The Liam McEneaney Experience

Dammit. But here's some jokey thoughts -

Do you know what being poor is? Having so little money in your account that you check your balance, see less money than you expected, and are too embarassed to go to your bank and asking what happened:
"Seriously, I thought I had thirty-six dollars, but now I find I only have twenty. Don't fuck with me, pal. I'm a man who knows how to manage his money. I mean, um, excuse me, but I am about to sing some songs. If you can spare a nickle, a dime, anything, I would appreciate it. Ain't no sunshine when she's goooonnnnneeeeeee . . ."

* * * *

Why is it that all the people I listen to talk about how it's time to get rid of the rich and give power to the poor are always the ones who don't seem to need a day job to make ends meet?

All the revolutionaries I meet never seem to temp:

"Welcome aboard,Che. You'll be filling in for Mary while she's on maternity leave."
"I can't get to my Death to the Capitalist Pigs message board."
"Yeah, we have a firewall to keep employees from using non business-related websites."
"Damn your fat, greedy imperialist hide. You'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes."
"Great. But right now, let's get to collating, huh?"

I failed a lot of stuff in high school.

Counting Junior High, I took first year Spanish four years in a row. First year Spanish was always fun, because it was me and twenty Puerto Rican kids looking for an easy A:

Carlos would be talking to his friend:
"No hay duda que los mexicanos y las mexicanas, llenos de dignidad, de voluntad y de capacidad de trabajo -."
"Carlos - "
"Yes, miss?"
"Read today's assignment."
"Me nom-bre es Juan."
"Yo, Juan."
"Shut the fuck up, Julio."
"You shut the fuck up, maricon."
"Su mama es una puta. Están haciendo trabajos que ni siquiera los negros quieren hacer allá, en Estados Unidos"
"What did he just say?"
"I said, what a pretty dress the teacher is wearing."

Pop! Easiest A in the world for these guys.
The opposite was never true for me going to an English class. For some reason, we were always assigned books like Chaucer, which were not written inEnglish. They looked like they'd been translated from the original Martian into English by a guy with a railroad spike through his head.

* * * *

My point is, I failed shop.

I took shop because our school's shop teacher, Mr. Murther, had four fingers my freshman year, and three fingers my sophomore year, and all I could think was, "Wow! Shop class turns you into a pirate! I can't wait until I have a hook hand."

So I went into shop class.

Now, my school had no school spirit. Our school fight song was, "I Can't Believe This Stupid School Has A Fucking Fight Song. How Retarded."

We didn't have a football team. At first, I didn't know why a football team was a hundred percent necessary. But after a week in shop class, I realized that high school football was invented to trick guys like the ones I took shop with into killing each other.

They were what the scientific community likes to label "gorillas." Or "orangutans." I don't know, I failed Bio.

This is all I have so far. More later.

I have an iPod. It can play 10,000 songs, or in my case the same 3 songs three thousand times.

It's great, because now someone can steal my entire CD collection all at once.

* * * * *

Where I will be tonight:
Yes, after years and years of surly drunks, potential fire hazards in the form of the wrong decorations hanging from the rafters, and over three cleanings of the men's room, Ye Olde Tripple Inn is closing its doors.

If you've never been, Ye Olde Tripple Inn has been the favorite bar to perform in for three generations of comedians, seeing the launch of august comedy careers from Freddy Prinze Sr., to Rita Rudner and Larry David, to Liam McEneaney.

Susie Felber is hosting one final addition of her Felber's Frolics comedy show, and you should be there. It's gonna be a good old-fashioned Irish wake.

From Susie's website:

"The Tripple will be closing forever, very soon. This is where I ran a show for over 6 years, and where many comedy greats got their start -- and got heckled into next week. All the details of the show are below, but here's what's new:

--> I got awesome stories from comedy peeps who will not be in attendance like Rita Rudner, Adam Spiegelman and Jay Mohr about their Ye Olde experiences at Ye Olde Tripple. Will be reading these and more at the show.

--> Check out this week's Time Out NY -- you'll see Jane Borden gave us a sweet write up on the show."

FINAL BLOW OUT SUPERSTAR COMEDY SHOW/PARTY -- ONE NIGHT ONLY!
Tuesday, June 28th
Felber's Frolics Ye Olde Tripple Inn263 W 54th St. between Broadway & 8th Ave.
(closer to 8th)
8pm - FREE, no minimum
Subway: 1,9 to 50th, E to 7th Ave (53rd), C to 50th

Acts scheduled to perform include:
* Eric Drysdale -- Premium Blend, writer for The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.
* Christian Finnegan -- Comedy Central Presents, VH1's Best Week Ever.
* Victor Varnado -- Movies: End of Days, Pluto Nash, Premium Blend, Jimmy Kimmel Live!
* Liam McEneaney – VH1's Best Week Ever, Premium Blend
* Chris Regan -- Daily Show writer, Premium Blend
* Bryan Tucker - Writer Chappelle's show, Chris rock show, Tough Crowd, plus Premium Blend
* Rob Paravonian: Premium Blend, VH1
* Alison Castillo: Comedy Central, MTV "I Wanna Be a Comedian," VH1's Best Week Ever
* Ophira Eisenberg: Premium Blend
and more....

I dated a woman once - no really, go with me on this - and she brought me back to her place and she told me that she was into being tied up and humiliated.

So I tied her up. And then left her apartment.

When I got home, I called the cops and told them that she was being kidnapped and they should go break down her door and rescue her.

Then I called all the news channels and told them that a bunch of cops had a naked woman all tied up, and if they raced down right away they could get visuals for the ten o'clock news.

My point is this - sometimes you give a woman exactly what she wants, and is she satisfied? No, of course not!

Like one time I was cat-sitting for my friend Peggy, and as she was going down the to-do list - you know, litter box, food, brushing, try not to have sex with them - I said, "Is there anything else you want me to do?"

And she said, "Well, if you could get them to stop shedding, I'd appreciate it."

Well, you think she'd be grateful. I mean, it's not like I shaved them.
While she was gone, I had her cats laminated. How adorable! And suitable for framing!

It's a "Goodbye Kitty!" placemat.

A couple years ago, I was pounding the pavement, looking for work. I found an ad in the Village Voice, "Reference Verifiers Wanted." Now, if you've ever looked for a job in New York City, you know the ad I'm talking about. It's been in the Voice longer than those "escort" ads in the back. I'd always been curious, but I'd never applied because - well, because the fact of the matter is it doesn't even give yo ua phone number, just an address to apply in person five days a week. As the British upper crust would say; I mean, a bit shady, eh what?

But I figured, "Can I afford to be so snobbish? Goldman Sachs ain't exactly knocking down my door with executive positions. What could I lose?" So I packed my resume and a sack lunch and made my way to 8th Ave. in the thirties.

If I had to describe my resume in terms of the sort of book review you'd find in The Magazine of Fantasy & Science Fiction, it would be: "A fantastic work of 'historic fantasy,' that blends true historic events with fantastic flights of fancy." Yes, there are a couple of small lies in there, like "Hey, I graduated college."

Okay, so I didn't graduate college, but I figure what the hell? I'm smarter than a lot of guys who did. And even if I'm not, I'm a dash sight better looking. Who's going to know?

Actually, it's funny. I've been thinking of finishing my schooling ,so I went back to old Queens College to find out exactly how much more work I'd have to do to get my degree. Apparently, in the three semesters-plus-summer session I attended there, I managed to accrue a whopping 17 credits. That's like a full semester's work right there.

Whenever student loan people call me to you know, chat, see how I'm doing, demand their money, I always want to say, "Hey, look at my goddamn transcript. It isn't the record of a man with five hundred a month to burn. You're lucky I have a phone to talk on."

But my resume says I finished college, and that's what really counts.

So I walk up the stairs to the reference verifying place. To your left, as you walk in, there's an office with a receptionist. To your right, there's a large space filled with those desk/chair combos you got to sit in in high school. Over on a far wall is a bored woman behind a counter wearing a lab coat. Behind her are six closets, each numbered 1 to 6. A couple of them are open, and inside are toilets.

I would find out later that these are for drug testing. I would find this out the hard way.

So I'm the only person applying for a job that morning, and I'm taken into the interviewing office by a really nice older gentleman with a thick Israeli (I'm guessing, I'm not good at guessing this sort of thing) accent and a huge white walrus moustache. For the majority of the interview, I spend half my time staring at the fella's walrus moustache. The other half is spent trying my damndest not to stare the fella's walrus moustache.

The first question this guy asks me is if I have done any drugs. He tells me to come clean with him, because I will be tested later. Then he tells me that one of the things this company does is drug testing for large companies that are - I got the impression - hiring poor people off the street to do dirty work. He described a scene to me of burly surly men lined down the stairs and around the corner, waiting to pee into a cup.

Then he tells me about the job. The company's main focus you see, is to go over people's resumes who are applying for jobs at Fortune 500 companies, and check to make sure that everything written there is the 100% truth. This is what they do all day. Then he asks me about my college experience.

My belief is that lying one your resume is not only ethical, but expected of one. In fact, I believe that companies want you to lie on your resume. It's a sign that you really want the job. But it occurred to me that, in this case, on this subject, the Moustache Man and I might not see eye-to-eye. But i decide to bluff my way through the interivew. For some reason, I have it in my head that the guy is so enthusiastic about hiring me that he won't do an in-depth background report, or better yet, will decide that I had so much moxie that he'll overlook the deception.

And he's really enthusaistic about hiring me. He tells me that he's going on vacation the next day, but he's so into the idea of hiring me that he's going to expedite the paperwork so that I can get working there as soon as my background check comes back. For some reason, my brain doesn't hear the second half of this sentence.

"m placed in a small room whereI'm given a test. It's half-high school English test and half-high school Math test. I ponder the fact that back in high school, I decided to not pay attention to Math on the grounds that never, ever, in the real world ,will I need to know how to compute fractions.

I also notice that, scattered around the table I'm testing on, are the entire series of Left Behind For Kids books. Left Behind is the crazy fundamentalist Christian series about what happens when the Rapture happens and God's Chosen Few must battle the Anti-Christ, an Israeli fella who takes control of the U.N. Hmm.

The Moustache Man then confidentially asks me if I want to "come clean" about anything on my resume before they do a background check. Like, if I lied about my schooling or anything. I decide not to, because, again, I am dumb enough to believe that I'm somehow "calling his bluff."

Then I'm given a drug test. At first, I'm assigned the bathroom right behind the bored lab-coated woman's counter. Every time I'm about to pee into the vial, I hear her say something, and I am rendered completely pee-shy.

So I step out and say I couldn't go. So I'm encouraged to drink some water. Three minutes later, having to pee worse than ever, I am escorted back into the same bathroom, where I have the same exact problem. I exit, and am told to drink more water. Now I get a brain-storm and ask for a bathroom away from the woman's counter.

Now I have a little difficulty, because I'm under pressure to pee, and - and this explains a lot about my life - I'm afraid I'll somehow do it wrong. But I pee. And I pee. And I pee. I fill the vial to overflowing.

In fact, the woman gives me an extremely disgusted look when she sees how much I peed, but screw her.

Then I left, to await my call to come into work. Not that it would have been a great job, but it would have paid better than the job I have now, and it would have actually been kind of interesting.

Ah well. Wish in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up first, eh?

by Liam McEneaney

One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord.
Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky.
In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand.
Sometimes there were two sets of footprints.
Other times there were one set of footprints.
This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life
When I was suffering from anguish, sorrow, or defeat,
I could see only one set of footprints.
So I said to the Lord, "You promised me, Lord,
That if I followed you, you would walk with me always.
But I noticed that during the most trying periods of my life
There have only been one set of prints in the sand.
Why, When I have needed you most, you have not been there for me?"
The Lord replied,
"The times when you have seen only one set of footprints
Is when I carried you."

Then I replied, "Yeah, but why didn't you carry me more? I mean my whole life was pretty bad and I could have used more of an assist."
And God replied, "What am I your mommy? I'm a very busy guy."
And I looked on the beach and I noticed that there was a point where there were footsteps and the outline of a body being dragged through the sand, and I said, "What the fuck is that?"
God looked at me and said, "Uh, yeah. You were drunk."
And I said, "No fucking way. I'd remember being that drunk."
And God said, "Okay, look, I didn't want to have to say this, but you could stand to lose a few pounds. I can't be carrying you all over the place if you keep eating Pop Tarts like they were communion wafers."
And I said, "Pop Tarts are healthy, they got fruit in th middle."
And God rolled his eyes and said "Whatever."
So I said, "Look, I don't know what kind of wacko goes carrying people around when they're asleep, but as far as I'm concerned, you can go to hell."
And then I looked further down the beach and saw elephant tracks, alongside which looked like the comically oversized prints of clown shoes.
But when I turned to ask God about them, he was gone.
Asshole.

One of my recent favorite things - old, insane McDonald's commercials.

I don't know what's better; the 1960s-era psychedelic McDonald-land with the afro-wearing Ronald (esp. the one where Ronald suddenly turns into an incredibly gay film director), or my absolute hands-down favorite, the one where the guy is picking up the blind date, and he's such a huge asshole that of course she agrees to go out with him to McDonald's, "Food, Folks, and Date Rape."

These commercials raise a point for me, though. A lot of fast food and cereal commercials I remember growing up with dealt with characters that would go insane with their love of the product. And yet, in these commercials, the characters all lived in a land where this shit was free. In the Evil Grimace spot, Evil Grimace is stealing milkshakes.

And yet, in the "Welcome to McDonaldLand" spot (where Ronald comes off as more of a sleazy pimp than a childhood icon), we learn that McDonaldland is a magical place where milkshakes grow wild and free.

That's right, Grimace wasn't stealing the milkshakes, he was just picking them as any hiker would pick blueberries in passing. But no; Ronald is your dealer, and he's not letting no purple four-armed freak hone in on his action. You work the corner for Ronald or you're six feet under.

I think the worst, though, were all those Lucky Charms commercials, where an elderly Irishman is taking a stroll through the contry, when all of a sudden out of the blue, he's assaulted by sugar-crazed kids. These punks are trouble; sugar addicts who've already broken into their neighbors homes to steal VCRs to pawn for their next snort of pixie sticks. But now they're flat-broke and jonesing for a sugar hit, and who do they see but an old man with a modest pension of Lucky Charms.

He runs down the road, screaming for help, "HELP! THEY'RE AFTER ME LUCKY CHARMS! I DON'T WANT ME THROAT SLIT!"

But does anyone answer? No. Green clovers and purple horseshoes don't help you buddy, not when you're staring down the barrel of a .38 special, looking into the sugar-crazed eyes of a young addict who would kill you as soon as look at you if it mean this next hit of high fructose corn syrup. Look into the blackness of the dilated pupils of those eyes, the sweat running down the cold, clammy, pale skin, and then rub that green clover, because brother, you're going to need all the luck you can get to make it out of these next five minutes alive.

You think the cops are gonna help you? Think again; they can't even catch that burglar who's stealing Cookie Crisp cereal right from under their noses.

I've been listening to a bunch of Public Enemy recently, (for those of you not into rap {Hi, Mom!}, they were an early, influential militant rap group) and the problem is that I'll get into, say, the song "Bring the Noise" - and then halfway through remember, "Oh yeah, they're rapping about me. I'm the problem."

You can't really be a white PE fan:
"911 is a joke in my neighborhood! It took them, like, ten minutes to respond to my noise complaint! Also, I got ticketed for public urination! They should be off tracking down the real criminals!"

Or, "ELVIS! Was a hero to most! Like, me and all my friends! He was awesome! He, more than any other artist, created rock and roll, and doesn't get enough credit!"

If you ever see a white kid enjoying Public Enemy, then you know the lyrics in his head are probably "Dad can't make me mow the lawn if I don't want to! It takes a suburban community of millions to hold us back! Fight the Power! After the Power gives me my allowance!"

If you're white and you tell me that PE is one of your favorite groups, that's only because it would be too socially awkward to just come out and say, "I may not be black, and I may never date a black person or be able to handle more than one black friend in my life at a time, but I really want you to think I'm open-minded. I want black people to be treated as equals - provided that white people are still treated better."

* * * * *

I saw a guy with a tattoo today that went up his arm to his neck. And all I could think was, "Man, there's a guy who's committed to three-way sex."

I mean, don't get me wrong, I'd like three-way sex, but not more than I'd like to not be a seventy year-old bike messenger.

I did a show with one of my favorite cartoonists ever last night, Gahan Wilson. You might've seen his stuff in The NewYorker, Playboy, or even the old National Lampoon.
It was at The Rejection Show, and if you wanna read all about it, Rachel Kramer Bussel live-blogged it here.

Also, The Apiary was there, and they say I'm an "awesome comedian" (hello press clips!) so you should read them too.

Anyway, I approached him all star-struck after the show which, again, is something that rarely happens to me. Really, I could barely talk to him, I was so excited.
To keep score: Bob Uecker and Gahan Wilson in three weeks. Pretty sweet.

* * * * *

Talking about babies yesterday reminded me of when I went to the Barnes & Noble in the Citicorp building a couple weeks ago, because I had to pee super-bad.

I was walking up the steps to get in, and a woman with an enormous overstuffed baby carriage at the top of thesteps stopped me and said, "Could you help me take this downstairs?"

I rolled my eyes and she snapped and said, "I'm sorry, is there a problem?"

Yeah, I guess I do have a problem with being treated like a hired handyman by someone I never met before. Here's an idea: collapsible strollers.

Instead, I just helped her bring her strollerdown super-fast, becauseshit, I had to pee so bad I didn't have tiome to argue. And it didn't occur to me not to help her.

Wow, worst blog entry ever.

But a baby is not your new drinking buddy.

I realize the above may seem like the most ridiculous thing you've read, but so is the below:

I've been in more and more bars where Gen-Xers have been bringing their babies.

Okay, first of all, if you have a baby, here's a bad-news flash: it's going to cut down on your getting out-and-socializing time. (This includes midnight showings of horror movies. Hire a babysitter.)

Secondly, no one wants to see your baby in a bar.
Not even if your friends coo about how cute it is. Because guess what? As soon as you leave, they're comparing notes, trying to figure out if any of them know the number for Child Protective Services.
Not even if you twist your smug little fat face into an "Ain't I Riculous?" smirk, because guess what? A bar is a place filled with alcohol. Alcohol is not for babies. A baby in a bar is about as disturbing and out-of-place as a kitten in a blender or a hippie in a suit.

A bar is a place for adults without babies to get drunk, make out with someone they probably shouldn't have even started talking to, and then get into a fight with a guy who's looking at you funny. The whole point of alcohol is that it's random and somewhat out-of-control.

I mean, really, if you're upset because your baby is cutting into your drinking, then maybe parenthood isn't for you.
Remember: A white baby fetches up to $50,000 on the black market.

Or, simply turn it into a fun game you can play with your kids called "Who's A Secret Drinker?"
"Hmmm, why did daddy tell me never to lift the lid in the toilet tank? Oh no! Crazy bottle! Look - the label is as blue as the area under my eye!"

Okay, so maybe I'm cranky from the heat. Seriously, it's so hot that my socks were literally melting on my feet.
But really, what kind of a person brings a baby into a bar?

Come closer child. Closer. Closer.

Do you wish to hear a scary story?

All right, but I must warn you, this story is not for the faint of heart. So if ye think ye're a coward, leave now.
If your heart is weak, if your spine be shapeless and yellow, then leave ye now.

For this story is so frightening that it must surely make your heart wish to leap out of your chest and use your spine as an escape ladder to the emergency exit of your mouth.

Yesss, if you're scared, turn back now. This is your last chance, for this tale is so frightening that it will make your brain explode with terror, and good luck finding a job outside of selling hot dogs at Yankee Stadium with an exploded brain.

I hope those aren't khaki trousers you're wearing, for the story you are about to hear is frightening it shall make your stomach evacuate its contents to safety - by any means necessary.

Yes, child, this story is so scary it made a pregnant woman give birth to a HIDEOUS DEFORMED FREAK!
This tale is mind-bendingly terrifying that even a deaf man within earshot may find himself going stark raving mad from the terror. So be sure that you have the stomach for this tale of -
Ah, I see you are a bit uncomfortable. Perhaps you find that you have second thoughts? I can tell by the shifting in your seat that your mind itches, burns to flee. FLEE NOW, if you don't have the guts to withstand the sheer madness of insanity that lies beyond the void in this tale . . . of terror.

Yes, if you cannot handle the sheer spine-tingling suspense, leave now.
If you are such a coward that you cannot abide the unadulterated lunacy, you must flee into the wolf-ridden valley of the devil now.
If your fingers run cold at the thought of ghosts, skeletons, and demons from the very depths OF HELL ITSELF, then leave into the cold pit of the dark maw of night now.

For once we start our roller-coaster ride into the deepest nether-reaches of the human soul, there is no stopping, there are no bathroom breaks, and even God himself will not be able to help you.

What? Yes, I am about to tell this story. But I should warn you, if you are carrying a Bible, put it in another room now, for this is a story of such deep and lingering evil, that the Book of Revelations shall burst into flames upon the recitation of the first sentence.

Yes it would.
I saw it once.
1977.
St. Louis, which is a fairly evil place -
Shut up. For if you flap your tongue too much during the recitation of this following - very scary - tale, vultures may come and pluck it from your mouth.

So if your fear controls you, the way a mother controls her child, leave now.
If you're unable to handle the cold dread that must creep across the skin at the recitation of this story, leave now.

For the following tale is so frightening that you mind find your nerves fraying and unraveling, as yarn unravels from a sweater. SO IF YOU ARE EASILY FRIGHTENED, LEAVE NOW!

Likewise, if your stomach for the bitter fruit of human despair is weak, leave -
Where are you going?
No really, I'm right about to tell the story.

But first I must warn you, this tale is the dirty matted matter from which the creatures of your nightmares are knit. So if you think that you cannot handle a glimpse into the tattered remnants of your own soul, leave now.

Wait. No really, I'm about to tell this story.

But before I do, I must warn you that this story is a path through a darkened mirror, through which is reflected the most evil side of every man, so if you fear that your eyes may burn from the terror, then LEAVE NOW.

Wait, come back. Iwas just about to tstart the story.

The story which is so completely horrifying that -

No - don't leave. Okay, fine, LEAVE THEN. IF YOU CANNOT HANDLE THE -

Pussy.

I was in Los Angeles last week. I got a really great deal on my hotel room - like, such a great deal that the desk clerk didn't believe I got free breakfast with the room, and I had to bring written proof which she then faxed to . . . someone,

I got to the hotel and found out the reason for the great deal; although the hotel was fine, the neighborhood was what some in the real-estate biz would deem an "urban wasteland." I got a ride home one night from a friend of a friend who lived two blocks away. In conversation, she was telling me how nice the neighborhood was and - two minutes later - dropped this conversational bomb: "Oh yeah, I hear shoot-outs outside my window every day."

My hotel was two blocks away from MacArthur Park, of horrible '70s Richard Harris/Donna Summer song fame. All I will say is that if someone had indeed left a cake out there in the rain, it would have been stabbed.

Generally, I avoided the bad neighborhoods, though. My rule of thumb in LA was to never go anywhere I've ever heard given a shout-out in a rap song.
Compton? Nope. South Central? Nuh-uh. Crenshaw Boulevard? No thanks.
In fact, if NWA had ever released a single called "Liam's Apartment," I would never go home.

At the end of my trip, the train back to the airport went through the seedier parts of LA, and I got to eavesdrop on a conversation where a young lady was debating with her little friends overwhether "fake-ass gangbangers" were more or less scary than real gangbangers.
She actually said the sentence, "When he pulled out a gun, I wasn't scared, because I knew he ain't gon' do shit."

If a fake-ass gangbanger pulled a gun on me, I don't know whether I'd be more scared that he'd shoot me, or laugh at me for the smell of my pants which would then have filled with the remains of whatever I'd eaten that day..

* * * * *

One day, I went to the big 99 cent store off of MacArthur Park - the kind where you're stuck in line behind people doing their grocery shopping for the week - and as I was leaving, I was walking behind this tiny Asian woman who got pushed aside by a large, 6'5, black dude on his way in. She turned around and hit him with a water bottle.

He turns around, and I realize that I have now gotten stuck physically between these two people who were about to fight, and that I was in a position where I had to do something.

So I pinned her arms behind her back and said, "Work her body. But not her face, because she might want to model someday."

* * * * *

I got to see a lot of my friends while I was out there, which was great..
My friend Brody grew up next to a guy who's now the bullpen catcher for the NY Yankees, has been since 1996. So this guy's parents took us to Dodger Stadium to see a game.

First of all, this guy's son has been with the Yankees since 1996, so the first thing you notice about him is his giant, gaudy, diamond-encrusted World Series ring that his son gave him. I rarely get jealous of anyone else's stuff, but I really coveted that World Series ring. It also reminded me of what a shitty son I am. I mean, other than that Stanley Cup I won, I've given my dad nothing.

Any-old-how, the guy is an old sports guy - he's friends with Joe Torre, his den is filled with pictures of hmself with baseball greats like Tommy LaSorda. So when we got to the stadium, he took me into the press box where I got to meet - get ready - Bob Uecker.

Now, this is going to sound like I'm kidding when I say this, but I have met several celebrities, some of whom have impressed me, most have not, but I was never as thrilled as when I met Uecker. Partly because I was huge fan of Mr. Belvedere growing up as a kid, Major League, even all those beer commercials where they'd be like, "We were having a good time, who letthat asshole Uecker in here?" - and partly because he's one of the few famous guys who is exactly the way you expect them to be when you meet them. Friendly, smiling, saying "Hey Liam!" in that booming, smirky voice a guy my age has grown up with.

Fernando Valenzuela was also there, but as I didn't get to meet him, I'm not going to check to make sure I spelled his name right.

The seats were great, right behind home plate. If I ever get this roll of pictures developed, I will post them on this blog.

And that's all on LA, really, except to say that Fatburger is way better than In & Out Burger, sorry Angelenos.

So I was talking to a friend of mine the other day, and naturally the talk turned to interstate truck stops and their rest rooms. My friend, he said, "Of course, when it's night, those places turn into pits of gay sex."

My first reaction was, "I've peed in a few truck stop bathrooms, and I don't want to touch myself. How do those guys have sex? If I could get away with peeing in a rest stop without removing any part of myself from my clothing, I would."

And second of all, and most importantly, How do you know?

And he said, "I've got a friend who's a cop."

No you don't.

"Sure, my friend Bob's a cop."

Dude, I know all your friends. They're my friends, too. I mean, just because a guy wears a uniform and puts you in handcuffs doesn't make him a cop.

Long story short, my friend didn't want to tell me this, but it turned out that all this time, he's been a cop. And here I was, thinking he was just an ordinary guy.

with stories from Los Angeles. Which I will blog about later this week, once the pictures come back from the chemist.

And before I forget, how about a large round of applause to my main man Joshua COmers, for keeping the home fires burning on this blog while I was away?

Now, sit back and enjoy these fan letters I received in the electronic mail last week. They raise an important question - "Who the hell is Liam Aiken? And is it flattering that I'm so easily mistaken for him?

e-mail #1:
Liam do u have a girlfriend?
If you don't tell me we can keep in touch and get to know each other better.

I am so happy to be emailing you it's like meeting the president! I have been waiting for this moment since i saw you as Klaus at the theater.I am unfortunate because i don't have a boyfriend. I hope to meet you some day.

Your Friend

Shawna

e-mail #2:
sorry i thought u were liam aiken so don't send anything to me please

and my name is stacie


LIAM HERE AGAIN:
Please don't be jealous that the glamorous show-biz life of a comedian brings me in touch with all these hot young groupie girls.

*sigh*

I went camping upstate last night with a couple of friends. It’s not something I normally do. I’m a city boy, not at all the outdoorsy type.

I can’t say I wasn’t enjoying myself up until the time of the attack. There’s something to be said about being among trees instead of skyscrapers. I’m not opposed to spending more time in the wilderness. Next time, though, I’m coming armed.

It was dusk and I was taking a leak about 15 feet from the tent when I heard some rustling. I finished my business and zipped up. I stayed put, mostly out of fear.

My fear was quickly allayed when I saw a flash of green fur. That’s no grizzly, I thought. That’s a mutha-fuckin’ Care Bear! Damn I wish my niece were here. She’s a huge fan and would’ve totally flipped out to a see a real one.

Well, turns out, it’s a good thing she wasn’t there. Turns out, everything we’ve been told about Care Bears is complete fiction.

The Care-Bear came out of hiding to reveal himself (herself?) . It had light green fur, except for the belly, which was covered in a bed of soft white fur and a pattern of multi-colored fur that seemed to form a kite. I let out a soft screech of delight. At this point, I’m thinking that I’m getting hugged.

Then two more came out, a blue one and a red one. They were all so obnoxiously cute. All I could do was stand there, make that “aww” sound with a titled head, and wait for my hugs.

I’ll be honest. I’m a 32 year male with no children, so I didn’t know which one was which at the time. The Park Ranger had to give me the run down. The first one I saw, the green one with the kite was Do-Your-Best Bear. The blue one with the half-moon on his belly was Bedtime Bear (da!). The red one with the clenched fist on his belly was You-Looking-at-Something Bear.

It’s hard to say how it all went down. It all happened so fast. I stood there with arms wide open inviting the hug I was sure was coming. Next thing I knew I was on the ground getting stomped on and scratched up. One of them took my watch.

More than getting banged up pretty good and having to cut my camping trip short, the whole episode was disheartening. If you can’t trust a Care Bear, who can you trust?

Fisher Price- expect a letter.

I noticed at the top left hand corner of this blog Liam has stated that “all material copyright 2002-2005”.

Does this mean Liam owns the very words I’m typing? Are my thoughts Liam’s property? What’s stopping him from turning an entire day’s entry that I labored over into a bumper-sticker?

Screw that. If I’m working for Liam, I ain’t working that hard. Here’s some random words and numbers. Good luck trying to turn a profit on these stinkers, Liam, you capitalist pig.

34

Rake

7

819

Mogul

10

They’re all yours buddy. Use them as you wish. Good fucking luck.



Wait.

I want 7 back.



And Mogul.

I think I could use them for something. Can I keep them, please?

Okay Liam, old friend, let’s be civilized about this. I’ve given you 34, Rake, 819 and 10. That shit alone is gold. Surely, you can use them for some gain, no? You’ll barely notice 7 and Mogul are gone.

Also, this whole bit about guest blogging on a blog where’s it’s stipulated that everything here within is “copywrited” and I freak out about it…I may need to do it again sometime in the future. Cool?

Let’s talk about this, Liam. You and me. No lawyers, no tape recorders. Look, if we drag this into court, it’ll take years to settle and really, no body wins, right?

We’ve been friends for a long time. We should not let a random number, the word “mogul” and a mildly funny bit that’s gone on too long get in the way of that. Right?

Call me.

Guest Hosting the Tonight Show: Every one of my monologue jokes would viciously target Kevin Eubanks’ most beloved family members.

Guest Presidenting: I’d clean house in Washington, bring our boys home and solve social Security so that my grandchildren’s grandchildren can retire at age 12 and live out their golden years on a yacht.

Guest boyfriending: I’d treat you better than he treats you and you know it.

Guest Axle Rosing: I'd finish Chinese Democracy, apologize to Slash, Duff, & Co. and hit the road in what would be 2005's biggest summer reunion tour.

Guest Pantying for Jennifer Connely's Panties: Sorry.

Guest Blogging For You: I’d probably write a brief piece listing guesting gigs I’d rather be doing than guest hosting your blog.