. I made an innocent comment on the social network that I was unclear when the term “Black Friday” started, since I remember the day after Thanksgiving being referred to simply as the day after Thanksgiving in the halcyon days of my youth. Some of you jumped in to point out that the name refers to the period that puts retailers in the financial “black” (after being in the “red” the previous eleven months of the year), with Bro Joe quoting the Wikipedia
article on the subject, explaining “The day’s name originated in Philadelphia, where it originally was used to describe the heavy and disruptive pedestrian and vehicle traffic which would occur on the day after Thanksgiving. Use of the term started before 1961 and began to see broader use outside Philadelphia around 1975.” Personally, I think Black Friday sounds like a name given to a date that commemorates a military coup and it isn’t helped by the idea that (according to Wikipedia) Thanksgiving evening is now known as Gray Thursday. I always thought of Thanksgiving as having an autumnal color palette of oranges and yellows so I don’t cotton to the idea that it’s now associated with the monochromatic scale. In the spirit of compromise, I say that between my physical response to the massive amounts of red wine and cornbread stuffing that I shove down my gullet on Thursday and the thought of multitudes of greedy cheapskates descending on malls to save a few shekels on Tickle Me Elmos on Friday, I think that Thanksgiving and the days that follow it should be known as The Puke Green Long Weekend. It’s more honest and makes the kickoff to the holiday season a little more colorful. [click to continue…]
Don Lemon preparing to ask an incredibly stupid question
Television journalist Don Lemon
, who interviewed Joan Tarshis, one of the women who alleges that comedian Bill Cobsy raped her 40 years ago by drugging her and forcing her to give him oral sex, and asked her why she simply didn’t bite on Cosby’s penis to send the message that a non-consensual blowjob might not be the enjoyable lark he assumed. With respect to Mr. Lemon, a man who blithely implies that a woman is even vaguely responsible because she didn’t physically retaliate against a sexual assault is simply out of his fucking mind. To put it in a context that Mr. Lemon can relate to, let’s assume that he’s walking down a dark alley by himself in the dead of night. I don’t know what Mr. Lemon’s vital statistics are, but for the sake of this argument I’m going to put him at about 6’0” and 180 lbs. He is suddenly accosted by a man who is 6’6” and 245 lbs. (the approximate difference in bio-mass between Mr. Cosby and Ms. Tarshis at the time) and is armed with a knife or gun. The attacker, in a psychotic need to mollify his disturbed ego by forcing himself on what he perceives as a weaker individual, orders Mr. Lemon to get on his knees and suck the aggressor’s cock – with Mr. Lemon’s other option being to have his throat slit and his body left as chum for the scavengers in the alley. It’s only because Mr. Lemon possesses the hubris of the male gender (developed over a lifetime of watching Chuck Norris movies) which makes him assume that he is capable of fending off any attacker if only he has the will and the one-two punch to do so, that makes Mr. Lemon imagine that sinking his pearly whites into a rapist’s wang would even cross his mind during such a terrifying and violent assault. I have no idea if the charges Ms. Tarshis is making against Mr. Cosby are true and with a 40+ year passage of time, I don’t expect that I ever will. But if I was a woman discussing a sexual assault with a so-called “journalist” and the “journalist” asked me as stupid and ignorant a question as Mr. Lemon did, I think my only reasonable response would be to tell him to suck my dick.
To his credit, Lemon apologized for the remark the following night and since I’m something of a Hall of Famer at making dumb comments myself, I am cutting him some slack. The good thing about such verbal missteps is that they initiate a dialogue about these kinds of issues and that’s always
a positive move. Hopefully the next time I
make a dumb remark and you all crawl up my ass about it, it will make the world a slightly better place. [click to continue…]
Absolute dicks Danny Kaye and Laurence Olivier
Author Christine Ashworth
, who posted on the social network, “So this is gonna sound stupid, but – I just got my first 2-star review on Amazon, and I’m giddy. I’ve never gotten a 2-star review before – and I have always believed you’re not really ‘going places’ until you have a few 1- and 2-star reviews. The fun part about it is it’s not that bad a review! “ I felt compelled to point out to Ms. Ashworth that another book I had recently checked out on Amazon suffered a whopping 10% of its reviews to rate it with a single
star, and that title was Hamlet
by a no-talent named William Shakespeare. But Ms. Ashworth’s post reminded me of a time I posted my own negative review of a book on Amazon, a tome about Hollywood scandals which included the popular myth that Laurence Olivier had a long-term affair with Danny Kaye. I have done a significant amount of research about Olivier’s life and career, and while the guy had his shortcomings (he was, by almost all contemporary accounts, an absolute dick), I am forced to conclude that his decades long sexual liaison with Mr. Kaye (who allegedly disguised himself as a customs officer at Los Angeles International Airport so that he could detain Olivier from a flight he was arriving on in order to perform a strip search on him, which is kind of hard to imagine happening post-9/11) falls into the category of urban legend. The author sent me a furious
e-mail (comparing me for some reason to George Bush) in reply to my review of his book, to which I responded with a lengthy quote from Terry Coleman, the author of Olivier’s authorized biography
who had unprecedented access to his papers and historical archives. Mr. Coleman reported that despite exhaustive research, he was unable to find any evidence to support the rumor of an affair between Olivier and Kaye (the same book recounted a correspondence between Olivier and Shakespearean actor Henry Ainley that was of a highly sexual nature, so there’s no reason to suppose that Mr. Coleman was covering anything up). My e-mails with the author of the book I panned became increasingly cordial after that and ended on a note of “agree to disagree.”
Parenthetically, I once shared a dressing room with an actor who was a regular on Mr. Kaye’s TV variety show and he informed me that one thing Kaye did have in common with Olivier was that he was an absolute dick. I concluded it was a jerky move on my part to blithely post a negative comment towards a book someone had worked years on, even if I did take exception to its content, so I deleted it. I’ll leave that kind of thing to absolute dicks like Laurence Olivier and Danny Kaye. [click to continue…]
Your faithful correspondent reading from Jonny's Enemies List at his mother's memorial service
The Brothers Mullich scattered the ashes of their mother on Sunday. I suppose that’s a bizarre experience for anyone but it shook me up because rather than reading a passage from the Bible or some other profound tome, I recited a selection
from Jonny’s Enemies List that I posted on the day Mom died, which was written with affection but didn’t shy away from remembering some of her more controversial personality traits. So it was with all the mourners, who each took a moment to reflect on what a pain in the ass she could be (Bro Joe told a memorable story about how she picketed a place of business when she was going through a period of joblessness, where it ultimately turned out that she hadn’t applied for employment). I’ve been to a number of memorial services and this was the first one where all the speakers didn’t paint verbal hosannas of praise about the sainted corpse, even as those in attendance rolled their eyes at some of the more implausible exaggerations or skipping over of historical facts. I’m glad we didn’t remember Mom as an idealized version of something she never was but rather spoke of her as a real human being who walked the earth with all of the flaws and shortcomings that contribute to making us real human beings. But the last words I spoke at the ritual were something I whispered into the urn just before I released my portion of her ashes into the Pacific Ocean. What those words were are between Mom and me but I will tell you that they overlooked any of the human frailties mentioned in my eulogy and expressed a profound love that is unique between a mother and a son. I find it comforting that for all her I Love Lucy
antics that she pulled off during her lifetime, after their physical remains were consigned to the dust from whence they came it was only her love which was left behind. That might seem like a strange thing for me to write in something called an Enemies List, but I need to slip in some sentimental goo once in a while. I never know when I’ll need to read one of these things at a memorial service.
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What the people want
A website called iCelebsDB.com
, an online database of male celebrities. I discovered the site when I was doing my weekly Google search of my own name and was surprised to find that I am included in its numbers. I was even more puzzled when I visited its page devoted to me
and found a link directing me to “Click Here For Jon Mullich’s Nude Pictures & Naked Videos,” which led me to a membership site that promised nude photos of male celebrities like myself for a thirty dollar monthly fee. I was shocked; not because they apparently possess nude pictures and naked videos of me (those can be easily found for free on Web Chat Roulette) but that there exists a class of consumers who are willing to shell out money for them. I have been offering nude pictures and naked videos of me for decades and not only have I never found anyone interested in purchasing them, I’ve discovered that there’s no shortage of people willing to give me a few bucks not
to show them. Thanks to iCelebsDB.com, I now realize that there’s a vast multitude out there that are willing to pay top dollar to see me in the buff and I intend to make the media available to them; especially the stuff that’s deemed too hot for Web Chat Roulette featuring me with an elderly stroke victim’s aluminum cane. Thirty bucks a month sounds a little steep if you’re only interested in seeing naked photos of me though, so I’m willing to make them available to you for the bargain basement price of fifteen dollars. I really hate to charge anything but it will go a long way towards finally paying a doctor to find that tennis ball that’s lodged up my ass.
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Jonny: then and now
who obsessed over the change in Renée Zellweger’s appearance after she showed up at the Elle
Women in Hollywood Awards in Beverly Hills looking nothing whatsoever like Renée Zellweger. She’s obviously has a buttload of plastic surgery but she didn’t end up looking like something non-human like Jocelyn Wildenstein or Suzanne Sommers. She looks like an attractive 45 year-old woman who just happens to not bear any resemblance to the star of Bridget Jones’s Diary
. The yentas who populate the social network were beating their breasts over this revelation but I figure it’s Ms. Zellweger’s face and she can do whatever she wants with it. The lady herself responded to the furor by saying “I’m glad folks think I look different! I’m living a different, happy, more fulfilling life, and I’m thrilled that perhaps it shows.” I think she has a point. To illustrate, take a look at the photo of me on the left taken in 2010 and the one on the right taken of me yesterday afternoon. My hair’s combed a little better and my beard’s grown out, but I’m obviously the same guy that I was five years ago. And that depresses the crap out of me, because I think of myself as being a complete mess
five years ago. Maybe if I’d gone the Renée Zellweger route and bought myself a new face, I wouldn’t be the train wreck I am today. But that’s for the yentas on the social network to decide. They seem to have an opinion about everything
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Honesty in social networking
My college chum James Cleveland
, who casually posted as his Facebook status “A quick trip to Amsterdam, Paris, Geneva, Berlin and London! Any suggestions?” For those of you who are new to the social network, the last
thing Mr. Cleveland is interested in is advice on how to enjoy Europe. A Facebook post like that is decoded as “My life is better than yours; fuck you.” This is a common gambit in social networking. Whenever one of your so-called “friends” (a misnomer if there ever was one) posts about his or her perfect family, committed relationship or (in Mr. Cleveland’s case) dream vacation, this is what he or she is telling you. I therefore suggest that the programmers at Facebook introduce an AutoHotkey that allows us to make “My life is better than yours; fuck you” our status with a single keyboard stroke, since that’s what everybody on Facebook seems to want their status to say. Of course Mr. Cleveland’s status got an avalanche of “likes” and comments; but only because those are the only options currently available to us. I further challenge the programmers at Facebook to expand the selections of “Like,” “Comment” and “Share” by adding one which allows responder to tell the poster to go fuck himself. Granted, anyone could
write that as a comment now rather than merely think it (which, trust me, everybody
is doing). But the social network is populated by sheep and no one wants to make a bold stance by being the first to do something that everyone else wants to do but secretly fears that they’re the only one who feels that way. By adding that link, Facebook would be letting their users know that it’s okay
to tell Mr. Cleveland to go fuck himself when he announces that his life is better than yours. In fact, doing so would even be considered a social nicety. Because only by accumulating enough responses of “Go fuck yourself” with Mr. Cleveland be absolutely certain that his life is better than ours. And isn’t that really what social networking is all about?
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Jeebus Burbano and Tom Shelton making nice for the camera
, who was interviewed in the website San Diego Playwrights
about a theatre piece she wrote with her life partner Tom Shelton called Silueta
about a character named Ana and her life partner Carl. Ms Burbano disclosed in the interview that in their writing process, “I write Ana usually and Tom writes Carl.” I have not yet seen the play so I am assuming it is some kind of dark Chekhovian drama set in pre-revolutionary Russia because the idea amuses me. And since I have been in a domestic partnership myself, I further surmise that the dialogue – written by Ms. Burbano and Mr. Shelton each for the characters of their respective genders – breaks off into exchanges like:
CARL: The winters are so cold here. If only we could return to Moscow…
Ana enters, extremely pissed off .
ANA: Is that why you didn’t go to the grocery store?
CARL: Do you mind? I’m lamenting my lost way of life as a Russian nobleman.
ANA: That’s not going to be of much help when I need the tampons and Ben & Jerry’s AmeriCone Dream that you promised to pick up.
CARL: Fine. Just let me finish writing…I mean saying…this speech, and I’ll go to the goddamned store.
ANA: And get a bottle of Jack Daniels. Your mother is coming over and you know how she loves to drink.
CARL: ALL RIGHT!
(Ana exits, but not before shooting Carl a withering look that tells him that this isn’t over and if he expects any sex within the next six months, he’d better shape up.)
CARL: The winters are so cold here. If only we could return to Moscow…
I’m sure that Ms. Burbano and Mr. Shelton will do some editing before the play’s premiere but I would advise them to leave these honest interactions intact. The best writing is always the most personal, and I think audience would like to see an honest representation of contemporary domestic life (even if it is set against the backdrop of pre-revolutionary Russia). Not many people know this, but the first draft of The Importance of Being Earnest had a scene in which Jack and Algernon bicker about where they should put the new paisley foot stool they just got from Renaissance Hardware, but Oscar Wilde cut it after lawyers convinced him it might hurt his court case against the Marquess of Queensberry. It’s a shame; it would only have made a great play even greater. [click to continue…]
The ever-youthful Jesse Merlin
Jonny Award winner Jesse Merlin
, who asked me to create a delightful Photoshop illustration of him in his “Black Guardian” costume from the British TV institution Doctor Who
standing in front of a typical Doctor Who
backdrop. The image was intended to help gain him admittance to an oversold Doctor Who
event whose target audience is pale, undatable teenage boys. The strategy happily worked but I thought little of it until a couple of days later when Mr. Merlin posted on his Facebook Wall that it was “a banner day for the postman” since an old friend of his had found a huge stack of Doctor Who
paperbacks and sent them to his buddy. I was immediately concerned and thought I should stage an intervention for Mr. Merlin to stop him from following a life path that will inevitably turn him into an irredeemable geek. Then I realized that I first met the faux
Black Guardian when he played the Captain Kirk surrogate in my Gilbert & Sullivan version of Star Trek
. That’s when it dawned on me just how brilliant his plan is. I have no idea what Mr. Merlin’s actual age is but he has the smooth and supple skin of a teenager even though he talks and dresses like a Victorian prime minister. It’s obvious that he and his fellow “lost boys” at sci fi conventions and comic book shows have aped Oscar Wilde’s Dorian Gray by immersing themselves in geekery to keep from aging. And if you pity Mr. Merlin because all the Doctor Who
and Star Trek
crap makes him undatable, I suggest you look at the Big Picture. No one who talks and dresses like a Victorian prime minister is going to get any action under any
circumstances. At least this way he holds onto his high cheekbones and taut, muscular ass. If that means spending his weekends in a refrigerator crate that’s been tricked out as a tardis, it’s a small price to pay.
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Lacie Harmon and me
, who posted the Facebook status “Eyes burning. Exhaustion. Possibly the start of a runny nose. Gotta be a terminal blood disease.” Wise-ass that I am, I suggested that it probably was
a terminal blood disease and that she had two weeks to live, tops. Our interaction then strangely devolved into a conversation about how she would “suck on God” when she met Her in the afterlife. I’m not sure which one of us introduced a bizarre sexual component into a discussion about meeting one’s maker in the afterlife (although everybody reading this knows it was me). Fortunately, more rational voices entered the conversation and it went into a less blasphemous direction. But it did leave me wondering what sex with the deity is like. I prefer to think of God as a nurturing mother rather than an overbearing father, so I don’t think of it as hot dude-on-dude action when it does ultimately happen between us. But God is
all-powerful, so while the sex with Her would probably be mind-blowing, I think I might be too intimidated and self-conscious to have anything get inflated below the belt buckle leaving me feeling inadequate and self-loathing as a result. When I think of it that way, I finally have a response for women who delay having sex with me for as long as possible because “it would change our relationship,” because my current relationship with God leaves me feeling inadequate and self-loathing now
. A furtive night with me that left Her frustrated and sexually unsatisfied wouldn’t make a bit of difference.
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