Posted by: Artsy Squibbles | August 2, 2006

August First Is Gone

Happy August 1st! Before it’s over!!

Process of thoughts upon waking? Sort of. Just an edited version.
I am in search of fortune. And fame. And I have been warned of the hazards.

Managers, leaks, tabloids, paparazzi, drugs, sex, and rock and roll. And yes, dirty laundry and dui’s.

Dirty laundry and Dui‘s.
Sounds like a new reality show to me.
Dirty Laundry and Dui’s…where life is a surprise of secrets and lies. And everyone has an opinion.

Mel Gibson, or his publicist, has an opportunity to clean up his act because of that DUI. He’s not the only Down Under Idiot. He can now be placed on the wall of humiliation with Russell Crowe along with the flying fists and phones. I certainly understand that people aren’t perfect. I’ve gone through three phones in two years.

With all the dirty laundry that gets aired when one is famous it makes me think twice about wanting fame and fortune. They’d have a hey day with my family. It’s completely dysfunctional.

Single mother of four. Four different fathers. Married and divorced once. And my mother still needs to watch soaps?

Dirty laundry is great material for a writer.

Cleaning up is the hard part.

Dirty laundry is inevitable. We all have it. I washed four loads yesterday and I still have two piles sitting in the basement. I’ve washed roughly 520 loads of laundry a year for the last thirty-one years.

Even people at nudist camps have to wash the sheets, towels and furniture protectors.

I wonder how nudists handle this heat wave? Clothes are meant to protect your skin, so do nudists stay inside all day? And what is the rate of skin cancer among nudists. Do they offer free classes in how to apply sunscreen? Do they have Free Sun Screen baskets at all the exits? Or maybe samples on the pillows instead of Godiva Chocolates.

Now there’s a study that the government could spend three million on instead of feeding the folks living below the poverty level.

LEVELS…that could happen again in a couple of months.

The water level is high today in New Orleans and the folks below Poverty Level are learning how to swim.

Levels are measurements right? Not equalizers…as in leveling the playing field or opponent. Next year, George. Next year!

Levels…hmmm.
Heat level index, pollution level, air pollen levels, breath ability level, oxygen tank level.

If I wanted to be a billionaire I’d be selling portable oxygen kits from a website called Breathe Right. I’d make them so portable you could carry them around in a pocket or rolled up in a T-shirt sleeve. What’s the point?

Levels. Cholesterol? Sure. I’m still recovering from the White Castle onion rings I had on Saturday.

Sugar Level. Alcohol sugars. More measurements.

Any level of alcohol in your system is wrong.
Driving and drinking don’t mix.

I never did learn how to drive. Maybe that was a good thing. I sure did drink a lot in the eighties.
Have you ever seen a rickshaw driver under the influence? Imagine Jackie Chan or Mr. Miagee , weaving in and out of New York traffic and climbing over Taxi Cabs. Or has that already been in a Movie? Or a ride at Universal Studios?

Maybe Mr. Gibson should have taken a cab? But then he might have gotten one of our Ethnically Diverse drivers.

I can see them yelling at each other. The cabbie spewing out unintelligible syllables at breakneck speed and Mel with that sexy Australian slur…ladies? Any one here love that Australian accent? If Hugh Jackman does anything stupid over the next year I swear I will not ask him to be in the musical I am writing. And that’s that. I’ll just have to ask Matthew Broderick.

Yes. I write musicals. I’ve been working on several off and on. The most current is semi biographical. Dirty Laundry sort of stuff. My oldest just turned thirty-one today. So for more than thirty years I’ve been writing this thing about a single mother and her children.
Since it’s not finished I have to work a regular job like everybody else.

I work for a cab company. Grave Shift.
And no…I don’t drive. I answer the phone.

We get all sorts of calls when the bars are closing. I certainly think Mr. Gibson would have preferred a cab by now.

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