Super Bowl Ads
The Super Bowl, which I did not witness a down of last Sunday. I have never followed the game of professional football very closely although I have attended a handful of Super Bowl parties over the course of my lifetime. The great carrot which lures the football-ignorant to watch the Big Game is the promise of majestic and unforgettable television commercials which were produced to premiere during the broadcast and are always hyped to be a cross between Star Wars and Citizen Kane. I'm not sure when the Super Bowl became the Sundance Film Festival for Madison Avenue product, but I managed to catch up with some of the more popular ads after the game. There was one Go Daddy spot which depicted a gorgeous model making out with a man who doesn't seem nearly physically attractive enough to catch her sexual attention (a scenario I see in my R.E.M. sleep on a nightly basis), a Budweiser ad in which a man appears to have a fulfilling sexual relationship with a horse (a situation that I have also dreamed about, but only if I have a box of Krispy Cream Donuts and six shots of vodka just before bed), and a Doritos commercial in which a goat develops an overwhelming addiction for the nacho cheese-dusted chips (causing a surge in the purchase of Doritos amongst goats, I have no doubt). They appeared to me to be no different than the drivel that plays during the breaks for Dr. Oz or Here Comes Honey Boo Boo as I make a mad dash to the toilet or go to the kitchen for more Doritos and Budweiser, and I fail to see why I need to sit through four hours of watching guys who used to brutalize me in high school run up and down a field chasing a ball just to see the first airing of a Nike commercial that is soon going to be shown ad nauseum during reruns of The Big Bang Theory. Sure it's fun when I can watch one of the players sustain a career-ending injury and be carried off the field paralyzed from the neck down, but the rest of the time I've got my eyes closed picturing a gorgeous model making out with me. And I don't even have to sign a two-year contract with GoDaddy.com when it's over.
My high school classmate Monique Johnson. I occasionally write Facebook posts describing the pathetic lengths that I go to in an attempt to entertain my beloved Pug Winston while I am making our lunches (I have a salad with an apple for dessert, he gets baby carrots with the vomit that he retches up after eating the baby carrots for dessert). A few weeks ago, I serenaded him with a song called Avocado sung to the tune of The Eagles' Desperado. This week, I ripped off the musical A Chorus Line by extemporizing a version of the show's big number What I Did for Love; only my version was less about the sacrifices one must make while pursuing a career in musical theatre and more about having profound feelings for an obese Pug sitting in my kitchen and hoping that I might drop a crouton on the floor. I happily shared the experience with my pals on the social network and for some reason the anecdote prompted Ms. Johnson to call my sexuality into question, pondering "Wait, I can't remember if you're gay or not. Knowing that would help me understand you better." On the one hand, I am sympathetic towards Ms. Johnson's confusion since my sexual history indicates that I am as repellant to women as I am to men. On the other hand, even a cursive look at these pages shows my sexual obsession with hot chicks like Jeebus Burbano and Mara Marini. But I can still understand why my interest in these women wouldn't put the issue to rest because both Ms. Burbano and Ms. Marini are two of those rare women who straight men want to be with and gay men want to be. But an analysis of the thousands of JPEGS on my hard drive will reveal countless images of naked chicks, whereas the only image of a penis that can be found is the one of my own that I use as a profile picture on Web Chat Roulette. I hope that satisfies Ms. Johnson's curiosity about the direction of my sexuality. As far as being able to understand me better, I'd say that she's on her own.
My college buddy Anne Gatza Murphy, who said "I know my name has an optional letter, and I expect people will misspell it. But at this point in history I am still surprised when people mispronounce it." I share Ms. Gatza Murphy's pain since I have had people who've known me since childhood slip a rogue "H" into my first name despite the fact that I have never spelled it with an "H"even during the period when I was experimenting with crystal meth (when I was doing some far more batshit crazy stuff than that, believe me). But I disagree with her that either of us has an "optional"letter in our names. Everyone's names requires a precise amount of letters fashioned in a specific order to get it right. My name is spelled J-O-N. There is an option to that if you are an intimate friend of mine or a hot chick, in which you are free to spell it J-O-N-N-Y. If you decide to throw an "H"into the mix, you are no more using my name than you would be if you were to suddenly call me Marmaduke. The same is true of Ms. Gatza Murphy, whose name is not "Ann" anymore than it is "Bathsheba." We do part ways on the mispronunciation thing, since I have encountered so many people who are unable to correctly form their mouth to say "Jon"that I have gotten used to it. Their inability to pronounce my name usually stems from the fact that I've just smashed a chair over their head for spelling it with an "H," so it would probably be just as well for someone like you to make a mental note of how my name is spelled and use it correctly whenever you are corresponding with me. That's so much easier than living out your life with irreversible brain trauma suffered from getting clubbed over the head with a chair.
Master thespian Tom Ashworth, who announced that he is playing the role of God in a staged reading of a play appropriately titled God Help Us later in the month. Mr. Ashworth is one of those actors who like to "become"the part that he's playing so he'll no doubt want some advice in how to approach enacting Jehovah. In my experience, God spends His every waking moment hatching up plots to annoy or destroy me, and the divine deity's one great ambition is to anally violate me in such a savage fashion that I'll forever walk with a limp after He's ruined me in the manner that He envisions. Jehovah hasn't yet taken His plan of anally raping me to completion because every time we get together, I sense that something's up and manage to get the hell out of there after I've been humiliated and abused by God but not penetrated to the degree that He clearly longs for. In other words, Mr. Ashworth is perfectly cast as God and need not change a hair for the reading since he's been preparing for it since the day he first laid eyes on me. If he wants me to attend the performance, all that I ask is that I be given a chair fixed against a sturdy wall.
onny Award winner Jesse Merlin, who is appearing in a theatrical production titled Sketches from the National Lampoon at the Hayworth Theatre in Los Angeles. Since my personal psychic, aromatherapist and dominatrix are all out of town this weekend, I found myself in an unusual position of having nothing to do on Saturday night and decided to catch the show. And since I know that Mr. Merlin's fan club consists of two fellow Pier Paolo Pasolini fans (one of who bested him in an eBay auction for a brick of fecal matter used as a prop in Saló, or the 120 Days of Sodom) and a carnival pinhead who saw him in Re-Animator: The Musical and follows his career in an attempt to figure out how he reattaches his head for subsequent appearances, I knew that the audience would be sparse unless I exploited the awesome power of my personal celebrity to swell the crowd. So I got on the social network and I announced that I would not only be signing autographs in the lobby following the show, but there would be a special lottery in which some lucky lady in the audience would be allowed to take me home and ravish me (assuming she met the minimum age and weight specifications and had the results of a blood tests performed within the last two weeks in her purse or accessible online). You can therefore imagine my shock when I got on the show's Facebook page and saw nary a word of this promotional goldmine. I can only assume that the show's publicist suffered a sudden stroke and was unable to properly publicize the appearance or else she is a hot chick who wants to snap up all of the lottery tickets for herself. Either way, I hope that you'll join me on Saturday night for a preview performance of Jesse Merlin in Sketches from the National Lampoon (discount tickets may be purchased here. And be sure to bring the results of your latest blood test. Who knows? It may turn out to be your lucky night.