter fatness at 10:45, so totally enamored with the meal I just ate, that I can't bring myself to focus on the subtleties of Brady trivia and life lessons, for I just can't stop thinking about what a miraculous meal it was ...

Now, if I were to detail what I ate, you'd probably find it a disappointing reason for my elation. And yet, as I sit here reviewing each bite in my gluttonous mind's eye, the perfection was only partially in the ingredients, and moreso in the very timing and overall coming-together of the meal.

Which brings me to share a little-known fact about myself -- little known and probably even less cared about, but these are the pedantic study thoughts writers have and we write them down because we HAVE to ... In short, I employ a kind of symmetrical system in eating my meals. That is, I somehow manage to eat my meals in such a way -- and my god, I do this EVERY TIME, and without conscious effort -- so that by the time they're just about finished, I always have one last little bite of each item on my plate.

In fact, it's actually a kind of remarkable skill, really, and highlights my spatial intelligence, because I always work it out in the waning minutes of my meal without fail. And even halfway before I'm through, my higher space brain has me taking just the right-size bites to keep everything in some kind of weird balance on my plate, so that the last few rounds of fork-fulls will be even ...

I don't think I've ever recounted any of my grosser obsessive-compulsive tendencies, but they're there, and have certainly been flagrant in the past. But how I ended up with this specific habit of eating, I'll never know. I remember having a related discussion with a friend many years ago, which I think was brought up because he ate (and completed eating) each item on his plate before starting the next (and of course I pointed out that this was wrong) ...

Anyway, it was a great meal, and probably made better by the classic Brady episode I watched while consuming -- "Confessions, Confessions," where Peter breaks mom's favorite vase and the others try to cover it up for him so he can still go on his camping trip. "Mom's favorite vase," Greg moans softly. And Bobby, "She always says, 'Don't play ball in the house.'" (One of the things that made that show great was that they pronounced vase with a long A, and "aunt" as "ant," the way it's supposed to be pronounced by normal Americans.

Yes, there are so many Brady-related items I need to go further into. I don't think I ever even touched on the urban legend of Eve Plumb becoming a porn star, the removal of Maureen McCormick's moles, or the fact that you can see the wire when the wall nearly falls on that little girl in Driscoll's toy store ...

But I've also got SPACE CASE news to report, and lots of it. For starters, my June 6 Westport Library appearance is deucedly imminent, and thanks to kind, talented, brave writers like the great Joe Meyers -- always my favorite critic because he often shares my sensible good taste, AND he liked my first movie, or at least pretended to like it in a very sincere way -- publicity will be forthcoming in the CT Post, or maybe the Stamford Advocate ... News-Times? -- I'm hoping the whole gang, as they now appear to all be under the same yoke. (I don't even know when that happened, but, really, I don't even want to know!) Joe is a legendary good man, and it was an honor being interviewed by him (and now let's see if I keep this nauseating praise up here AFTER he publishes the article!) ...

The point is, SPACE CASE is growing, like a fungus, and if you haven't read it yet, you're a shitheel and no friend of mine! But I'm only saying that to encourage you to buy a copy, because not everyone has a Kindle or a Nook ... and so the really, REALLY great news is that Amazon is now offering -- Yes, I can HARDLY believe it myself -- a HARD COPY of SPACE CASE -- available for everyone, be they black or white or colored, to paraphrase Woody Allen ...

Here is the link: SPACE CASE in hard cover, with new cover ... but I would encourage you to wait 48 hours before ordering, because I'm resubmitting a new file with fewer typos ...

That said, let's remember to talk MORE about the Bradys in the next outing of the Blah-ugh! And I've got to go off about this weird John Wayne movie I stumbled on that's downright creepy -- "Big Jim McClain" ...

And could someone please remind about the Killer Bees? ...