Hot dog, it’s Larry Begonia and a glass of lemonade. How are ya? Me, I’m doing just fine. Still no luck on the job search front—and the last word I heard from my family was a subpoena for child support—but I’ve got this here blog and my health and those are both worth every quarter!
Now, when I say I’ve got my health, I mean I’ve got my good health, and I’ve got my not-so-good health. Good health: ten fingers, nine toes (fishing accident—it’s a mackerel of a story!), a brain, a belly, and a heart. On the flip side of that temperamental coin: tennis elbow, golfer’s knee, and a bladder infection that won’t quit. My ticker’s a-ok; Dr. Akers chalks it up to my “sunny disposition.” He says that many a Joe or Bill in my current state—broke and lonely—would be reaching for the whiskey, cheese wheels and antacids. Well, I tell him, I write a lot of letters. That passes the time.
This health care conundrum the President’s facing sure is a doozy. I count my lucky stars I don’t have his job. Almost better off unemployed! I thought about writing Obama a letter, give him my two-cents, but it turns out I haven’t got a darn penny. I had only one thought on the matter—that doctors should work for free, like parks volunteers–but Dr. Akers met the proposal with apprehension and a “Well…”
Let’s break it down. Democrats are after a public health care option, while Republicans maintain that universal health care leads to inefficiencies. Me? I’m torn. Thinking about this glass of lemonade in my hand, I’d very much like to have lemonade whenever I’m quenched for thirst, but what if the universal lemonade just tastes downright unpleasant? That scares me! And I don’t necessarily want the glass of lemonade my neighbor Paul drinks, and not because he’s black—I just wonder if he uses as much sweetener as I do. It’s all very confusing.
Because I couldn’t solve health care for Obama, I decided to do the next best thing, and write a different letter. Here it is:
—
Dear Plaxico Burress,
What’s the opposite of “congratulations”? Whatever it is, that’s what I wish to say regarding your recent criminal sentencing. Prison! I’d like to give you a good old hug. You look like you need one.
Now, I don’t care for football (too violent), and I particularly do not care for the New York Giants (also too violent, I imagine), but I considered taking to the streets in protest after hearing the sad news. Two years incarceration? For shooting yourself? That’s what we call adding insult to injury here in Rockhurst, PA. If we all went to prison for every stupid thing we did to ourselves, well, we’d all be in prison! Heck, just think of it. Hard labor for a paper cut! Heavy fines over stubbed toes! What’s next, lethal injection for not sexually satisfying your wife and inevitably driving her into the arms of your dentist? Yikes!
I’ll tell you a story. My wife Candy had just up and left me, piling Larry Jr. and little Bitty into a U-Haul along with all of our furniture and most of our glassware. Well I’m just so, so…MAD: no other word for it. (And I don’t use that word lightly.) I borrow my neighbor Paul’s fishing gear, drive to the lake, and rent a rowboat. Now, I’ve never fished a day in my life, and I realize today that a line and hook can be as lethal as a semi-automatic weapon—for the fish, I mean. So I throw the line in, and wait. And wait. And I’m getting nothing, I mean nothing. I’m just about ready to pack it in and head back home, but then I remember there’s nobody at home waiting for me, so why bother. I debate committing suicide, but I end up resolving that such a thing would go against my personality. I’m Bright as Butter Begonia, for plum sake! So I reel the line in, but it won’t give—it’s caught something! I pull and pull and pull and I think my neck’s gonna break, but finally I hurl this BEAST of a fish onto the rowboat. It’s bigger than a Thanksgiving turkey! And it’s flapping around and trying to breathe, chomping its mouth and wouldn’t you know it—the ninny chomps down on my toe. Second in command, the piggy that stays home. And this ninny’s got TEETH.
I ended up losing that toe, but what’s more—I could’ve gone to jail. Not for losing the toe, but because Paul thought I stole his fishing gear and called the police. Anyhowdy, I could be in just the same situation as you, and all I can think is, darn. Close call, Begonia. I wonder too: if you were white, perhaps you’d be a-okay, Plaxico. Food for thought.
So maybe my “what was he thinking!” story will give you a little comfort as you read this in your prison cell. Maybe it won’t. But good luck to you.
Peace brother,
Larry Begonia
—
As a white man, I know full well that Plaxico and Obama and my neighbor Paul are different people, despite all being black. But hopefully I did something nice for Plaxico, even though I couldn’t fix health care for Obama, and even though Paul is still pickled irate with me over the missing fisherman’s gear.
Adios for now “muchachos”,
Larry Begonia
Pedestrian Fantasies Revealed
03/30/2009
ONE.
The Dream.
I am walking a busy city street. A well-dressed, well-coiffed guy—too well-dressed and well-coiffed—sucks on a cigarette and lets the smoke trail behind him. I cough—not to be obnoxious, but because the tobacco haze has seeped into my trachea. He hears me hack through the trance music pumping into his earphones, abruptly turns around, glares. He thinks I’m being passive-aggressive. I’ll show him.
“Yeah, I’m really coughing here. It’s a windy day, the sidewalk is fifteen commuters thick, you do the math.”
He scoffs, continues sucking on the Marlboro. A middle-aged lady in step beside me sniffs, turns to me. “Good for you, honey.”
I am confident and assertive the remainder of the day.
Reality.
I am walking a busy city street. A well-dressed, well-coiffed guy sucks on a cigarette and lets the smoke trail behind him. I cough. He ignores me—that, or he didn’t hear me. A passerby or two gives me a look, an “Are you kidding?” peer down the nose. I hurry away.
TWO.
The Dream.
I stand on line at the drug store. The cashier rings up the woman in front of me. A feisty teen—I know she’s feisty because of what comes next—sashays in front of me and plants her feet down, hand on hip. Does she think she’s cutting?
I wait until my allotted turn. The woman in front of me leaves, and I angle to get to the counter first.
“I’m next.”
She backs away, a wounded animal. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I should’ve seen the line.” Yeah, you should’ve.
I approach the counter, but see that the girl is clearly embarrassed. “You go ahead. I’m not in a hurry.” She’s surprised by the generosity, and gratefully takes it.
I feel good about myself and applaud my Good Samaritan nature the remainder of the day.
Reality.
I stand on line at the drug store. The cashier rings up the woman in front of me. A feisty teen cuts me off. “I was after them,” I interject.
“Uh-uh,” she replies.
“Oh, okay.”
I sidle back to my place on the line as the cashier rings her up.
THREE.
The Dream.
I am at a restaurant. I’ve eaten my meal (it was alright, overpriced) and wait for the check. The waiter brings it. I check the math—he forgot to charge me for my green tea. I flag him over.
“You left off the green tea.”
His eyes graze the bill. “You know what, that’s my bad. It’s on me.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, no prob. Hey, you like cookies? We make great cookies. I’ll get you a cookie.”
This is the best day ever.
Reality.
I am at a restaurant. I glance over my bill. The waiter forgot to charge me for my tea.
“You left off the green tea.”
“Whoops, my bad.”
He leaves. He returns with another bill, the three bucks added.
“You don’t have any cookies, do you?”
Cap’n [Crunch]’s Log
03/27/2009
Day 1. Set sail in anticipation of uncharted territories and scraggly-bearded pirates. Took wrong turn at Cape of Good Hope. Already so lost.
Day 2. First Mate PB rerouted our mighty vessel; all is good—and full of hope!
Day 4. Yesterday, phew! What a day! So much to say.
Day 5. Squall set in. Barreled on windward. Lost a few good deckhands. Promoted Deckswabber to Decksrubber and Cook to Captain’s Aide.
Day 6. Quiet after the storm. Solemn funeral services conducted for boys lost. Captain’s Aide nee Cook threw self overboard; couldn’t take the pressure. Promoted Deckswabber to Captain’s Aide. Posted CraigsList employment ad.
Day 7. Crew complaints regarding lack of grub. I say they’re lucky with the lot they’ve got; sweetened corn and oats are more than enough of a complete balanced breakfast, not to mention lunch and dinner. Talk of “scurvy.” Readying the plank in event of more grumbling.
Day 8. Crunchberry attack. Complete chaos. Every man for himself. Holed up in hull; should help crew. Will wait it out.
Day 11. Emerged from hull to find Crunchberries now our overlords. Most of crew dead, others badly beaten. Crunchberries seem nice. Let me keep my hat.
Day 12. Land ho! Discovered new race of white, blob-like creatures. Call themselves Soggies. Unsure how they will mesh with our crew. Will see how tomorrow’s mixer goes.
Day 13. Crunchberry-Soggie mixer COMPLETE disaster. Definitely not jibing with their groove.
Day 14. Launched full-scale attack on Soggies. Got a little messy, a little wet, a little damp, but we overcame. Now we can return home…with slaves!
Day ?. Ship capsized on voyage home. Washed up on some distant shore. Recovered log and little else. Spelled out “HELP” with the remains of my Crunchberry brethren. Will no one save me from this plight?
Day ??. Has it come to this? It has. Cannibalism. Though, technically, is it cannibalism if I’m not a Crunchberry myself? And if they are delicious?
Day ???. Wracked with guilt. Can no longer withstand pain of what I’ve done. Also, run out of Crunchberries. Taking own life. Between drowning and hanging. Opting towards hanging – more exotic. Goodbye, cruel world.
Day !. Saved! By an Amish fellow with a nice smile. (How did he get here? I dare not ask.) He is taking me to America. He tells me the children will love me.
Movie maven Marvin Brill reviews movies he hasn’t seen. This publication takes no responsibility for his claims.
Lucky you: it’s been another dismal week in Hollywood and another painful reminder that art is dead. Ho-hum.
I tell you, fellow Sacramentans, I wouldn’t wipe my blemished butt cheek with the schlock in theaters this March. Luckily, I don’t have to. I use the Bee’s movie ticket funds to buy hemorrhoid cream and antacid. At least one of us will be sitting easy.
Let’s start with Duplicity. (Do we have to?) It stars Julia Roberts and Clive Owen. More like Boolia Boberts and Blive Bowen. I mean really, these two have about as much chemistry as a flask of H2O. I mean, it’s there, but so see-through. Bo-ring. What are they gonna do? Trade “witticisms” and “banter” and “bodily fluids” for two hours? I can watch that for free through the hole in the wall I share with the Radcliffes next door. C’mon people, I’ve got taxes to file! I’ll tell you what happens. Julia spies on Clive, Clive spies on Julia, back and forth we go, round and round, but in the end I tell you someone will die. It has to happen. Murder. This is the CIA and MI6! Scary. If they don’t kill each other, it would be completely unrealistic. And if they do… Well, I’ve already not seen Mr. and Mrs. Smith, thank you. So, I’ve “ruined” the movie, stay home and spy on your neighbors, save a few bucks.
Next up, I Love You, Man with Paul Rudd and Josh Segal. At first I thought this might be a piece about man’s appreciation of mankind. What a work is man, indeed! But nilch; and then Paul Rudd waltzed in. All the ladies swoon over Paul Rudd, and just for that I’d like to stuff him into a pillowcase and forget about him until next Halloween. I don’t trust good looking people (see: Duplicity, or don’t). Okay, so the Paul Rudd character finds out he’s gay. Big deal. Everybody’s gay. That’s no reason to make a movie about it. Get original, people. You’re wasting your lives!
Now, you may have noticed that I’ve yet to review Slumdog Millionaire, this year’s “Best” Motion Picture. I’ve received many an e-complaint on the very matter. Here’s what I think: Too. Much. India. Enough already! We get it! You’re all speaking a language I don’t understand! Way to rub it in my face! And what’s with the fakey fake British accents? So typical. You can always tell a hackneyed actor when he globs on the British accent for a foreign part. Please. Your audience is smarter than you think, my little tikka masalas.
–Marvin Brill, Sacremento Bee
Total Hetero’s Not Gay Reasons for Missing Project Runway
By Greg Tosc
I’m totally hetero.
But I totally miss Project Runway.
I made a list why.
- Hot model chicks get dressed! (Up high!)
- Hot model chicks get undressed. (Yow.)
- Some of the contestants are hot—the chicks, I mean. Duh, guys.
- Heidi Klum’s a hot model chick.
- Heidi Klum is married to Seal—what?! Awesome.
- Aesthetically pleasing designs and an eye for the avant-garde.
- Tim Gunn says a bunch of things, like, a lot, and I take a shot every time he says “ten minutes, designers” or “stunning” or “it concerns me.” Nothing gay about quoting Tim Gunn drunk, am I right?
- Tim Gunn seems like a real down to earth bro.
- Confident men dress well. Period. Exclamation point. Wait, strike exclamation point. Period. Yeah.
- What’s gay about supporting the arts contained within a non-exploitative and intelligent reality television format? It’s not like I watch America’s Next Top Model.
*Note to self: remove ANTM from DVR.
Yoga Poses Tell Future
03/16/2009
M O U N T A I N P O S E
One day you will visit and/or look at a mountain. It will stand as tall as you are standing right now.
W A R R I O R I & W A R R I O R I I
One day you will come into battle (literal and/or metaphorical). You will win or lose this battle. You will be remembered for your “warrior spirit.”
D O W N W A R D – F A C I N G D O G
One day you will befriend a dog. If you have already befriended a dog, your day has come. If you do not like dogs, you will befriend a creature that is more to your liking.
F O U R – L I M B E D S T A F F P O S E
One day you will discover the full potential of your four limbs. Or, one day you will oversee a staff of four.
L O C U S T P O S E
One day your home will be overcome by locusts and other vermin. You will defeat them with your “warrior spirit.”
B O A T P O S E
One day you will sit in and/or look at a boat. You may or may not become seasick. That is for the winds to decide.
B O W P O S E
One day you will tie a pretty bow around a package. Or, one day you will take up archery. In either event, you will bruise your left index finger.
D A N C E R ‘ S P O S E
One day you will meet a girl. You will ask her to dance. She will tell you that your aftershave reminds her of Daddy’s. You will run.
L O T U S P O S E
One day you will sit with your feet resting on your thighs. It will be uncomfortable.
C R O W P O S E
The crows are coming.
W H E E L P O S E
One day you will discover that all of existence is one continuous circle that cannot be bent or broken.
C O R P S E P O S E
Self-explanatory. Better limber up before then.
Unemployed Larry – Dear Mark Zuckerberg
03/13/2009
Hey Gang! It’s me, Larry Begonia. As you may know, I’ve been unemployed for, oh gosh, close to four months? That long already? Hoo-ey! Hard to gage the time with the wife and kids up and gone. They were the ones with the watches!
It’s been real tough trying to stay in touch with my kids, Larry Jr. and Little Candy (seems Big Candy discontinued their cellular phone service—don’t blame her, we were long overdue with the payments), so I asked myself, “Larry, what are the kids doing these days?” And I answered myself, “Larry, they’re on The Facebook!”
So I called up Jimmy Triller from next door, and he gave me a few pointers (thanks again, Jimmy!). Taught me how to “tag” and “de-tag” and “friend” and “de-friend”—but we all know, a friend of Larry Begonia’s is a friend for a lifetime, so I don’t think I’ll be doing much de-friending, myself. Always nice to have the option, though.
I’ll copy and paste my page here, but you should really check it out on The Facebook. And maybe even “friend” me, too, while you’re at it. ;)
After I uploaded the whole darn thing, Jimmy called me up and told me that the “Interested in” question up in Basic Information indicates “sexual preference.” Gosh, I thought it meant “Who do you find interesting, males or females?” I thought it sounded odd, and a bit of a set-up for sexism. I find many males interesting and many females interesting (and many men uninteresting and women uninteresting, too.) Who knew it meant “interested in to date“! That’s sure confusing. There should really be some sort of User’s Guide for The Facebook. Help a guy out. Don’t want to make a cyber faux pas, heck no.
Which got me thinking. That Mark Zuckerberg sure must be a smart fellow to come up with a webpage like The Facebook. Sure smart, but a real young guy. I bet he’d appreciate a word or two of advice from a fellow who’s been around the Home Depot block (my power-walking route!) a time or two. So I wrote him a letter. I’ll copy and paste it here.
—
Dear Mark Zuckerberg,
Hey there! I’m Larry Begonia, former financial planner with Merrill Lynch, but don’t hold that against me!
I’m new to The Facebook scene and had a thought. See, it’s hard for me to stay in touch with my kids now that the wife’s relocated them and has yet to inform me where in God’s green earth they are, and I know there’s a good many hard-working, well-meaning Dads just like myself in a similar predicament. Now, I’ve tried to “friend” Larry Jr. and Little Candy, but they have yet to “accept my friendship request.” (Must be some faulty Internet where they are.) I can’t even look at my own kids’ The Facebook profiles! Seems downright unfair.
Here’s my idea: create a system for parents—and ONLY parents, there’s a ton of creep-o’s out there—allowing them to look at their kids’ The Facebook webpages without their kids needing to accept the friendship requests. I’d sure like to know the latest in their young little lives—heck, I’d like to know where they’re living!
Once you create this “application,” as I’m told it’s called, us parents could provide our kids’ social security codes—had ‘em memorized the moments they were issued back in 1994 and 1998!—thereby ensuring a safe way to track our kids down.
Let me know what you think, son—and I hope you don’t mind me calling you “son.” You remind me of a younger version of myself, from what I can tell from your Wikipedia page.
And allow me to “plug” myself here, too, while we’re at it. I see that you have many an advertisement on The Facebook, which means the bucks must be rolling in. As a young fellow, I can imagine that this is all very confusing and overwhelming. What to do with the money, where to put the money, how to think about the money… All great questions. Sounds like you need a financial planner to help with the answers. Give me a call, any time.
Call me “Friend”!
Larry Begonia
—
Mailed that puppy off not three minutes ago. Expect to hear from him soon.
Thanks again for the “Interested in” advice, Jimmy. Can you imagine me as a homosexual? I sure can’t!
Fixing myself a bowl of oatmeal now—got to love the Quaker Oats. You ever notice how even after you eat a whole bowl of oatmeal, you’re hungry again not a half hour later? Not altogether satisfying, I’d say.
‘til next time,
Larry Begonia
Listen. Okay, listen—Gloria? Gloria… Gloria… Gloria. Look: (pause) There have been charges. False charges. I said they were false. Then. Okay? I said they were false then but now I feel… I think, I know. The misogyny. Wrong, dead-wrong. But I’ve re-read my plays, and there is an element of… A man develops a reputation. He delivers. All right. Fine. You know how I feel about women. Two wives, three daughters—females. Everywhere.
The women… They’re stand-ins for society. Society, Gloria. It’s not about sex, your sex. Gender, what-have-you. The biological differences… No, wait, wait, the physiological differences. Okay? The physiological. So you watch, you read, you decide… We know what happens.
My mother was a woman. You know that, I know that. I owe her a debt of, of… And she had brains. But society. Society makes women dumb. No, wait— Wait, listen… Listen… Hear me out… That was… I didn’t… Okay. Okay.
Women are a curiosity. What’s in their brains… There’s a disconnect, for me. You use sex, I use sex. I see that. But it’s so much more obvious with— Cleavage, you hear me?
No… Okay, here’s where… Right, just as intelligent. Just as strong, emotionally. You can do whatever… Secretary of State, fine. Maybe presidency. Some day. Who knows.
I love women. Do they love me? A couple, sure. And they’re capable of more…than what I write… Society. I come back to, society. It tells women what to be, how to be, why to be. Why? Who creates these arbitrary constructions?
So, break the mold. Maybe. But I comment on, I don’t seek to…
All right. Yes, the artist paints a window, what window am I painting, I see. I show you the door, you walk through it, but it’s my door.
If Hillary were a man would she have won? If. She’s damn close.
Yes, low blow. I know.
(Pause.)
You women. It takes a lot to put up with us.
And I can respect that.
Limbaugh Challenges Obama to a Rap-Off
03/06/2009
Yo, yo
Check it, check it
My mama named me Rush
On the street it’s Oxy C
I hate Commie Libs
And you know they don’t like me
The radio’s my soapbox
Elected office’s for fools
But if I were head honcho
I’d outlaw Spanish language in the schools
Gotta beef with Barack
Only I know why
My American duty is to grouse
Live free or die
Die
Die
Die
Yo, Barack’s on the mike
Don’t mean to rush you off the stage
Limbaugh, you’re damn lucky
The Dems don’t stuff you in a cage
Cuz we in power now
America made the call
But if you wanna rumble
Then I’ll meet you on the Mall
Give the stimulus package a chance
Or I guess your bread’s off being partisan
If only you’d play nicely
Though I can’t picture you as a courtesan
Courtesan
Courtsean
Courtesan
Courtesan? I don’t think so, ese
Try “Truth-Detector” and “Weapon of Mass Instruction”
El Rushbo is your Doctor of Democracy
(I throw in some Spanish purely for obstruction)
Barack, I want you to fail
And it’s not because you’re black
You stand for everything I loathe
(Though were you white I’d cut a little slack)
I’m America’s Anchorman
You’re on my turf, Mr. Hussein Obama
Too chicken to duel?
You no better than Osama
Osama
Osama
Osama
Whoa, that a low blow
Bringin’ up bin Laden like that
Your rhymes are kid stuff
Think you’d hold up in combat?
I can take you on the court
I can take you in the court
I can beat you at any sport
Ain’t no way you can thwart
Me
Barack O.b.
Now, I’ve got pressing things on my plate
This tap dance’ll have to wait
But in the meantime set a date
Ballerina Rahm loves fresh bait
Word.
Improv Games May Lead to Dangerous Places
03/04/2009
Remember: No questions, and always “Yes, And” your scene partner.
WORD BALL
Players stand in a circle. To begin, one player “tosses” a word to another. The receiver then tosses a new word riffing off the last to another player.
Courtney: “Tomato”
Rob: “Toe-mah-toe”
JP: “Potato”
Muriel: “Bunions. Bleeding bunions.”
SITTING STANDING LYING
Three players play a scene in which there is always one player sitting, standing, or lying down at any given time.
Courtney sits, Rob stands, Muriel lies down.
Courtney (types at a computer): “This is no time to just stand there, Mr. Billings. The report is due in an hour!”
Rob: “Why yell at me, Nadine, when Agnes over there has collapsed from exhaustion!”
Muriel: “Rob, this reminds me of that time we slept together and then you left. I remember you standing there, watching me sleep, but I was only pretending. I wasn’t really asleep. That’s how I know you were standing there. Watching.”
Rob sits. Courtney stands. Muriel remains lying down.
NARRATOR
Several players improvise a scene while another player acts as narrator and comments on the action.
Muriel, JP and Courtney set up for a picnic.
JP: “Man, what a great day for a picnic, huh guys?”
Courtney: “You said it. Cutting class was the best idea you’ve ever had.”
Muriel: “I think it irresponsible.”
Rob, the narrator: “She would think it irresponsible. Mel was crazy.”
Muriel: “And I’m not crazy.”
Rob, the narrator: “Yes. Yes she was.”
Muriel: “If I’m crazy, why did you sleep with me?”
Rob, the narrator: “Heh, uh, Mel was always making up crazy things. Like, I’m the one who stole your cat. Or, of course we slept together! Or, it’s true; I have six fingers on one hand and that sixth finger I call the baby-baby finger. It was a skill of hers, being crazy.”
Muriel: “I did steal your cat. And then I killed him.”
Courtney: “Uh… Shoot! The assembly! We ditched school and totally forgot about the assembly!”
JP: “Gosh, you’re right, Sue. If we weren’t already getting suspended for ditching, we surely would now for ditching the Mothers Against Drunk Driving assembly.”
Muriel: “His name was Mittens. He liked peanut butter. I opened your window from the outside. I crawled into your apartment. I lured him with a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. I tossed him on the street. I ran him over with my ten-speed bike. I threw his remains away.”
JP: “…Mel, would you… Go… Get some… Water… From the car…”
Rob, the narrator: “You’re a monster.”
Muriel: “No, I’m Mel. And yes, Ted, I will get that water for you. And I’ll bring snacks.”
The Ill-Conceived Word 