Happy Birthday Bill & Maggie!

If you consider a marriage a person, then they were just born, so shut the hell up.

This weekend I went to Iowa or Idaho or something like that. It was Boise. Now, if you're normal, you probably would say, "oh, he went to BOY-zee". Right? Yes, you are right. But if you are not normal, i.e. you live in Boise, you would say "oh, he went to Boyce-cee".

I'm not kidding. Isn't that crazy? I never knew it til I went there.

It's not a bad place. It's clean and it doesn't get really crowded. There is a river you can go tubing in but I didn't cuz it was too cold or the water was too high or some crap like that. Did I mention they have alcohol there?

So my friends got married and I flew on a turbo-prop plane which is kinda cramped and scary. The bathroom on the plane didn't have a sink so I had to wash my hands in the toilet. Don't worry, I flushed it first. I think.

I went swimming in a pool and sat in a hottub that was really hot. I know you're probably saying "duh, no shit it was hot you stupid idiot, that's why they call it a hot tub" but no, you are wrong. It was way too hot. Much more than a regular hot tub. I ate a lot of food and saw alot of my friends, most of whom were drunk.

The wedding itself was really nice. It was short and sweet and when it was over, we all went to a great reception that didn't have any assigned seating. I had some steak and then everyone started dancing which normally I hate, but whatever.

Also, I gave a speech.

I brought my business cards with me because I was hoping to pass them out to all the people who were taking pictures so that they would email me copies of their pictures but I kinda forgot to do that so I will probably never see those pictures. But if you are reading this and took some, send them to me please.

Hmm, what else? I stayed in a hotel, that was fun. I rode on a trolley but it was fake. I saw a racist mural in a closed-down courthouse. Oh and I saw this guy spill a pita sandwich all over my friend's suit which he then tried to clean by pouring beer on it.

Now I am really tired. I will probably podcast about it tomorrow, I may even have a special guest, who knows.

I'm just joshin'!

This isn't a blog so much as it is me expressing my intent to let everyone know I have a new catchphrase. And here it is:

"I'm just joshin'!"

It means, "I'm just joking" or "I'm just kidding".

"Joshin'" means "kidding", I guess.

So, for example, if you invite me to your show and I go and afterwards you're like "thanks for coming, Eric. What did you think?" and I am like "I can't believe you made me drag my ass out here to watch this piece of shit. Seriously, you should just quit. Maybe you could go to law school or something?" if I were to do that, I'd be a dick, right?

BUT, if you invite me to your show and I go and afterwards you're like "thanks for coming, Eric. What did you think?" and I am like "I can't believe you made me drag my ass out here to watch this piece of shit. Seriously, you should just quit. Maybe you could go to law school or something? I'm just joshin'!" then it's a funny joke.

These are the rules of comedy, I didn't make them up. I'm as helpless as you are when it comes to the way things are. We could try to fight it, but like Bruce Springsteen sang, "That's just the way it is, some things will never change". And he was right.

So, to sum up:

a.) you aren't funny
2.) you should quit
d.) I am much better then you
four.) seriously, give up

I'm just joshin'! You guys are great, I've never seen that before, in a show, before. You know, that thing you did, up there. That was hilarious. Seriously, no I'm not just saying that. You're great. What's that? No, you're right, yeah, totally. So many people in LA just want to hear you tell them how great they are, but not you. Not us? Oh thanks man, I really appreciate you including me in that, seriously. Great. What? Oh, no, nobody told me about a party. Shit, yeah, I'd love to, but I gotta go to this thing tomorrow. What's that? Oh, it's my pilates class. 6 a.m. Yeah, it sucks but this body takes work. Heh, yeah, I hear that. Alright dude, I gotta jet. No, I mean it, awesome. Hey, take care, have fun at that party. Keep up the good work.

Ross, I didn't declare your zero-interest loan you gave me to the government

Ross, these past 3 weeks, my life has been a living hell.

I have slept probably six or seven hours total in that time. Ever since we got back from our trip to Las Vegas.

We were all excited, we were going to have a great time and you even got us a deal on our hotel room.

"I'll put it on my card," you said, "it's not a big deal, pay me back whenever!"

True to your word, due to your busy schedule at work, I didn't end up seeing you for a few weeks. When I finally did, I wrote you the check for $102.00, just like you requested.

Here's the problem: my share of the hotel room was $102.00. That's zero-percent interest. You laid out one hundred and two dollars of your own money, which I was able to keep in my low-yield savings account. I accrued interest on that. I turned a profit and you didn't get a dime.

There isn't a bank in the world that would give me money for free, but you did, Ross. You did.

I know I tried to pay you the 34 cents I estimated I would have owed you, were you charging me the normal compound interest comparable to a rate I would get from any mid-sized financial institution, but is it fair for me to say, "Ross wouldn't take it?" and then be on my merry way?

I don't think so. I know some might say, "it's only 34 cents, who cares?" but it is sad to me that this is the prevailing attitude of the society we live in.

As an example, 34 cents is probably too small to register in peoples' minds because they don't have the patience or imagination to see the possible scope of the damage my illegal activities could have.

What I have done is stolen money from you, Ross. You can forgive me, but I can't forgive myself. That is a profit I am making that I am not declaring to the government. They are not taxing me for this. That is tax money that I am not paying them that could be used for better schools for our children, health care for indigents, or fixing potholes on our roads.

I am a criminal.

Let me elucidate how big of a problem this is. If we were to apply my little scam to a much larger sum of money or perhaps more appropriately, a larger number of these small loans, we can begin to see the potential for financial mischief.

Say that you loaned me that same $102.00, interest-free, but now you've done it ten thousand times in a row. That comes to a grand total of $1,020,000. That's a lot of money! You know what the interest on that kind of cash would be, if you were to carry it for the same two week period without charging me any interest? Well, I don't, but I'm guessing it would probably be like six grand, at least!

Six thousand dollars. That's a used Honda Civic from the mid-90's. That's transportation for many years for a poor, Mexican family.

But now Felipe won't get to his job as a day-laborer. Manuel won't get that ride to school. Lupe will have to walk on her own, two tired feet to clean that rich, white family's home. All because I was selfish and felt it was OK to rip off you and the government.

I am sorry, Ross. I'm sorry.

I can't say it enough and it will always sound hollow, but I am sorry. I wish you could see me right now, I can't stop crying. I feel like--

Wait a minute, I paid you $102.00, right? But don't you remember when I bought breakfast at the Peppermill? You had like six mimosas and when I gave the waitress that hundred dollar bill I won at keno, you said I should take your share of breakfast out of the money I owed you. I tried to turn you down but you insisted.

With your mimosas and your steak and egg omelette with no eggs, that came to $37.28. Subtracted from the original $102.00, that would leave $64.72. So I over paid you.

You cheap son of a bitch. You screwed me, Ross. You screwed me. I can't believe I let you do this to me. I felt so bad. I was fucking crying. You asshole. It is taking every ounce of restraint I have to end these sentences with a period because believe me, in my mind I am screaming at you.

I know you're going to say that we were all drunk and you just forgot, but fuck you. Fuck you and your drinking problem! There, one slipped out. This is the worst thing anyone has ever done to me, ever.

You have ruined Las Vegas for me forever. You have permanently sullied our happy memories we made on that trip. My keno winnings are tainted. The same goes for the excitement I felt meeting Celine Dion. Ditto that picture Keren took of us riding the Big Shot on top of the Stratosphere.

I hate you, Ross! I am glad Mr. Whiskers got feline AIDS and died! OK, I'm sorry, Mr. Whiskers had nothing to do with this and I'm sorry I said that.

But you know what? I feel that since you have no loyalty to me, I have no loyalty to you and am free to tell everyone about how before you moved to California in sixth grade, you had to wear braces on your legs and everyone called you FDR at your old school! That's right, Mr. Cool! You weren't so cool then, were you? It's hard to be a badass and a rebel when you ride the special bus to school with all the retards!

Don't forget to take your urinary incontinence pills tonight, Ross. It would be really embarassing if you were to pee all over your fiancee. Oh that's right, she still doesn't know about that. Well don't worry, I'm sure she won't read this blog even though she reads my blog every day. I'm sure this time it will be different. Yes, that sounds likely. This one time she will forget to read my blog and won't find out your terrible secrets.

Asshole.

Podcasting by numbers

I've said it before and I'll say it again: I hate getting political.

The thing is, sometimes you have no choice.

I couldn't believe this article when I read it. Basically, it says that they're trying to pass a law that would make it legal to murder people while you are podcasting.

Crazy, right? Well if this bill becomes a law, that's exactly what anybody with a computer, a microphone and a Feedburner account will be able to do.

I am opposed to this on so many levels. It just blows my mind that people could think that it's OK.

When I first saw this, my immediate reaction was anger. No, it was rage. No, it was anger.

Anger that we lived in a world where these Washington fat cats have nothing better to do than make legislation for legalized murder!

If I'm walking down the street and I shoot someone, that's against the law and I will pay a hefty fine. BUT, if I'm sitting in my room podcasting and I shoot someone I am interviewing, it's perfectly legit. Where's the sense in that?

Look, I'm all for free speech and I believe we need to take steps to protect the rights of artists in this country. The Bush Administration has repeatedly sought to censor dissident voices and that can not be allowed. The Founding Fathers didn't write the Second Amendment so we could have some Texas redneck shutting down museums and taking away school budgets for music class.

But there's a limit, people!

Murder?? Are you serious?

First of all, if we're really looking to protect the sanctity of artists in America (and yes, I do believe podcasting is an art), we need to stop alienating the rest of the world with our crazy laws. It makes us all look bad if a few loose cannons turn the American podcasting community into a joke.

I am a podcaster, so maybe I'm not the most objective person to be writing this response, but I don't see any of my fellow podcasters rushing forward to do it. Change starts with the individual and apparently that individual is me.

Oh sure, murder is great. I understand that. As a podcaster, I know the temptation experienced when a strange woman comes over to your house and you two are alone because you've misled her into believing you've got a real studio and that your podcast is a legitimate media outlet.

She's got something on her mind and she needs a forum to say it. Saving the yellow spotted flounder is important and she wants to make sure my six listeners are aware of that.

Well I've got something on my mind and it involves her lifeless corpse and an industrial-sized horse carcass meat grinder.

But that doesn't mean I should do it. Maybe it does, but it certainly doesn't mean that there should be a law on the books that allows me to do so, consequence-free.

Have these people ever heard the expression "the grass is always greener on the other side of the mountain"?

Why is murder fun? Because it's illegal. It's wrong. Society looks down upon those who do it, except in cases where you're doing it to save a baby from being aborted.

Do you remember when you were a kid and you pleaded with your mom to buy you that BB gun? You begged and begged and watched countless birthdays and Christmases fly past you until finally, when you were 27, your parents broke down and got you that BB gun.

And then what? You didn't even want the fucking thing. It was boring. You couldn't kill shit with those BBs. It takes like six of them to knock a goddam bald eagle out of the sky. What kind of bald eagle sits around and lets you shoot it with a BB gun six times? An asshole kind, that's what.

Now I'm pissed and getting off the subject. My point is, this law doesn't make any sense. Keep murder illegal for everyone. Podcasters included.

Goddam it, I hate that stupid fucking bald eagle. I'm sorry, but it was really pushing my buttons. Maybe I should have had it on my podcast, then everything would be fine!

That was sarcasm.

But now that I'm thinking about it, I realize I've inadvertantly brought up a really valid point.

What kind of world do we live in? I'll tell you what kind of world we live in: the kind of world where these New York liberals twist their crazy laws to make it legal to kill whoever you want, just as long as that person isn't a bald eagle.

Fucking shit, do you see the lunacy we're dealing with here, people?

I am retracting all my previous statements. I am now 100% FOR this law and as soon as it is passed, I invite all these asshole politicians down to my "studio" so that I can podcast about it and congratulate them in person.

Then we'll see if they keep flying around, squawking at me and sitting on their nest like they're the fucking king of England!

Letters to home

Friday, May 05, 2006
10:57 PM

Dear Mom and Dad,

It's 11pm on a Friday night and guess what I'm doing?

I'M DRINKING SODA!

That's right, it's past my bedtime and I'm having caffeine. I'll probably be awake all night...

And there's nothing you can do about it!

I just had a whole can of Coca Cola Classic and I might even have another one.

Your little boy is all grown up now and he doesn't have to play by your rules anymore. You can't control me. I'm not going to play nice and be the suit and tie-wearing corporate drone you've always wanted me to be.

There will be no 3 car garage. No summer house in the Hamptons. No Sub-Zero refrigerator stocked with vegetables and 2% milk.

You know what there will be? Soda. And lots of it. And playing ball in the house. And jumping on the bed. The other day, I listened to Howard Stern on the radio and didn't even cover my ears during the bad parts. Plus, I'm thinking about getting a subscription to Playboy Magazine. And no, I won't be reading it for the articles.

I'm sorry it had to come to this, but you've pushed me too far. Unless this means you're going to stop paying for my health insurance, in which case, all of the above is totally negotiable.



Saturday, May 06, 2006
6:42 AM

I'm sorry, Mom and Dad

OK, you were right.

I had to be a big shot. I had to drink my Coca Cola Classic. "23 skidoo!" I said, be-boppin' and scattin' all over the place. I had a grand ol' time.

Then 3 o'clock rolled around. That's AM, for those of you who were wondering.

I don't know if you people have been up past ten before, but it's dark out. There are monsters out there. I heard them making noise in the bushes outside my window. I wanted to go to sleep, but I couldn't!

What do you do if you have to go pee because you've had 3 Cokes, but you know there's a monster under your bed waiting to chop your feet off with his light saber if you try and go to the bathroom?

You piss your gosh-darn pants, that's what you do.

Mom and Dad, I want to come home. Los Angeles is scary. Yesterday I saw some teenagers who I think may have been in a gang. And it's not like in those "Our Gang" short movies I love to watch. It's not that kind of "gang". They have baggie dungarees and "wrap music".

I have a giant pile of laundry that is moldy and stinking up my whole room. Now it's going to be much worse with the introduction of my urine-soaked underpants and sheets. I haven't eaten anything but Ritz crackers in days. It's hard for me to type this because I can't stop sobbing.

Please Mom and Dad, fly to Los Angeles and come get me. I hate it here, everyone is mean and I am tired of being a big boy. I miss sleeping in my race car bed at 9:30 at night, with Scraps curled up in a ball at my feet. I miss waking up to a healthy breakfast and clean sheets and bath-time with Mommy. I know I told you that I know how to wash my own penis, but I was lying! That thing is filthy and itches constantly except when I pee, because then it burns.

I don't know what those folks are going through over in Iraq, but it can't be any worse than crying your brains out in your non-race car bed because you miss your mom and dad and you are scared of monsters and your special area hurts like heck while you lay there, soiling yourself.

Again, let me re-iterate: I am sick of being an adult. I want to come home and live with you, Mom and Dad. You know what? I can't really wait for your response, I'm going to board up my apartment and drive down to the train station. I'll just give my cars keys to a hobo or something, he can live in it until you send someone to get it back along with all my stuff which I won't be taking.

I'm going to use the emergency Citibank Visa to buy my ticket. I would say that I'm going to pay you back but we both know that's a lie. If you could, see if Mr. Willickers will give me back my old paper route and I will help around the house with chores, though I am not doing the lawn til Dad gets the ride-em mower fixed.

I love you two and fully admit that you were right. I was wrong. I am a stupid, helpless baby who can't do anything. This has truly been the worst 83 hours of my life, moving out here on my own.

The real world: 1. Eric: 0.

Abramowitz Co. Launches 'Black People Brand Hot Sauce'

(reposted from The Heath Ledger)

Albany, NY - (AP) Even before hitting shelves, Abramowitz Fertilizer and Commercial-Grade Lye, Inc.’s new ‘Black People Brand Hot Sauce’ is garnering controversy across the country.

Touted as “the first African American-style hot sauce aimed specifically at the Caucasian market”, many racial equality advocates are bemoaning the new product as a throwback to old-fashioned racism in advertising.

“This is a hot sauce truly fit to be served in a Sambo’s Restaurant,” proclaimed African American activist Lionel Moorehouse, “It’s outrageous that Americans of any color should be subjected to this kind of bigotry, as we find ourselves, sitting not in the darkness of the 1950’s, but rather, standing tall in the light of equality, here in the 21st century!”

Abramowitz Fertilizer and Commercial-Grade Lye, Inc. chairman and CEO, Gabriel Abramowitz, fails to see the dilemma, stating that: “For years, there has been much confusion in the hot sauce industry amongst Caucasian consumers. White people love authentic hot sauce like they get in black rib joints and chicken shacks, but when it comes time to purchase some at the market, they find themselves dumbfounded by the many, varied choices. Rather than wade through hundreds of ethnic-sounding options, we’ve taken the guesswork out of purchasing hot sauce. You want the kind black people use? Then just buy ‘Black People Brand Hot Sauce’, it’s really that simple.”

White shoppers, polled in a local Safeway Grocery Store seemed to share Abramowitz’s sentiment, praising the product’s straight-forward labeling. Said Todd Stevenson, “I simply adore down-home Southern delicacies like baby back ribs, barbecued brisket and cornbread. And nothing goes better with those dishes than the kind of flavor you get from real, authentic African American hot sauce. It’s like 400 years of oppression in a bottle. But I can’t exactly walk in here and say, ‘hey, give me the stuff they sell down at Roscoe’s, you know, the kind in the red squeezy thing. I mean, look at this: you’ve got Cholula and Red Hot and this Asian crap, I don’t even know what the hell that is.”

Others chose to criticize the lack of authentic southern flavor found in the so-called ‘Black People Brand Hot Sauce’, calling it bland and tasteless. An informal survey of several African-American employees of this news office found an almost universal inability to distinguish the sauce from regular, garden variety ketchup.

“That’s hot sauce?” asked a skeptical Renee Williams, echoing a sentiment voiced by many, “tastes like ketchup to me.” Ms. Williams then began to laugh openly as her white co-worker, tasting the sauce for himself, began to choke and gag, his face turning red while he pleaded for water.

Coming as somewhat of a surprise, joining the chorus of protests was the voice of Grand Wizard of the Ku Klux Klan, Brian Kellison. “Look, we talk openly about our hopes of a race war, but when you see Jews actually exploiting the black man like this, it’s hard to take, even for me.”

Asked to elaborate, Kellison would say only, “Yeah, I hate blacks, who doesn’t? But co-opting their culture to make money for your Zionist enterprises? And hot sauce? That’s just straight up ignorant.”

As of the time of publication, there were no immediate plans by the Abramowitz Corporation to halt production or alter their marketing strategy in any way.

My broken heart

Saying goodbye is so hard.

As I drove her to the airport, I told myself I would be strong. It wasn't "goodbye" so much as "see you later". The truth is, she was coming back in less than 5 weeks.

4 weeks, 3 days and 22 hours. Not that I was counting.

As those three big letters came into view, I started to feel a knot in my throat.

As I passed the giant "L", I had to look the other way. I couldn't face those beautiful blue eyes and be able to keep it together in any manner befitting a man of 30.

She knew what I was feeling, because she knows everything about me. Every thought, every emotion, every fear. So she knew my heart was breaking.

As I pulled up to the curb and put on my hazards, I reached for my sunglasses and immediately felt them fog up.

We got her bags from the trunk and placed them on the curb. As I went to tell her that this felt like death, she put her hand to my lips. Then she kissed me.

At this point, I lost it. The tears poured forth from my eyes. I was crying like a little girl.

"Please don't go, I love you too much," I whispered in her ear, breathing in deeply the aroma of her long, blonde hair. I begged her like a little child who doesn't want Daddy to go away on a business trip.

She was stronger than me, though. She said nothing, smiled at me and turned. She picked up her bags and walked into the terminal.

I wanted to run after her, but I didn't. If she could be this strong, the least I could do was not be a total idiot and cause a scene.

People were honking so I got back in my car and turned to look, one last time, hoping she would be running back to me, telling me she didn't care about the practicalities of our situation, that she loved me and she wanted to be with me right now and forever and that's all that mattered to her...

But she wasn't running back to me. She was picking up her ticket at the counter. She was so strong.

I started up my car and pulled into traffic. For a moment, I thought I would be ok. I would be talking to her on the phone in probably five or six hours. I had lived my life like this for nearly one whole year and I had survived.

Every time it felt the same. It didn't get better or easier, it actually got worse. But every time I did get over it. I lived through it. My heart was not broken, I was not really dying.

I was going to be ok. Or so I thought.

As I pulled onto the 405, I experienced a feeling of panic and dread unlike none I had ever felt before. The world was violently spinning all around me, the interior of my car seemed to suddenly reach 120 degrees, my stomach heaved in painful spasms.

I quickly pulled over into the breakdown lane. I couldn't breathe. I opened my door and threw up. The air hit my face and I felt some relief, as if I was swimming upwards out of the water from a great depth.

But the dread was still there. I had to do something.

Love will make you do some crazy things and I admit I was not thinking rationally at the moment. It's not an excuse, just an explanation of where I was at.

I grabbed my cell phone and dialed 911. I asked the emergency dispatcher if I could be put through directly to the airport. I was.

I told the official at the airport that there was a woman about to board American Airlines flight 2301 with a bomb in her bag. I gave them her description, what she was wearing, what the bag looked like, everything.

I really don't know what I was thinking. All I know is, at the time, a holding cell in the same state for a few days sounded better than living in freedom 3000 miles from the woman I loved.

I figured they'd probably arrest her and keep her around while they checked out her background and all that. There might even be a court appearance we'd both have to go to where I cleared her name and fell on my knees in front of the judge and pleaded temporary insanity for reasons of love.

It actually sounded quite romantic.

Instead, they arrested her and to my surprise, found the bomb she was carrying in the exact bag I told them it would be in.

Now I was a big hero. I was in all the papers because I had saved the lives of 237 people that day. Larry King had called me personally to ask me to be on his show. Luckily, the manager I had gotten a few hours after the incident was playing hardball with his people so they wouldn't take advantage of me and not give to me what was owed of a celebrity of my caliber.

It turns out my girlfriend hadn't been who she claimed to be. In fact, she wasn't even a "girl" at all. There was no "Jane Everywoman", that was a fake name she had used to enter the country as part of a big terrorist plot.

Her name was Mohamed Al-Jeeri Islamabad and she was a 47 year old Muslim cleric from Riyadh.

Like I told Lesley Stahl, looking back in hindsight, the signs were there that she was not who she claimed to be, but when you're in love, you don't notice little inconsistencies in speech patterns, or holes in someone's backstory, or a long, flowing, grey beard.

So that brings me to today. Everyone thinks I'm a big hero, but really I'm a total fraud. By some crazy coincidence, I've saved the lives of 237 people but the only one I really care about is the one nobody, not even her, is considering.

Because I love her, I love Mohamed Al-Jeeri Islamabad. I know she was using me, I know you're going to say that she never felt anything for me, but I don't believe that. Not in my heart.

What we had was real. Those feelings were real.

Next week, when I'm dining with the President and the First Lady, I'm going to wish I was somewhere else. With her, in that cold jail cell. As we feast on roasted duck in a raspberry vinaigrette sauce, I'm going to imagine it's the stale bread and water my beloved is consuming.

It's like when I signed my seven-figure book deal with Simon & Schuster and everyone was shaking my hand and the reporters were asking me what it was like to be a national icon, I knew that I would trade all the fame and money for just five minutes of peace and quiet, alone with my soulmate, away from all the prying eyes of the media.

Everywhere I go, I carry her with me in my heart. And I will be there on the day she is put to death. When the state issues its decree and all the appeals have been exhausted and those toxins enter her bloodstream and she closes her eyes and goes to sleep forever.

Well, not physically with her. Most likely I'll be in my beach house in Aruba or hanging out with Charlie Sheen in Cannes or something like that. But certainly not in some dirty, filthy prison, surrounded by criminals. I'm a big star now and I don't believe the officials could guarantee my safety in a situation like that.

Anyway, that is my story of love and heartbreak, trust and betrayal. I stand before you a broken shell of a man and believe me when I say that it doesn't hurt any less that the shell is made out of 24 carat platinum gold. Not even when it's covered in precious diamonds and rubies.

All the money in the world can't buy you happiness and all the fame and adoration of the public can't fix a broken heart. Not without good looks and talent. Which is why I'm going in for some plastic surgery and acting lessons.