Disturbing "Fan" Letter

I received this little note via Facebook.

salutations- a few weeks ago when i friended you i heard what i beleive was you on xm/ sirius radio on the comedy channel in my car. i think it was you, but i was tripping so hard on acid i can't be sure. the lady was talking about va-jay jay's and giving a kidney to some one. i laughed so hard i shit myself, for real. was that you? i really need to know so i can send you the bill to get my car reapolstered. you see i love indian and thai curry and that night was extra special. i was having a curry tasting party with some friends, there was green curry, yellow curry and red curry, all extra spicy. on my way home i took some acid knowing i was only 20 minutes worth of driving so i had at least an additional 30 minutes of tripping free safe time. well i got stuck in the chicago traffic for over 2 fucking hours, which may not be your fault but what happened next is. some lady with a screeching crackling voice loosened all of the spicy curry from the walls of my intestions. all the laughing i was doing made me shit all over. the worst part was that i was wearing swim trunks, without under wear on. so the netting in my trunks acted as a strainer to the liquid shit. the brown water got into my seat heater which was on to dry the butt lava, but instead it shorted it out and caused a little fire, no biggie but keep in mind i was on lsd, wearing swim trunks on a chicago highway stuck in traffic in december. i managed to get my car to the break down lane fairly easy. but when i got out of my car my built in strainer went on strike and dropped it contents on my feet. it was bad. long story short, i just got out of jail a week ago because i thought my shorts were on fire because my stomach and butt hurt so bad from laughing and i took the shorts off on the side of the highway. i was arrested for exposing my sex organ and blocking the emergency lane. true fucking story. thanks for the laugh.

My reply was short and sweet. "Sorry, it wasn't me. Send the bill to somebody else."

Starting Over

In honor of the anniversary of John Lennon's death, I am re-posting a short film my husband and I made a few years ago. Actually, it doesn't really honor his death... or his life... but it is pretty funny.

No Awkward Silence

On Friday afternoon, I appeared on a Las Vegas internet video show called Awkward Silence. It's hosted by fellow comic Brandon Gooch Hahn. In the past, Hahn has interviewed Andrew Dice Clay, Gilbert Gottfried and Mark Curry. This week, he chose me. As I said to him when I entered the studio, "So, who canceled?"

It's a fun interview. I start blathering at the ten minute mark.

I'm not exactly happy with my appearance, however. Apparently, the camera adds ten pounds... to each thigh! Plus my face is so puffy I look like Jerry Lewis during his Prednisone days. Oh well. I guess the diet starts tomorrow.

Happy Anniversary To Us!

And by "Us" I mean hubby and me, not Us Weekly.

We've been married for 23 years. People always want to know the secret to a long marriage. I say, "You have to be married to me." Actually, there is no secret. Just like there is no secret to weight loss. To stay married, you have to do the marital equivalent of diet and exercise. I wish there was a relationship corollary to the lap band or Jenny Craig but there isn't. Besides, just like those quick weight loss schemes you would only wind up gaining all the unhappiness back and then some.

If you wonder what we're like at home, you can get a pretty good idea by listening to this interview we did the other day with our local NPR affiliate. I'm told it's "compelling, funny and informative." Of course, my friends drink.

You Hold Her Down, I'll Take My Turn

Nothing says Merry Christmas quite like gang rape! Run, June, run!!!

My Big Head On A Big Billboard!

We're on a billboard in Vegas. I feel like Nomi in Showgirls. Hubby and I will be performing at The Orleans in Las Vegas, November 3-5, 10-12, 17-19 and 24-26.

Just Wrong?

"Just Wrong" was the subject of an email I received back in May. It was sent to an old address so we just discovered it today. It's from an audience member who was at one of my shows.

Tracy,

I was at your show last night with my girlfriend in the front rows.

You asked if we were married ... NO

You asked if we were dating ... I said a year and a half.

You asked if I planned to marry that woman ... Perhaps

This was totally wrong of you to ask that in public. This is not the place or time for me to reveal that information.

In that situation, there are only wrong answers.

You should never do that again.

Here's my reply.

I just found your email. I didn't want you to think that I was too afraid or ashamed to answer. I would say that I'm sorry you were offended but I'm not. Man up! Have a sense of humor. Over the years, I have said the same thing to hundreds of men who were sitting in the front row. They laughed. Why? Because it's a comedy club and I'm a comedian. If you took me seriously-- or if your girlfriend took me seriously-- then you are the ones with the problem. Next time I suggest you lie. I don't know you so I wouldn't know the difference. See how this works?

I dashed it off quickly so, admittedly, it's not my best work. But I think I made my point. It'll be interesting to see if he replies. I'm guessing he'll be apoplectic shortly after reading the third sentence. The man seems to have issues.

But, he's right, there are only wrong answers in that situation. That's what makes it funny.

Goodwill Has The Best Jesus Portraits

Just when I thought I would never top Jesus Job Interview I stumbled upon a painting I like to call "Jesus' 1976 Yearbook Photo."



It turns out Jesus was Captain of the swim team which hardly seems fair with the whole walking on water trick.

Purple Reign

As we were standing in line to see Purple Reign at Hooters, a miserable woman walked past and said to her equally miserable male companion, "These people are such idiots. They don't know they're not seeing the real Prince. If they're going to be that dumb I'm not going to tell them."

Wow! Being the smartest person in the world must be such a burden for her.

We should have run after her and yelled, "What do you mean it's not the real Prince?! They should call it Purple Reign of Terror! This is an outrage! Hooters will be hearing from our lawyer!"

I'm pretty sure even the elderly Japanese couple who didn't speak English understood they were seeing a tribute band and not the real thing. To quote my favorite philosopher Bugs Bunny, "What a maroon!"

I really like Prince's music so I had been wanting to see Purple Reign for quite some time. A few months ago, a friend of mine went for her 40th birthday. She was a bit disappointed in the show. She explained that she didn't like the part where he performed as some sort of alter ego doing original material. Turns out, it wasn't an "alter ego doing original material." It was a Morris Day impersonator! She just didn't know the music of Morris Day! I think "Cool" is one of the greatest funk songs of all time so I was thrilled!

The show is great. Unfortunately, our crowd was turd-like so it didn't have the party atmosphere that is present on many nights but, as performers, we enjoyed watching the band deal with our lack of energy.

My husband didn't help matters. He's the worst audience member because he just sits there and studies everything. He'll spend five minutes fixated on the guitar player's hands or tracking the movements of the tech dudes. In fact, during "1999" I stood in front of him so the performers wouldn't notice that he wasn't up dancing. For the record, he loved the show. But, as I said to him, "I can never tell."

I knew most of the lyrics-- from both Prince and Morris Day- so I just happily sang along.

Watching Purple Reign was one of the few moments in my life when I wished I had a boat load of cash. Hiring these guys for my birthday party would be amazing. Oh wait, I'm not having a birthday party. I'll be working that night at Stitches in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. Get your tickets now. I promise it won't be a Traci Skene tribute act.

In The Gutter

We went bowling last night. Which means I'll have the Dickies' "Bowling With Bedrock Barney" stuck in my head for the next few days.



At the Orleans Casino here in Las Vegas, you can bowl at midnight for one dollar per game. Throw in an extra three bucks for shoes and a party of two can cause mayhem on a lane for the price of a Hamilton. (How sad that I had to look up who is on the ten dollar bill! My husband said Jefferson. I had absolutely no idea. Yet, I know Ben Franklin's puss adorns the hundred even though I spend far more Hamiltons than Franklins. Strange.)

I hadn't bowled since breaking my elbow 18 months ago. I was afraid my arm wouldn't hold up.

I don't bowl very often but, when I do, I tend to follow an almost identical pattern: first game I score in the 70's, second game I remember how to bowl and manage to post and respectable 150 plus, third game my arm it tired so I bowl another 70.

Last night, I had two gutter balls in the first frame. Second frame, another two gutter balls. Third frame I knocked down one pin then followed it up with a trip down gutter lane.

I wanted to rip off my elbow brace and quit but my husband wouldn't let me. He said, "You're not a quitter. Oh wait, yes you are." He still made me keep bowling.

Now, I'm not one of those obnoxious people who has to win at everything but I am accustomed to being pretty good at all things sports related. I don't even mind coming in last place if I'm still happy with my performance. But the thing I hate most of all is pity. By frame number three the other nine people in my group were starting to feel sorry for me. They weren't even busting my balls anymore. It was humiliating. I was in hell.

When I knocked down a few pins in frame number four my group cheered. It was horrible.

Finally, I started to figure out how to compensate for my arm. Instead of going for my usual hook, I threw the ball right down the middle. By the end of the first game I had brought my score up to 71. Not bad considering my disastrous first half.

In the second game, I was actually leading for awhile but then my arm started to hurt. I finished with a 117.

We bowled for 2 1/2 hours. For the last two hours I had a blast.

My arm is pretty achy and fatigued today but nothing an Aleve can't fix. I'm just glad I've regained most of my mobility. I suppose that's the real victory.

Birthday Boy!

It's hubby's birthday today! Unlike most showbizzy folks, he isn't ashamed to tell his real age. He's 54... which is the new 53 1/2.



For his birthday, hubby bought a bike... for me! It's a red Fuji folding mountain bike which matches his red Fuji folding mountain bike which now makes us the psycho couple who ride matching bikes.

The only difference is my bike has a Marlboro logo. It seems that years ago Marlboro gave away bikes in exchange for box tops. A guy on Craig's List was selling one in mint condition for the price of about 100 mints. I like the Marlboro logo because when people see my labored breathing they'll just assume I'm a six pack per day smoker. It's a bike with a built in excuse.

We went for a ride this morning. Yesterday, hubby discovered a ten mile trail not far from where we live. We took the wrong street route to the trail head so I was practically suffering from heat exhaustion by the time we got there. (It is July in the desert, after all!) But, on the way back, we found a much better aka cooler aka more scenic way to join the bike path.

We had a good time anyway. We followed up the biking with a splash in the pool and a three hour coma. So far, he's enjoying his birthday immensely!

A Major Award

Several years ago, we trash picked a mid-century daybed from an old Victorian house near our place in New Jersey. We loved the design but the cushions were hideous. As we were strapping the wooden structure to the top of our car I said to my husband, "I'm only bringing this home if we get new cushions made immediately."

Did you notice that I started out this post by saying, "Several years ago"?

During the first year I nagged. "When are you going to order the cushions?" In year number two I threatened. "We're not inviting anybody over until you fix this eyesore!" The third year I was sad. "You have no idea how much stress this is causing me."

Now, you may be wondering why I didn't just order them myself. It's simple. My husband didn't trust my ability to measure properly and since I barely passed geometry I couldn't put up much of an argument.

Finally, we placed the order. I'm pretty happy with the results.



Similar mid-century daybeds sell on Ebay for close to a thousand dollars. Our rehab cost less than three hundred.

Now I no longer have the same look on my face as the mother in A Christmas Story had each time she gazed upon the infamous leg lamp. Although, the leg lamp would fit right in with our decor.

Cat Means Won't

There have only been a few times in my life where I've laughed so hard in public I thought I was going to hurl. Two of those times involved animal acts. The dead-behind-the-eyeballs look on the bears at the Moscow Circus had me convulsing with laughter. And when I watched two poodles getting married at Circus Circus I thought my husband was going to have to carry me out of the building.

So, years ago, when I saw an ad for the Popovich Comedy Pet Theater I knew it was a show I had to see. But, since I'm also in the entertainment business, I also knew it was a show I had to see for free.

Yesterday, both my wishes came true.

While I didn't guffaw to the point of near death, I did laugh pretty hard throughout the entire show. Gregory Popovich, who was a juggler and clown in the Moscow Circus (I wonder if he knew the bears?) is a great entertainer who seems to love his furry partners. The fact that he can make cats do anything but pee on your keyboard is astounding. Most people can't even train their cats to come out of the basement.

Mmm Mmm Bad

My poor husband. He's crushed. Crushed like the thousands of tomatoes that wind up in cans of Campbell's condensed soup.

As we were walking through our neighborhood 99 Cent Store earlier today he noticed that the Campbell Soup packaging has been changed. Gone is the familiar image made so famous by Andy Warhol! Gone is the gold medal seal from the 1900 Paris Exhibition! Gone is my husband's bragging rights! Sacrilege!

The gold medal seal, which has been used by the Campbell company for over 100 years, was actually won by my husband's great-grandfather who was their first executive chef.

Here is my great-grandfather-in-law in an early Campbell's ad.



In the box titled "France Honors Him" it states, "Louis Charles Delisle, head chef emeritus of the Campbell Soup Company, was decorated by France with the Cross of Chevalier du Merite, Agricole. For adding new fame to French cookery by the making of Campbell's Soups."

Apparently, a gold medal from France isn't as impressive in 2011 as it was in 1900. I blame Jerry Lewis. Their love of him clearly devalued the brand.

We bought a can of Cream of Mushroom because it was the only can in the whole joint that still had the original design. Plus we won't ever be tempted to open it up because hubby doesn't like Cream of Mushroom Soup (Sorry Louis) and I can't eat gluten.

Family legend has it that Louis had the choice of a steady salary or one penny per can. He took the salary which is why my husband isn't heir to a soup fortune. It's also why we shop at the 99 Cent Store.

The House I Live In

I'm always annoyed when anti-American songs are played during 4th of July fireworks displays just because they have the words "American" or "USA" in the chorus. "American Woman" and "Born in the USA" are about as patriotic "The Internationale."

Even worse are the seemingly pro-USA tunes that actually have a creamy sinister center.

In 1975, my elementary school music teacher taught us the Frank Sinatra hit "The House I Live In" for a jingoistic (I'm sure that's how she referred to it in the teacher's lounge) recital. If you think "The House I Live In" is annoying when the Chairman of the Board croons the insipid melody you should hear it when a bunch of bored ten-year-olds try to out shout the ballad.

I decided to hop on to YouTube to find the Sinatra version but was stunned when a video of Paul Robeson appeared on the list.

I said to my husband, "Robeson?! Did my 5th grade teacher force a bunch of inner-city kids to sing a Commie song?!"



Sure enough, we found this little bit of information on Wikipedia.

The lyrics were written in 1943 by Abel Meeropol under the pen name Lewis Allen. (Meeropol later adopted Michael and Robert, the two orphaned sons of Julius and Ethel Rosenberg after the 1953 execution of the couple.)

Adopted the Rosenberg kids?! He wasn't just a Commie he was a Super Commie! I'm surprised he didn't wear a cape.

The music was written by Earl Robinson. Robinson was later blacklisted during the McCarthy era for being a member of the Communist Party. He also wrote campaign songs for the presidential campaigns of Franklin D. Roosevelt, Henry Wallace, and, in 1984, Jesse Jackson.

My head, she spins.

Thanks Mrs, G! I hope you had fun manipulating your little useful idiots.

Greetings From Cozumel

I'm at the No Name Bar at the Barracuda Hotel in Cozumel, Mexico, drinking a moderately priced margarita and sucking up free WIFI. I'm sitting next to the pool so, as long as somebody doesn't do a cannon ball, I should be okay.

When I logged on to Blogger the directions were all in Spanish. I just started clicking on various Spanish words until I got to a page I recognized. Who needs English?

We're in port for four more hours. The weather is craptastic but since I'm not paying for the cruise I couldn't care less.

I had a very strange PG show the other night. The front row was dominated by unsupervised children, two of whom had made my husband's life difficult during his show which was one hour prior to mine. The ten-year-old obnoxious boy actually said to me, "You know, I was a bigger part of the other show."

His six-year-old little sister did a running commentary throughout my entire set. "I didn't get that joke." "I got that joke." "What does that mean?" Finally, she said perhaps the strangest things an audience member has ever said to me, "Do you want a sandwich?"

I leaned forward, "What did you say?" With even more enthusiasm she said even louder. "Do you want a sandwich?" I thought for a second and said, "Oddly enough, I do want a sandwich."

Of course, I should have said to her, "Yes, why don't you go make me one." But I think her parents would have been pissed. But, of course, her parents shouldn't have let her try to ruin two shows!

(Oh dear, a European crew member just walked past wearing a rather revealing bathing suit. My husband said, "I can't unsee that.")

This drink is pretty strong. The humidity is 94 percent. I should be face first in a puddle of drool in any moment. I could use a sandwich!

Check Yes Or No

As you can imagine, security on cruise ships is quite tight. Just like in an airport, shoes are scanned, luggage is checked and passports are examined. But there is one little difference. Performers on cruise ships-- and perhaps the passengers as well but I wouldn't know-- are asked a strange and unexpected question.

Have you had diarrhea within the past 24 hours?

Um, no.

You would think a simple denial would suffice but performers are asked to sign an affidavit swearing that no diarrhea has left their person in the previous day.

Then we're shuttled about 20 feet over to another security guard who asks us the same question.

Have you had diarrhea within the past 24 hours?

I wanted to say, "Well, unless I shit my pants as I was crossing the room, the answer is still no." Instead I said, "Um, no."

I'm not sure why we're asked twice. Is to catch somebody in a lie? "Oh, you said diarrhea? I thought you said gonorrhea!"

Not sure what would happen if I said yes to diarrhea... or gonorrhea for that matter. I guess they wouldn't let me on the ship.

But, they have to understand, I'm Scottish and Scots are notoriously shy when it comes to all things defecation. I'm not sure I could tell them even if it were true.

I'm at the airport right now. I sure hope another passenger is looking over my shoulder as I typed diarrhea, gonorrhea and defecate into spell check. Especially if it's somebody who is sitting next to me on the flight.

His Brain Can Be Used As A Flotation Device

Comedy colleague, Facebook friend and fellow Eagle's fan, Erin Jackson, found herself careening down an evacuation slide when her Delta flight from Atlanta to Los Angeles was forced to make an emergency landing. During take-off one of the engines caught fire. Some of the passengers reported seeing a flash. Others probably saw their lives flash before their eyes. No doubt all were sorry they read Sky Mall Magazine instead of reviewing the emergency procedures located in the seat pocket in front of them.

I left the following comment on her Facebook status update.

Scary. When I fly, I always dress for a fire... long pants, long sleeve shirt, hiking shoes and a hat. People think I'm crazy. But I'm not running from a burning plane wearing flip-flops and a dress. Glad you're okay.

A Facebook friend of hers responded.

TIL that crazy people pick their disaster scenario outfits.

BTW, "TIL" means "Today I learned." BTW, "BTW" means "By the way."

I shot back.

I'm not crazy. Countless travel articles have talked about the dangers of wearing shorts, flip flops, etc. in the event of a plane crash. Keeping fire off your skin for even a few seconds can mean the difference between life and death. I fly frequently so I have to think about these things.

He kept up the assault.

Please tell me that you also wear this uniform when you drive. You're much more likely to need to worry in a car.I (used) to fly frequently and I /never/ thought about these things. I got myself an exit row and planned to be outside of it when the time came.

Now I'm pissed but I managed to keep my cool

Erin didn't just post about being in a car accident. She posted about being in a plane that caught on fire. Hence my comment about what to wear when you fly. Don't be a jerk.

The creepy know-it-all wouldn't back down.

Traci, my brother is a pilot. I'm well aware of the risks associated with flight. My point is that if you're worried about your outfit, you'd do better to worry about your plan to get out of the plane if your concern is survival. You aren't going to be killed by fire; you're WAY more likely to be suffocated by smoke. Go and do the research.

Go and do the research?! How 'bout you go (insert appropriate curse word that begins with an "F" here) yourself?

For the record, Erin had to run away from a burning plane while wearing flip-flops.

My uniform, as Douchey McDouchebag mockingly called it, is much cuter than it sounds: black pants, jaunty cap, maroon jacket. It is, by design, practical yet stylish.

Most flyers dress so poorly they deserve to have their clothes burned off their backs. In fact, why is it the worse dressed passengers are always at baggage claim picking up the biggest suitcases? I always think, "If that's what they're wearing, what the heck is in there?!" I start to hope the suitcase is stuffed with a dead body.

Aesthetics aside, flip-flops are perhaps the worst footwear choice for flying. Certainly, you can get through airport security a millisecond faster than those of us wearing actual shoes, but it leaves your feet open to all sorts of abuse... cold, germs, crushed toes. Plus running in flip-flops is only fun if you're drunk.

And, don't get me started about having to look at a strange man's hairy toes. I saw a guy whose big toe was so hairy it looked like an Ewok!

I'm glad Erin made it out safely. As for me, I will continue to wear my uniform when I fly the friendly skies. But I think I'll pass on the inflight internet. I don't need to get into a Facebook feud at 30,000 feet.

What I Did On My Blogging Vacation

I can't believe it's been 7 1/2 months since my last blog post. (My blatant plug for our book notwithstanding.) All three of my readers must have missed me terribly.

Blogger burnout is a common phenomenon. What begins as a labor of love can quickly turn into an annoying obligation. Once the bloom falls off the blogging rose it's hard to rekindle the passion.

When I fell and broke my elbow back in March of 2010, I somehow continued to blog even though I was typing one-handed for weeks and then two-handed, but in much pain, for several weeks more. That's when Road Atlas Shrugged started to feel like a chore.

In the summer of last year, I devoted much of my time to promoting, via the blogosphere, our appearances on Last Comic Standing. This bit of self-aggrandizing, oddly enough, annoyed some of my readers and many of my Twitter followers. This, in turn, annoyed me greatly. If I can't brag about being on primetime network television then what can I brag about?!

Deep breath... let's not get upset again... it's been 12 months.

Okay, better now.

My posts dwindled to once a week in August and September, once a month in October then completely fell off the cyber table in November. Blogging-wise, I could no longer get it up... so to speak... if I were a guy.

But, the truth is, I was also busy doing other things.

Back in November, we were contacted by a publisher to write a book which resulted in The Comedy Bible. (Available October 1! See below.) In December, hubby and I started performing on cruise ships which meant bad internet access for days at a time. Then in January, we packed up our belongings and moved to Las Vegas. All would have made for very interesting blog posts (unlike this one) but my pea brain could only handle so much at one time.

Now that my life has settled down a bit I'm going to attempt to jump back on the blogging horse.

I'm sure all three of my former readers will be very excited.

Our Book Release Date Is October 1, 2011!

You can pre-order The Comedy Bible on Amazon.

WWJD

I saw this painting at a local Goodwill. I call it "Jesus Job Interview." "So," says Jesus, "where do you see yourself in five years?"

Not Good And Not Good For You

I had no idea that Hot Pockets and frozen pizza were considered "Nutritional Items." Any chance this supermarket is owned by a 14 year-old boy?

Oh, The Dogmanity!

Just when you thought you hadn't humiliated your dog enough by making him chase his tail, using static electricity to stick a balloon to his haunches or pretending to throw a ball when you've really just dropped it behind your back, along comes a costume that turns him into a stripper!

It's called Strip N' Dog! But you know they wanted to call it Chippendogs! (Damn copyright infringement!)



Clearly, Strip N' Dog is fun for the entire family. Imagine how much fun Junior will have making a YouTube video of grandma stuffing dollar bills into the dog's cuffs while mom (or sexually confused big brother) smears chunky peanut butter on Fido's penis?!

Strip N' Dog does, however, clearly illustrate the differences between men and women. Rare is the woman who would find a male dog dressed as a male stripper erotic. But you could easily find a guy who would look at a girl dog dressed as a girl stripper and say, "Yeah, I'd hit that... and not with a rolled up newspaper."

Where Oh Where Have My Boobs Gone?

This drawing of me was done by Ambrose Quintanilla IV. I'm too paranoid and self-conscious to see any resemblance. But, it's cute. It looks like the hot mom in a Ren and Stimpy cartoon.

My Husband's Toe Has A Bad Toupee

Back on May 19, I posted My Husband's Toe Has A Hilter Moustache which was as offensive to podiatrists as it was to Holocaust victims.



At the time, I predicted that in a few months his toe would look like it had a bad toupee. Indeed, I am as prescient as I am precious.



If nothing else, it's fascinating-- perhaps fascinating is too strong a word-- to see how much a toenail grows in four months.

Wake Me Up Before You Go Go To Kabul

I sure hope the Justin Bieber World Tour isn't going anywhere near Afghanistan.

For centuries, Afghan men have taken boys, roughly 9 to 15 years old, as lovers. Some research suggests that half the Pashtun tribal members in Kandahar and other southern towns are bacha baz, the term for an older man with a boy lover. Literally it means "boy player." The men like to boast about it.

I get the creepy feeling that former NSYNC producer, Lou Pearlman, is in his jail cell right now, planning his next boy band, Bacha Baz.

In Kandahar, population about 500,000, and other towns, dance parties are a popular, often weekly, pastime. Young boys dress up as girls, wearing makeup and bells on their feet, and dance for a dozen or more leering middle-aged men who throw money at them and then take them home. A recent State Department report called "dancing boys" a "widespread, culturally sanctioned form of male rape."

It's sad when an article from the San Francisco Chronicle sounds more unbelievable than The Onion.

That helps explain why women are hidden away - and stoned to death if they are perceived to have misbehaved. Islamic law also forbids homosexuality. But the pedophiles explain that away. It's not homosexuality, they aver, because they aren't in love with their boys.

You have to wonder, are all the men gay because they're taught that women are unclean or are men taught that women are unclean so they can keep the homosexual party going for generations?

It's no wonder Michael Jackson was dabbling in Islam before his death.

Oh, Those Wildwood Days!

The Jersey shore-- the place, not the MTV reality show-- is so much more than tacky, Italian kids from New York. It's also filled with tacky, Italian kids from Philadelphia. But, if you go on Labor Day, when all the other vacationers are packing up their cars and heading north, it won't be filled with anybody, tacky or otherwise.

Wildwood, NJ-- located approximately 90 miles south of where Snooki and The Situation reek havoc-- is primarily a dysfunctional family resort. Which means hotel rates plummet when the rug rats are forced back into school. A room two blocks from the beach, costing $129 on Sunday, falls to $56, 24 hours later. We couldn't resist. Ever since I got my vintage birthday bike, I had a hankering to ride on the nearly world famous 2.5 mile boardwalk.

I also had a hankering to read a thick history book and illegally drink beer on the beach, both of which we did. My hardback of choice was David McCullough's "The Path Between the Seas: The Creation of the Panama Canal, 1870-1914" and my beer of choice was Redbridge gluten-free. My husband downed Tecate with lime and tore through "Pistol: The Life of Pete Maravich" by Mark Kriegel. Our reading was briefly interrupted when an old biker dude, a few yards away, stripped down to reveal a thong Speedo. You just can't concentrate on things like words and sentences when that kind of a train wreck is happening one towel over.

Early the next morning, we wrestled our bikes out of the back of the station wagon, strapped on our helmets to begin what would be a kidney-jarring ride. Wildwood really needs to replace some of boards on the boardwalk! As often as we could, we rode along the concrete Tram-car path just to save our innards.

Wildwood is actually three, three, three towns in one. The cleverly named North Wildwood is to the north and Wildwood Crest is just south of Wildwood.

Back in the '80's, developers in Wildwood Crest started blowing down the ultra-cool, mid-century motels and replacing them with cookie-cutter, condo monstrosities. Luckily, some preservationists intervened and saved many of the original structures. Now called the Doo-Wop district, it is a tourist attraction for those of us who like all things Mad Men-ish. The hotels are all operational and have groovy names like the American Safari Inn, The Blue Marlin and The Tangiers. Riding around on my vintage bike, I must have looked like a plant from the tourism office.

The Caribbean hotel might be my favorite.



But since I'm a sucker for all things Hawaiian, I just may have to stay at one of these places next summer.





I still can't figure out why the Granada has a tiki theme.



Two days in Wildwood was just about enough. For one thing, I had a hard time finding anything to eat. Pizza, cheesesteaks, chicken fingers, fried fish and all things gluten-y were everywhere. By the end of night number one, I was calling it Glutenwood. Last night, I had two bunless hot dogs and half a banana split. If it weren't for the banana split and the lime in my gin & tonic, I wouldn't have had any fruit at all.



The sign says, "You Are Now Leaving The Boardwalk Of Fame And Happiness." I had no idea Confucius vacationed here!

Penn and Teller On Vaccinations

Birthday Bike

Hubby and I rarely buy each other birthday presents, so imagine my shock when I opened the front door and there was my new-- albeit vintage-- AMF Royal Master bike.

He found it on Craigslist.

I haven't been on a bike since 1996 so I was understandably shaky at first. But, I did make it up a few big hills and survived a very large pot hole.



Now I need to get a matching helmet, a basket with plastic flowers and a bell. Hubby says I need streamers for my handlebars but I think at almost 45, I'm too old for streamers on my handlebar. There's a fine line between looking cool and pathetic.

Grandpop Has Left The Building

On the 30th anniversary of Elvis Presley's death, I wrote this column for SHECKYmagazine.com. Long live The King... of all grandpops.

Elvis Aaron Presley and Robert Fithian Dingler died within a day of each other 30 years ago during the hot and muggy August of 1977.

I remember where I was when I heard the news of Elvis's passing. I think most people do. Elvis was The King, after all, a cultural icon. Fans both young and old were stunned by his premature passing. It was the type of public tragedy that would cause strangers to turn to each other and say, "Did you hear about Elvis? Awful. Just awful."

But I also remember where I was when I learned that Robert Fithian Dingler passed on. I was at the hospital. I was eleven. He was my grandfather.

We were on vacation that week. My grandparents had decided to take me and my older sister to Atlantic City. In my early years, I had stayed at their house quite often, but this was the first time we had actually vacationed together for any length of time. It was my grandpop's idea. I now realize that he must have known something was wrong.

Since my grandparents didn't have much money, we stayed at an establishment that was part motel/part B&B-- minus one of the B's. It was dark and it smelled like an old person's house. The lobby was always full of French Canadian men who were far too old and too fat to be wearing the late 1970's equivalent of a Speedo.

The proprietor, an aging woman who longed for the days when both she and her palace were in their prime, never dusted the fake plants yet she showed up at our door every day to see if we were keeping our rooms clean. It was if everything and everyone in the building didn't notice their own deterioration. The lamps were broken and the hallways were right out of "The Shining." But every time my sister and I would get on the elevator, the aging African-American operator would flash his perfect smile and say in his sing-song way, "Look at me, I'm a thorn between two roses." The whole experience was sweet, creepy and thoroughly hilarious.

Each day was the same: My sister and I would lie on the beach while my grandparents sat on the boardwalk and watched us lie on the beach. Every so often one of them would brave the sand to ask if we were hungry.

Each night was the same as well. All four of us would walk the boardwalk searching for something sweet to eat. My grandmother would buy extra just in case we wanted some later-- which we never did.

When I say we walked together, I exaggerate somewhat. My grandpop would always walk much faster than the people he was with. Sometimes he would get a block or two ahead of his party. Then he'd stop and wait for everybody to catch up. As soon as everyone was together, he'd start the process all over again.

On the night he died, he stayed back at the "Bug-ata" while the three of us hit the boardwalk without him.

I didn't want to go. He was insistent. Upon our return I refused to go up to the room, opting instead to sit with the old men French men and hope they weren't making lewd remarks at my expense. Moments later, my grandmother stepped off the elevator and said, "Would somebody call an ambulance?" This time, I took the stairs.

There he was, lying on the bathroom floor, looking as lifeless and lonely as his surroundings.

My grandmother went with him in the ambulance. My sister and I were put into the back of a cop car where we were quickly forgotten. Folks on their way to the boardwalk stared in the window trying to get a look at the two criminals who were no doubt being hauled off to jail. We got the giggles. The harsher the stares, the harder we laughed. I yelled to the onlookers, "I'm not a hooker. I just have a dead grandfather!"

I actually didn't know he was dead until we got to the hospital. I had seen enough soap operas in my short life to know that miracles happen. But when the doctor delivered the bad news, I fell apart. A nurse gave me a pill that made all the pain go away and in one night I discovered what it felt like to be a criminal and a junkie.

We sat in the lobby waiting for my parents. They were driving down from Philly to pick us up. My grandmother and my sister were unusually quiet. I alternated between TV watching and eavesdropping. The news, of course, was all about Elvis. The conversation was the same.

I'm not sure if it was the mind-altering drug or my normally precocious mind at work, but I found it ludicrous that people would be more concerned about the death of a stranger-- which Elvis was-- rather than the actual death in their midst.

And how could the sobbing fans in Memphis claim to feel about Elvis the same way I felt my grandpop? I began to resent the crying masses. They and their public displays of sadness angered me.

Then I thought about Lisa Marie. I couldn't imagine what it would be like to mourn the loss of a loved one while complete strangers-- a whole country full of them almost-- mourned him as well. Just like Elvis did, my grandfather died on the bathroom floor. How awful it would have been if I had to listen to the whole world speculate as to why.

My grandfather's death went mostly unnoticed. Few people attended his funeral. Those who did talked about Elvis. I wore my sixth grade, blue-and-white, flowered graduation dress to the services because my grandpop strongly believed that little girls should never wear black.

As the world commemorates the 30th anniversary of Elvis's death, I can't help but think about my grandpop. Years after he left us, I learned-- through conversations with family members-- that they all thought of him as cold and unloving. I don't remember him that way at all.

He may have never told me that he loved me but his actions spoke louder than any words. When I would sleep over his house, he would go out and buy me a bag of Baby Ruths because he knew they were my favorite. When he took me to the cafeteria at Sears he would say to the cooks, "This is my granddaughter and she would like a cheeseburger, Coke and tapioca pudding." He taught me to play 500 Rummy-- but he would never teach me his card-counting skill, because he said he didn't want me to grow up to have a gambling problem. We watched the Phillies together. We listened to Sinatra together. We made fun of my grandmother together. He was not a perfect man but he was a perfect grandfather.

Thirty years later the world still mourns Elvis while a 41 year-old woman misses her grandpop.