The Undead

Well, glory hallelujah. This is the weekend I iron each year. If Jesus can get up out of the grave, I can dig the iron out of storage, put a towel on the cabinet, and reacquaint myself with the can of spray starch I purchased as part of my Going To College kit in 1982. It's also the weekend I wear The Suit. I don't take it to the dry cleaners anymore. I've finally figured out that by this time next year, whatever smells jumped on it will have faded.

I have to skip the Big Family Get Together this year. Too many command performances, too little Tom to go around. So I'll spend Easter relatively alone (meaning without relatives) and rest easy in May knowing there are no rotting, undiscovered though colorful eggs somewhere in my backyard. Besides, I found out last year that they aren't even doing the real Family Easter Egg Hunt anymore. They're doing a Plastic Egg Hunt. It's the Fake Christmas Tree of Easter. And it's a shonda.

Last year, I busted my hump hiding plastic eggs so well that even I couldn't find them again. They were filled. Some had candy, and a LOT of them had money. It was like Easter Gelt. Somewhere, Jesus was having a religious crisis. We never had money in our Easter Eggs. We had egg in our eggs. Back in the olden days, if you opened your egg, you were committed to eating it or finding someone who would. And I don't care for eggs. I just liked the pretty colors. Kind of like the retarded kid at the city-wide Easter Egg Hunt. Eat one? No thanks. But can we go shopping for shoes to match?

Easter makes me think of things that never die: Judy Garland music, Meatloaf's two songs, Sinatra, Hepburn...the classics. Then we have the new class of immortals: Joan Rivers, Anna Nicole, Cher.... The new class is immortal not due to greatness, but because they are no longer biodegradable. They will live forever because there's not much left of them that can decay.

I'm not thrilled about the notion of death, but I accept its inevitability....grudgingly. In a recent discussion about DNR orders, I made it clear that I most certainly want to be resuscitated. I don't want to die from a temporary corporeal glitch that a little paddling might fix. And I'm convinced that the day they pull my plug, CNN will break the news that they found my cure. So I have tattooed my chest with the words: Paddles Go Here. More specifically, I have asked to be plugged in and electrified just shy of electrocution, if they think it will help. Use me as a generator, if you want. Put a plant in my mouth and consider me decor. I don't care.

It's not that I'm afraid to meet my maker. I'd just like to be the last one to do so, thank you very much.

So R, by all means, friggin' R! If I'm in a permanent vegetative state where I have no feeling, no thoughts, no pain, etc., then I promise I won't mind. Just keep me well-drugged and know that I'm silently enjoying my high. If and when I open my eyes, consider that a sign that I'm ready to cope again. And send me to one of the better rehabs. The ones where you can fill an autograph book. If I have to detox, I'd like something I can sell on eBay in return.

I believe, with the Christian masses, (because I am nothing if not Christian), that the dead will rise some day to spend eternity knitting and playing euchre in very nice digs in heaven. How nice.

Like Mr. Beatty said - more or less - "I can wait."

YAWN!

So I took another 6 months off. Suffer. This is Kansas. Time passes differently here. Besides, I've been very busy killing my t-cells and broke several nails in the process. Winter was not kind to Plains Ol' Me.

Lots of TV is involved when you're sick. Just to catch up:

American Idol - Grade: F Never seen it. Don't care what Sanjaya does with his hair. Like somebody's gonna fuck him if he had a good cut? Please, Marie. George Clooney's hair I care about. Those nameless men in the truck commercials I care about (to an unhealthy degree). An odd-looking child with a Notice Me fetish and unfortunately resilient hair.

Lost - Giving it a B. Can't stop watching it. But it's starting to grate - like the 3 year-old that has perpetual questions and can't answer truthfully whether they have to pee or not. Besides, there are only two true hotties here. The Black Donnellys have more than that in the title family. Tell me what's up with the Smoke Monster or start using showtunes as the ambient music. Otherwise, you're gonna lose me.

Ugly Betty - Solid D. Yes, she is. It doesn't help that I think this is how my exes refer to me.

Desperate Housewives - B+. Ish. Marcia, Marcia, Marcia. Lost their A+ when Gabrielle started schtupping men over 20. And Terri Hatcher is starting to remind me of the Second Coming of Diane Keaton. She'll ride the frantic, neurotic schtick into the ground and pray for a Lois and Clark movie. I honestly believe Felicity Huffman begged to be the one killed in the grocery store. Hottie Plumber is so high maintenance, not even my NYC girlfriend would do him. Pec, pec, ab, glute, yawn.

So few interesting people are left anymore. Only little girls and old pedophiles care if Paris Hilton flashes her roast beef getting out of her Designated Driver's car. If Betty Ford (the clinic, not the corpse) is really doing rehab for people who use the word "fag" (Isaiah Washington), I know where I'm holding the next big wingding. But only if they open the bar. Madge is so maternal, she's practically kidnapping fly-infested orphans from Angelina Jolie's manicured clutch. We really were down to one good, juicy, nasty, train-wreck of an icon. And now she's gone.

Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna, Anna Nicole. Dead. Naked. Very Marilyn Monroe, as she would have liked. Only I don't recall Marilyn being upstaged post-mortem by a homely heeb who has the temerity to claim coitus in her uptus. Anna is so gay-appropriate, even from Hell, that she managed to get half a dozen men to lay claim to having juiced her in her final year. All together now: You Go Girl! Men from the nearly sublime to the utterly ridiculous claim to have climbed between those ever-shrinking legs to create the next great Lindbergh Baby. Or...if you will...TrimSpa Baby!

I'm going on record before the Bahama Mamas tell us the skinny on the Sperminator: It's Larry Birkhead. One: He's pretty. The only pretty people around Anna were gay or warming beds. Larry might look prototypically gay. But he's hell-bent on proving that either through the old nasty or the old turkey baster, he is the Baby Daddy to the only trust-fund prodigy this side of Nicole Richie who hasn't been sent appropriate underwear by Rosie O'Donnell. Two: He's pretty. And Three: I'd have done him too. Turkey baster? You betcha. I wouldn't even ask for dinner or jewelry. And that's saying something. I haven't done a man under 6'4" since 1987. But I'd make an exception for that one.

NYC UPDATE: Who went from first date to husband faster than Julia Roberts figured out that Lyle Lovett did not look good in the morning? Contact the blogger if you know.

Until next time....