Winston declaring himself King of Pismo Beach
AmpSurf, a public service organization that provides assistance to wounded service veterans and other disabled people by teaching them to surf. AmpSurf had an event last week at picturesque Pismo Beach, California and my mono-ped buddy Kiki Wistone (a long-time volunteer for the group) tried to get the press interested by inviting me to make an appearance so that they could exploit the awesome power of my celebrity. But it turned out that Pismo Beach was more of a hick burg than I ever could have imagined because not only did no one seem to so much as recognize me when I was there, but everyone on the beach (whether they were there for the event or not) went crazy to meet, pet and photograph my beloved pug Winston (by contrast, the dozens of autographed glossies of myself that I brought to sell at a bargain basement twenty-five bucks a pop brought no interest, including several tasteful nudes that I posed for when I was high on hash brownies last March). But the most humiliating aspect of all was when I was forced to stand by and watch people – some with devastating physical injuries – leap carelessly into the rocky waves and surf home victoriously with the aid of altruistic AmpSurf volunteers. In the mean time, I was forced to stand by on the shore like a pussy because I've been afraid to set foot in a natural body of water ever since I saw Jaws: The Revenge. Even Winston was trying out the surfboards and would have hung ten with everybody else except that the volunteers warned me that his enormously fat ass offered no buoyancy. So Winston and I watched as people missing arms and legs (in some cases both) thumbed their noses at their disabilities (and sometimes at us) and screamed "Cowabunga!" as they dived fearlessly into the briny deep. If only I could have sold a few autographed headshots to pay for the weekend, I might have considered it an inspiring experience.To learn more about AmpSurf, click here.

My beloved pug Winston, who joined me on the two-day jaunt. Winston and I got along famously on the road trip except for when we stayed at the lavish seaside resort at which we spent the night, the Pismo Beach Motel 6. Moments after checking in and seeing our room, Winston had the very understandable reaction of throwing up all over the threadbare sheets on the threadbare bed. I don't blame him (I wanted to do the same thing after I saw the place, illuminated by the single light that Tom Beaudette had left on for us) but the problem is that my success in cleaning the pre-digested Alpo out of the sheets was only partly successful and since the tattoo and piercings-laden domestic staff didn't seem like they would welcome a request to replace the sheets they had only changed two weeks before and the remaining flecks of sputum were well off to the side of the bed where I would be sleeping anyway, I made the best of it. The problem was that I allowed Winston to share the bed with me and he treated the area where he purged his stomach like his own personal mini-bar. This meant that while I was one one side of the bed trying to get some shut-eye, Winston was on the other noisily trying to lick the sheets and blankets clean of every remaining particle of biochemical matter. I finally decided that I wasn't going to get any sleep that night anyway so I stuck my finger down my throat, violently upchucked all over my lap and laid next to Winston so that he could employ his sweet pug tongue on an area that would get some enjoyment out of it. Whatever happens in Pismo, stays in Pismo.

Rose Dona, who is a stranger to me but sent me an e-mail reading "Am interested in you for a serious relationship, if you are interested in me contact me directly so that I will give you my pictures and for more details about me (Remember the distance and color even age, does not matter, but love is the most important thing in creating a good relationship i believe that we can start from here), waiting Rose." What Ms. Dona didn't realize was that she was playing a game that I am an expert at. The rules are that if someone is presenting themselves as a potential beaux and they start giving you a laundry list of things that don't matter in love, they are rattling off qualities that they don't possess themselves. On a first date, I will frequently rhapsodize "Tragically misshapen genitalia doesn't matter, as long as there's love" or "It doesn't mean a thing if I'm this week's cover boy on the Megan's Law website, as long as there's love" or the classic "It makes not a whit of difference if you pay for the sixteen vodka shots I just cannon-balled, as long as there's love."So when I read Ms. Dona's spiel, I knew at once that she is an old bat with a skin condition that gives her epidermis a grotesque hue and that she lives at least a hundred miles away from me. But none of that matters if there's love. And she's willing to pick up my bar tab.

Young Master Merlin
Jonny Award winner Jesse Merlin, who recently posed for this charming photograph wearing over-sized spectacles. I have never known Mr. Merlin to wear glasses so unless he developed a sudden astigmatism that I don't know about, I assume that he was employing the specs as a fashion accessory for the benefit of the camera. As a long-time wearer of corrective lenses in order to keep from having to do things like order food from a menu printed in Braille, I consider this practice akin to tooling around in a wheelchair in order to send out the macho vibe of a serviceman wounded in battle. Eyeglasses are a medical aid for which tedious hours are spent custom-fitting them to the needs of the wearer, yet I can't tell you how many times some nimrod has snatched mine off my face "just to try them on" to see if he looks more intellectual, wise, distinguished, or any number of other superficial traits he wants to project that he can't yank out of his soul so he hopes that a pair of frames from Calvin Klein will suggest the missing qualities. In Mr. Merlin's case, the vibe he wants to convey is apparently that of being a twelve year-old boy, and all he needs is a pair of short pants with a slingshot in the back pocket to complete the image. He'd better be careful with that slingshot though, because he could shoot someone's eye out and they might end up needing glasses as a result. They'd need help crossing the street for the rest of their lives, but at least they'd look more sophisticated doing it.

Singer Miley Cyrus, who has been getting a lot of heat lately for eschewing the Disney Channel/Hannah Montana wholesomeness for which she made her name is now making zillions of dollars as the Ĺ«ber-skank of her generation, performing in music videos and concerts which are little more than glorified pole dances. To her concerned fans, I would suggest that you take a chill pill. Ms. Cyrus is just following the lead of another bat shit-crazy female superstar of her generation, Angelina Jolie, who first came into the public spotlight by doing insane things to get back at her famous daddy like making out with her own brother at the Academy Awards and carrying a vial of Billy Bob Thornton's blood around her neck. Eventually, Ms. Jolie got it out of her system and is now the AIDS baby advocate who behaves so condescendingly today. So I say give Ms. Cyrus some slack and let her have her rebellious period like other girls her age. Eventually, she'll get it all out of her system and return to the straight-and-narrow. I see a Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award in her future.