�Fame makes a man take things over/Fame makes him loose, hard to swallow/Fame puts you there where things are hollow/Fame� Thank you, David Bowie, Man who was born to be a real unscathed (from here) rock star, Man who should be king, Man who somehow managed (again, from here) to live above the character-debilitating mushroom cloud of Fame and yet still be totally famous and fabulous.

Fucking Michael Jackson �needs [our] support.� He wants us to picket Sony because they didn�t properly promote his last album. I personally feel this supposed poor marketing of said MJ wank-fest is the only thing Sony has done �right� in a long time. But that�s just me. (I think my beloved ex-Sony exec would agree). So let me get this right�he wants US, the working public, to take valuable time out of OUR day to picket a corporation to try to get people to boycott all of their Giant Consumerist Bulk Load of Electronic and �Music� and �Movie� Stuffs, He wants US, the little people, to David their Goliath because said Goliath didn�t sufficiently wank the Goliath of Pop�s Dalmatian weewee? Come AWWWWn. Isn�t this a matter best solved by the two Goliaths getting together for a good old-fashioned little girl palsied limp-wristed doggie-paddle slapping at each other until they get tired and skulk back to their Barbie dream houses? Don�t involve US. Please.

And Hollywood knows that 90% of the product it pushes is terrible simpering shit. It�s almost like they�re testing The Audience to see how much sour tasting crap we will pay $8.50 for. And we sidle up to the trough like the porks we are. �This food is terrible.� �Yes, and such small portions!�

INT. Expensively Tacky Producer�s Office. Day.

�Getta load �a this, Morty�Tom Hanks and a volleyball!�

�Nobody�ll pay for that crap, Sid.�

�Just you watch, Morty. Just you watch. If you�d get offa your Golden Auteur Toilet Throne long enough to eat a ho-ho you�d know what America will pay for. It�s all a game, Morty. It�s all a game. We give them the shittiest shit we can think of and they eat it up all, �please sir, can I have some more?� I mean, GAWD, if we spent half the time and energy we use to come up with the most unctuous shittiest possible shit we can think of (with ample Product Placement) on actually writing a decent story line with Real Characters we might make a Good Movie now and again. But who has time for Good Movies when there�s money to be made to be spent on hookers and Cristalle and Tums!�

�You�re right, Sid. Silly me. By the way�do you think we can work in some FedEx stuff? I sort of owe The Guy a Big Favor for helping me with an unfortunate situation with a Dead Hooker.�

�Sure, Morty. But what real big deal is a Dead Hooker? That�s not the sort of favor that warrants Ample Product Placement.�

�She was Haley Joe Osment�s mom.�

�Ah. Thanks for trusting me enough to tell me, Morty.�

�..exit MORTY�

beep beep beep - beep beep beep beep

Rrrrrrrring�. Rrrrrrrring�.

�Hello� J�rg? You�re never going to believe what Morty�.�

Ok, enough of that. The beach was so good. I cried almost all the way there. Poor Brent and his drivin� �n cryin� psycho Vanilla Sky car lady. He knows I hate driving at night anyway because I can�t see very well in the dark and most of I-84 is unlit and stupid. Meanwhile my eyes are all blurry with tears for a million things I thought I had already mourned. I guess it�s true that you never get over certain things. Anyway, it was amazing and dorkily cathartic. I laughed at myself and what a purge-a-riffic journey through the dark psyche my trip to Southern Jerz was. The whole thing was just such an embarrassing clich� I hate to even go on about it�but I�m doing it anyway. Descent into the darkness of the highway, blah blah, screaming spine jarring sobs in my big black deathmobile for loves and mommies lost, questionable �why don�t they like me� friendships, the deafening white fright of imminent mortality, then consolation of The Boy and promises that we�ll find Healthier Ways to Have Fun than bars, blah blah, crawling wet and spent onto the humid island, Clams and Oysters advertised everywhere, Sweet Jersey Corn!, Jersey Tomatoes!, not a soul on the street at 1:03am, not a soul on the dark Ferris wheel, not a soul on the jungle golf course, turning onto the familiar-since-I-was-in-my-mom�s-womb Avenue My House Is On, emerging from the air conditioning of The Duke, the gooey emoto-plasma of the last six hours spilling once and for all onto the dewy foggy street, the smell of the sea in our noses, the sound of the �you and your problems are so small compared to me and it�s a good thing� unconquerable waves in our little ears, and half a pink moon in the sky. I think we both said, �Wow!� and pointed like fat babies at turkey meatloaf. And the next day we went to the beach and Brent went in the ocean for the second time in his life and whinnied like an Idahoan filly and I unabashedly wore a cute bikini�sexy black halter top and black and white floral skirty bottom�and read Cintra Wilson�s hilariously scathing (and highly recommended) A Massive Swelling: Celebrity Reexamined As a Grotesque, Crippling Disease and Other Cultural Revelations and smelled the sea. Please God don�t test me on this, but I think there�s no problem I couldn�t deal with next to the ocean at my beach.

Something reminded me of when my friend Jen was going to make Tofurkey� for Thanksgiving last year and Brent and I spent a "boring for others but entertaining for us" several minutes saying all of the meats and poultry we could think of with a Tofu Twist: Tofork, Tofeatloaf, Tofamburger, Tofam, Tofacon, Tofuck, Toficken, Tofamb Chops, Tofamb Kibbe, Tofausage, blah blah blah.

Another album Jenn picked up because she liked the cover: The 5, 6, 7, 8�s. Three impossibly gorgeous Japanese girls in gowns playing so-so rockapunkabillyish songs, some covers like Harlem Nocturne, on impossibly gorgeous musical instruments�Vox, Gretsch�with the most hilarious, frightening, (and ever-recurring deja-vu all over again!) imitation of a Typical Rock �n Roll Scream, delivered with a shrill violence reserved for the most ruthless warlord. It�s as if the aptly-named Screaming �Omo� Chellio Panther glides on leopard skin stiletto skates right past �acceptable and even arousing rock �n roll scream� onto thin, scary ice, hence alarming herself, and while thrashing in the freezing water, red satin and hot-roller-curled black hair everywhere, hollars out her vengeful scorn at All Responsible.

But don�t get me wrong�I LOVE IT!

Word of the Day for Friday July 5, 2002:

refulgent rih-FUL-juhnt, adjective:

Shining brightly; radiant; brilliant; resplendent.

If Moore was not quite a burned-out case, his once refulgent light flickered only dimly in his sad last years. --Martin Filler, "The Spirit of '76," [1]New Republic, July 9, 2001

With its improbable towers tilting against themselves and its titanium sheathing in full refulgent glow, it brings on a question that the world has not enjoyed asking itself since the first moon landings: If this is possible, what isn't? --Richard Lacayo, "The Frank Gehry Experience," [2]Time, June 26, 2000

To the Renaissance, they [the Middle Ages] were nothing but a dank patch of history, a barren stretch of time between luminous antiquity and an equally refulgent present. --Justin Davidson, "On the Record," [3]Newsday, January 19, 1997

Refulgent comes from the present participle of Latin refulgere, "to flash back, to shine brightly," from re-, "back" + fulgere, "to shine."