Aloha my ladies and my gentlemans. What’s the what? Besides me coming out of hibernation. We’ll see how long it lasts.

I’ve been having some fucked up dreams lately. I feel like I’m channeling a combination of Salvador Dali and Stephen King. So, I’m thinking no more sauerkraut. “What? Noooooooo!” screams the German half of my ancestry. And I’m totally kidding. I could dream about having sex with Stephen Baldwin every night for a year and I still couldn’t kick the ‘kraut. Well, then again… I can’t think of anything more motivating.

Anyway, imagine that you are looking up at a disemboweled, still conscious person tied spread-eagle between four treetops a hundred feet in the air and you are dodging blood dripping down at you. Got it? Congratulations. You’ve just entered my recent dreamscape. And now you know why every time I’ve woken up the past few nights and it was still dark, I was too afraid to get up and pee. Yes, that’s right, I’m still afraid of the dark and eviscerated bodies.

I am also apparently still a ninja. Three times this week, I have walked up to Shawna and either tapped her or said something and watched her jump as if I am the noiseless wonder. One time, she actually squealed. Loudly. I laughed. She said I was mean. Each time, I thought I was making noise. Apparently, I’m so naturally stealthy, I just can’t help myself.

Now that I’ve spent the past two weeks-ish finishing and doing one rewrite on my screenplay submission for the Nicholl Fellowship, I’m going through one of those bad phases. Today has been a mostly, “Fuck creativity! Please just let me fall into a vat of cash” day. These days suck. They get me all riled up and pissy. Mostly at myself. Because, while logically I know that having money would never actually satisfy me, sometimes the easy answer seems like the right answer. It isn’t. But sometimes it seems that way.

Cause, you know, money gets you out of apartment-living, where you never know when you might come home and find the stinky mulch right outside of your apartment on fire.

No lie.

We came home from the park the other day and it smelled like someone was grilling, but not quite. So, I started looking around and, not only was the ground smoking liberally, there were actually flames coming out of the mulch. Flames that I bravely stamped out. That’s right, bravely. So what if the flames were only a few inches high? They were still fire. In fact, my shoes still smell like burned rubber. All because the ass-hat who lives above us dumped his ashtray out from his balcony. But I would just like to say that, when Shawna and I went upstairs so that she could tell Mr. Ass-hat that he’d set the ground on fire and he accidentally locked himself out of his apartment, I took absolutely no pleasure in that. Oh, relax. He had his phone in his hand, so he was able to call the maintenance guy to let him back in.

Mother Nature, stop with the rain in Tennessee already. I’ve seen a lot of my old stomping ground on the news these past two days. Me no likey.

Also, I hope that some of the fine citizens of New York get their hands on the guy who left the car bomb in Times Square before the police find him and get him into custody and do with him whatever they see fit to do with him. I’m not saying I’m for vigilante justice. I’m just saying, maybe it’s time for the terrorists to live in fear for a while.

And please, please, please let the oil spill instill President Obama with a conscience and make him reverse his offshore drilling plans. Since, obviously, accepting the environmental vote in the election didn’t provide conscience enough.

Oh, and did everyone but me know that Jason Isaacs acting career is kind of like Christopher Walken’s and Dennis Hopper’s. Can’t the poor man ever just play a nice guy?

Here’s hoping some of you saw Eden Riegel hosting ACME Saturday Night. We left California right before her hosting gig, and I had no idea she was doing it, which sucks, because we totally would have extended our stay and she totally would have healed the California half of our trip. Here’s a snippet. It wasn’t the funniest bit of the night, but it’s still a keeper.

Next up -

What the Fuck is Wrong With Arizona?