Hey there. I'm back from my hiatus now. Hello? Is anyone still out there? I hope so. I was gone a long time, and for that I apologize. The reason I took a hiatus was because we made a crapload of renovations to a small apartment complex my family owns in Ocean Beach.
Naturally, because I was away from the typer, all these crazy current-events type stuff started happening. And it really burnt my bum that they happened when I was on my hiatus. Because, you know, as a weekly columnist, I'm constantly searching for fodder. Every spectacle I see, every activity in which I participate, every person I encounter I analyze and over-analyze and hyper-analyze, desperately seeking something that resembles victuals for my column.
Then, OK, so I take a little hiatus from writing to get some shit done around the house, and, wouldn't you guess it, here comes this hurricane, this deluge, this great flood of fodder barreling down upon me like a certain surly meteorological bitch whose name I swore I would not mention.
I mean, wouldn't it figure that I would be on hiatus when Oprah Winfrey started blubbering false Parisian racism charges because a boutique wouldn't open its doors after store hours for her? And of course P. Diddy went and shortened his name to Diddy while I was on my break. Of course the Michael Jackson verdict came in, and of course the verdicts of the dirty city councilmen came in as well.
I mean, it was awful. Wave upon wave of column fodder slamming against the shores of my discontent: Of course a record-industry payola scandal was exposed. Of course the mayor of San Diego resigned and was replaced by a lesbian councilwoman making her the first San Diego homosexual mayor since Roger Hedgecock (c'mon, that tan and that hair don't lie). Of course HBO's Six Feet Under had its series finale while I was gone, and of course it was the second-best series finale television has ever witnessed ever in the history of series finales ever.
I would have just loved to have written all those columns; would've had a field day writing about how Diddy done gone Daffy; would love to have written a column about the Michael Jackson or city councilmen verdicts. Shit, Michael-Jackson-city-council-verdict columns practically write themselves.
And I would love to have written about the radio/record industry scandal. If I had, I would have noted how truly gorgeous that payola bust was. It was as if the Cheaters television cameras stormed into the seedy hotel room in which Johnny Record Industry and Sally Radio Station were shacked up, approached the bed right in the middle of their unholy coupling and tore off the covers to expose the fornicators-both glistening wet with sweat and grasping for sheets to cover their revolting nakedness.
And Oprah, oh Oprah. What would I have said about Oprah. Here's the thing about writing about Oprah: Most human males never realize a person named Oprah Winfrey even exists until he moves into an apartment with his woman. That's when she begins to Tivo Oprah shows over your Reno 911 episodes. And there's nothing to read in the crapper anymore but O. And worst of all, she's quoting Oprah, saying shit like, “You know, honey, Oprah says, ‘Once you decide, you make a commitment,'” and now not only do you know exactly who this Oprah Winfrey person is, but she's, like, a major player in your life. She's like an extra mother in-law, only more powerful, more meddlesome. Naturally, you would grab any chance to disparage her.
Which is why I would've written in the column I never wrote about Oprah Winfrey's Parisian racism claim that, “The mere fact that Oprah puts herself on the cover of every one of her magazines is all you need to know about her credibility. No actors, no poets, no scientists nor inventors ever make it to the cover of O. No entrepreneurs, nor chemists. No oceans, no deserts, no landmarks ever may grace the cover of this magazine. No airbrushed hot babes nor regular Joes. No gardens, no patios, no fancy kitchens, nor decked-out decks. No cars, no bikes, no planes. No surfers. No skaters. No MC Geniuses nor Eddie Van Shredders. No generals nor majors. No privates nor special ops. No princes, queens, kings nor kongs. No nothing in this world, apparently, is as interesting or unique as the many simply fascinating ways in which Oprah Winfrey can deliver a pose.
Can you imagine that editorial meeting?
Executive editor: “OK, this month for the cover, let's have Oprah, wearing the black Versace and leaning against a white wall with her hand on her hips like she's looking for something.”
Design editor: “Oh man, not again. She was leaning against a white wall in her black Versace last month.”
Executive editor: “Yes, true, but on that cover, her hands are not on her hips like she's looking for something. On that cover her hands are on her chin like she's thinking. The hands-on-the-hips-like-she's-looking look is a totally new look for Oprah.
And the articles are no better, what with titles like “Oprah's Top Ten Favorite Oprah shows” and “Oprah's Movie Reviews of Movies Starring Oprah ” and, oh yes, “The Chris Rock Interview: What Chris Thinks About Oprah” can all be found in this month's issue of Oprah magazine.
Question: What kind of person puts herself and only herself on the cover of all her magazines?
Answer: The kind of person who believes that all doors should be opened for her at all times-even after business hours.
Oh, and I would love to have written a column about the series finale of Six Feet Under. I mean, the writers wrote the shit out of that episode. You could just tell they were up for three days straight, all of them strung out on amphetamines and red wine and banging dialogue onto their typers with their fingers and knuckles splattering blood against the office walls and furniture. That's what I call writing. And that climactic final 15 minutes nearly caused me to spontaneously combust in my recliner. It was a 15-minute time-accelerated montage of each character's future. One by one, they were shown living and growing and aging and ultimately dying in their own deeply personal ways like a time-lapsed film of the opening and closing of a flower's folds.
About having an interim homosexual mayor, I would have written: “You go, my lesbo sister!” You go put your mayoral queerness on the map! You go hire a couple of interns with spiky hair. You go bring lumberjack-plaid back into City Hall style. Go and take a chunk out of the status quo before they elect another one of those old, stuffy, straight-white-guy mayors with no sense of humor and a bad case of small-penis complex. Someone like Donna Frye, for instance.
Anyway, as I said, I'm stoked to be back. And I can't wait to start writing about all the stuff that's been happening with the apartment complex remodel project-like the tenant from hell, and rental applications from Nigerian scammers. Like the bloody war I waged with a family of possums and the discarding of my record-album collection that's left me devastated, and, of course, more piss-cat chronicles. So stay tuned.
E-mail email@example.com and editor@SD citybeat.com.