The Joys of Photoshop
Famed photographer Annie Leibovitz. I spent a good chunk of last week ripping off Ms. Leibovitz by taking a series of brilliant photographs she took depicting celebrities in episodes from Disney films, fairy tales and Shakespearean plays and Photoshopping Winston and myself along with the flotsam and jetsam with whom I hang around with in their places. Some came out classier than others; my celebrity crush Frances Fisher provided an air of childlike wonder to Wendy beholding Winston as Tinkerbell and your truly as Peter Pan flying in through her window, the usually annoying Amy Ball made a charming Princess Jasmine flying around on a magic carpet while Jesse Merlin as the genie emerged from the lantern with a disapproving glare, and Lisa Glass was an enchanting Beauty both in her sleeping state and paired with a prince who had just made the transformation from being a beast. But I had to add a mountain of flowing Byronesque locks to my hayseed acquaintance Eddie Frierson to make him a convincing knight about to do battle with an oncoming dragon and Micah Watterson made a rather far-fetched Tybalt slaying me as Mercutio in a duel (in real life, I'd slice his nuts off with one swing of my epee blade). But whatever absurd dimension my plugging in the inhabitants of Jonny's Enemies List gave these images, it is Ms. Leibovitz' indefinable genius that provided them their unique beauty and my harmless tinkering is meant as nothing more than a tribute to her greatness. At least that's what I'm telling her attorneys when they call.
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Bro Joe, with whom I dined on Friday. Joe disclosed to me that he was considering putting his possessions in storage and aimlessly traveling the country like David Carradine in the 1970s television series Kung Fu. Like all discussions about Kung Fu, we inevitably focused on main character Kwai Chang Caine's insistence that he was a pacifist until some racist country store owner or saloon keeper would threaten him with a broomstick or axe handle and order him to "move along, Chinaman," whereupon Caine would savagely Kung Fu the living shit out of him in slow motion for seven and a half minutes. Joe looks about as Chinese as David Carradine did as Kwai Chang Caine but he's at essence a peaceful man so I'm not sure if he's suited to the Kung Fu lifestyle of taking his shoes off and kicking the crap out of anyone who antagonizes him during his travels. But I encourage him to take to the road and at least see what happens. Another thing Joe has in common with David Carradine is that that he's fond of autoerotique asphyxiation (at least if you believe the rumors about how Mr. Carradine met his untimely end), so I think the only one who's likely to be seriously injured during his travels is Joe himself.
Annoying yenta Lisa Glass, with whom I inexplicably found myself exploring the Beverly Center on Sunday. Ms. Glass is something of a fashionista and since I get all my clothes on the Internet or picking them off the dead bodies I encounter throughout my neighborhood while I'm walking Winston, it was an education for me to have Ms. Glass explain to me the subtle differences between Jimmy Choo and Prada (the Glass perspective is that Jimmy Choo is overpriced trash and Prada is overpriced awesomeness.). The one store which I got genuinely excited by sold sequined tuxedo jackets for a thousand dollars (marked down to 50% off because I guess they were having a hard time finding anyone willing to shell out a grand for a sequined tuxedo jacket). The only thing that kept me from making the purchase was that I couldn't think of a single event I might attend where a sequined tuxedo jacket would be appropriate attire. But noticing her irritation at my enthusiasm at the sight of them, I think the best place to wear a sequined tuxedo jacket would be exploring the Beverly Center with Lisa Glass. If I could scrounge up the funds to add some Jimmy Choo to the ensemble, I think I could get Ms. Glass' head to explode. That would be money well spent.
My longtime nemesis Tom Ashworth, who posted on his Facebook page "Banjo blogs are the best: Learn the difference between right and perfect. They are not the same." I have no experience reading banjo blogs so I couldn't register an opinion until I realized that Mr. Ashworth is a happily married man, and happily married men use code when discussing their online shenanigans. So what Mr. Ashworth calls a "banjo blog," you and I would refer to as a hardcore porn site with a monthly membership fee. When I think back to my furtive sexual dalliances before the days of the Internet (yes, my younger readers, there was such a time as before the days of the Internet), my erotic education was limited to when I could scrounge up the guts to buy a copy of Penthouse Forum Letters from the local magazine stand. When the Internet came along, my ability to research amorous activities went from merely right to downright perfect. Unfortunately, my repellant personality and iffy personal hygiene have made it hard for me to find a sexual partner for more than a vodka-soaked weekend or two so my ability to put my wealth of knowledge into practice has been spotty over the decades. I'd love to find a willing woman to be able to inflict all the perverse sexual expertise I've learned on the Internet on a permanent basis, but then I'd have to come up with a code word like "banjo blog" so she wouldn't know where I'd found out about all that sick stuff. To be honest, I don't think it would be worth it.
Glenn "Piece of Shit" Simon, who is appearing in a play entitled So You Want to be a Vampire opening this Saturday. Mr. Simon posted on his Facebook page "If you've ever wanted to see me die on stage (due to my character getting killed, not because of my questionable acting choices) please come to this show. It's gonna be a lot of fun." It has long been my dream to witness Mr. Simon's death under any circumstances, and if I must do it in the make-believe realm of theatre, so be it. I don't know what the titular nosferatus have in store for him, but I'll be in attendance to watch whatever obliteration I can get. The show performs Saturday nights in June at 11:30 which is well past my usual bed time, but my operatives (some of whom are night owls) inform me that it's a delightful time and that seeing Mr. Simon die a gruesome, painful death is well worth staying up for. Tickets are available here.