As I predicted, when we got home Kelly laid down in a fetal position and said, "I don’t feel good… I think I’m going to be sick."

I thought that this was my opportunity to be the sensitive, caring male that all women want. I went over and put my arm around her. "Are you OK, Kelly? Tell me what I can do for you. Can I get you anything? Just let me know…I’ll take care of you. I’m right here by your side if you need me."

She pushed me away. "JUST GET AWAY! LEAVE ME ALONE!... I need to be alone!... I’m sick, don’t get near me! When someone doesn't feel good they need to be left ALONE!" and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind her.

Feeling helpless to do anything, I went into the living room to watch television. Strangely, some chemical reaction, psychic event, aligning of the stars, change in atmospheric pressure, message from above, shifting of polarity, voices in the head, metaphysical phenomenon, unexplained supernatural manifestation took place in the bathroom that managed to make my actions selfish and cruel.

Maybe it was a strange voice from the shower head, "He’s an asshole…"

"Wha?"

"He's an asshole..."

"B-But… but, he didn't do anything wrong..."

"You’re right!"

And that’s when Kelly came out of the bathroom, looked at me on the couch, assumed the hands-on-the-hips battle stance, and said, "Where were you? Thanks a lot for your help! I could have been dead in there! I could have hit my head on the toilet and have been lying unconscious on the floor and you wouldn’t even know because you have to sit on the couch and watch your stupid TV! You abandoned me when I was sick because…because you just don’t give a shit! You care about the stupid television more than me! You're an asshole!", and stormed into the bedroom.

I stood there with my mouth hanging open, without a clue as to what just happened.

I’m sorry, but I can’t keep up with the mood swings without a newsletter. I need ex-Raider coach John Madden to explain what went on. You know he diagrams the plays on the screen when he broadcasts the N.F.L. football games on TV? Recall how the former coach would take a chalkboard and draw X’s and O’s with arrows going in every direction to describe the action that had just taken place so that confused people at home could understand how the play evolved?

I need John Madden right now! I need him to burst into the living room, stand by the chalkboard and go, "OK, Paul, this is what went on here. You two were in a huddle and Kelly says she doesn’t feel good and wants to be left alone. She goes into motion and shifts into a single-wing "leave me alone" praying position on her knees in front of the bathroom toilet over here. (draws big X) You split-wide right and line-up on the living room couch watching television (draws big arrow going from bedroom to living room) thinking that you’ve done everything that you possibly can… Boy, were you in for a big surprise!

"While she’s in the bathroom, Kelly starts thinking and a ridiculous idea starts running through her mind... It dodges common sense… weaves around fact and fakes-out understanding. This absurd notion sees a hole and shoots through a big gap in her logic (sketches arrow) right up the middle.

"She gets a hold of reality for a moment… but fumbles it when she gets hit with emotion or some female hormone shit that even I can’t begin to explain.

"This foolish bullshit then gains momentum and sweeps around the left end of reason, avoiding the truth altogether, while her stubborness mows down all explanations which happen to make any sense whatsoever. (diagrams dotted line going around a capital ‘R’ on chalk board)

" All this time, your side of the story is waving his arms wildly because he’s wide open on the left sideline, and yelling ‘HEY! WHAT ABOUT ME!... HEY! OVER HERE!  I’M OPEN!’ (circles small ‘r’ with chalk) but she doesn’t give a shit about him, does she?… NO! He’s totally ignored, as she breaks several tackles and shakes off sensibility. (swiggly arrows everywhere)

"For a moment, she almost comes to her senses and realizes that you did nothing wrong… but this is when those hormones come sneaking up in a blitz, blind-side her from out of nowhere, and sack her with estrogen... She never saw it coming… She didn’t see what hit her… and neither will you… because this is when she scrambles out of the bathroom in a fit of unjustified rage… (chalk breaking and turning to dust in the frenzy of action) plows over your compassion and blind-sides your intelligence with absurdity, (totally wipes out all the X’s, O’s, big ‘R’s’ and little ‘r’s’ representing logic, reason, common sense, and rationality with his hand on the chalkboard) and as you ponder what just happened, she laterals your pillow into the living room and hands off the blanket…

And they’ll be no holding tonight… no illegal use of hands… your backfield won’t be in motion… you can forget about scoring… and don’t plan on celebrating in her end-zone… because you end up (draws BIG arrow)…sleeping on the couch again… (another big arrow) as an added little kick in the nuts to make an extra point. (hands raised above head) It’s good!… Game over, you lose every time. Simple play, really… Are there any questions?"

"Wow! Thanks for your analysis, coach. When you break it down it becomes so clear. I can’t believe I missed it… it was so obvious. Thank you. Can you stay for awhile, Mr. Madden?"

"No… I have to go home. I had a fight with my wife… I just can’t seem to figure her out…"

Oh boy.

DAY 112 - JUNE 30^TH, 1996

Don’t say I never told you so. I’m reading in the Sunday newspaper that concerned parents want Little League associations across the country to adopt the use of a softer baseball and helmets with face-masks so that children playing baseball will have less chance of being injured. See. The protection trend. We are going to be raising a generation of spineless wimps. The inflatable bat is next. The sharp ‘crack’ of a hit will soon be replaced by a gentle ‘poof’ when the Nerf-ball is struck with the ‘balloon-bat’. Dammit, you overprotective, safety-conscious, politically-correct sons-of-bitches, you’re gonna ruin America’s pastime! Heavens, don’t let your kid run to first base, he could sprain an ankle and, besides, it will reward the faster children, making the slower kids feel inferior. Your child can walk briskly, and when he reaches the base, there will be a brief rest period while the base-runner is served refreshments, given a electrocardiogram and confers with his personal injury lawyer about potential lawsuits that may have arisen during the at-bat. You pint-sized pussies.

No! You can’t ‘steal’ a base! We don’t want to corrupt their impressionable young minds and encourage larceny. You can ‘achieve’ second base, but don’t do it too often or you will hurt the catcher’s feelings and he’ll grow up to be an underachiever. And we’ll install an airbag in the ass of your uniform in case you have to slide, you sniveling little pansies.

For obvious reasons that white toe-piece on the pitcher’s mound can no longer be called a ‘rubber’. For Christ’s sake, the kids will be trying to hump the dirt during the seventh inning stretch.

Get a grip! Kids bring guns to school and build grenade launchers in shop class and these idiots want to make the ball softer. The truth is, people’s heads are getting softer. You want to change the ball? Let’s have some sharp, barbed, fishhook spikes sticking out of the baseball and give the kids a real incentive not to make a fielding error. It’s simple. Miss, and you get a new addition to your forehead. Prepare him for the real world. In case you didn’t notice, it’s a friggin’ war out there!

Kelly has a dear friend who is a movie producer in Hollywood. He has been involved in several major motion pictures, but we decided to rent the video of one of his first projects, a tongue-in-cheek comedy called "Cannibal Women in the Avocado Jungle of Death". The movie features comedian Bill Maher, who is the current host of the critically acclaimed and immensely popular talk show, "Politically Incorrect". Honestly, before this Hollywood experience, I would have had some wise remarks about this highly reputable comedian’s film debut as a guide leading an expedition into the hostile avocado jungles of central California, a dense forest that bears a strange resemblance to a domestic avocado grove, to locate Adrian Barbeau, the leader of a man-eating tribe of half-dressed feminist women.

After encountering the hostile, ego-eating show-business cannibals of the impenetrable career-ending jungle known as Hollywood, I have new insight into any performer’s decision making process.

At this stage I would be thrilled to throw on a slinky, pink leotard and sweat to the oldies behind Richard Simmons’ tight little tush.

I would gladly accept a role as a full-grown Oompa-Loompa in "Willy Wonka Four: The Revenge".

I would scratch and claw to be human chum in "Jaws XXIII: Get Out of the Pool!"

I would jump at the chance to get on my knees and play a Munchkin vice-squad detective in "Return to Oz: A City in Decay".

I would piss myself if Disney Studios drew my animated cartoon likeness on a stampeding wildebeest in "The Lion Queen: Out of the Closet and into the Jungle".

I would beg to change a chimpanzee’s dirty diaper and have the hyperactive primate hurl his feces at me on screen in "Bedtime for Bonzo VII: The Drug Years"

DAY 113 - JULY 1^ST, 1996

The news ran a story about a group of s-s-s-stutterers who were picketing Time-Warner to retire the "Porky Pig" because the cartoon character ridicules people with speech impediments. Hey, weren’t you guys just picketing the Little League Association about softer balls?

Let’s see, Andy Capp is an alcoholic, Sylvester the cat and Snagglepuss both lisp, the Coyote is obsessive-compulsive, Shaggy, the beatnik on ‘Scooby-Doo’ has an obvious drug problem, Elmer Fudd and Tweetie Bird have communicative disorders, Charlie Brown needs "Hair-Club for Kids", Marvin the Martian is an illegal alien, Wilma Flintstone is anorexic, Beetle Bailey is narcoleptic, Popeye has elephantiasis of the forearms, Tennessee Tuxedo’s friend, Chumly, is overweight, and Bullwinkle has a hair lip. Retire ‘em all w-w-w-w-while y-y-you’re at it, y-y-you p-p-p-p-party p-p-p-p-poopers!!

DAY 114 - JULY 2^ND, 1996

Since I moved to Hollywood I have tried to digest everything I can about the film industry and it’s mechanizations. One of the things I’m learning is that newly released movies put a big premium on critic’s reviews and display excerpts from the reviews prominently in the full-page ads that appear in the Calendar section daily. I also suspect that any portion of a quote from a review can be manipulated like a resume. You don’t have to lie, but through creative editing and modifying context, you can make the best of a bad situation.

For example, if Paul D’Angelo, arts and entertainment critic for the "LA Newz", or some newspaper, wrote,

"When the director of this stink-bomb excuse for a movie makes up next year’s schedule, his #1 priority should be to go back to film school to learn how to make a hit movie. Between the incompetent director and the unqualified producer, the two must have had their thumbs up their asses during the entire production. It’s amazing that, in the age of the computer, the special effects were so phony looking and unbelievable. Poorly edited, with a sub-standard plot, this was a poor excuse for an action movie. If my name were on the credits, I’d have my bags packed before I was run out of town."

A snip-snip here, and a snip-snip there, and "violá!", next to the ad appears:

"The….year’s….#1.…hit!" "Two.…thumbs up!" "Amazing………special effects!" "Unbelievable…….!" "Action…..packed!" says Paul D’Angelo of the LA Newz.