Hermano José

Señor José Mullich,
one lucky bastard.

1. Bro Joe, who earns his living as a freelance writer, which means that he has to scratch out a meager existence desperately hacking out a few hundred words on whatever topic he can con someone into throwing a few shekels at him to out in order to stave off starvation for a few more days. This week, he is whoring himself out by being flown to Puerto Vallarta to write a travel piece about what the bottom of a tequila glass looks like. If it sounds like I’m jealous because Joe will be getting paid to lie on a sun-baked beach while I’m sitting in a gray cubicle, you couldn’t be more wrong. The USA is the greatest country in the world, and if you think I’d even consider leaving the land of the free and the home of the brave for the superficial lure of a 4-star resort, you might as well set me up with a subscription to The Daily Worker. But what really upsets me is that he’s selling his soul to write about the “jet set” for a princely fee and a sizable per diem. It used to be about the writing, man. About pouring your soul into the Great American Novel that you would burn before anyone could read it so that your art wouldn’t be compromised. Think about that while you’re choking back complimentary Margueritas at your hedonistic press junket parties. I only hope you can still live with yourself when you do.

Puke Simon and friend

2. Jeff Simon, who was my Facebook-assigned Best Friend of the Day (BFD) yesterday and is the brother of my pal Glenn T. “Piece of Shit” Simon. My most vivid memory of Jeff is when a bunch of us drove to San Diego (where Jeff was living as part of the terms of a complex plea bargain following a legal dilemma which I don’t have space to get into here) to throw him a bachelor party in preparation for the first of his seven (to date) marriages. We got him so drunk in the first two hours that we had to drive him home so that we could finish up the first night of the party in Tijuana (where I had to pay off a “cop” to not take Glenn to jail for public urination). As we were driving Jeff back to his government-assisted living space, he became violently ill from the fifteen or twenty Jack Daniels shots that we had bought him, and he threw up all over the back seat of the car (his car, I might add – we liked him enough to throw him a bachelor party, but not so much that we were willing to burn our own gas). The next morning, we sat in his front yard laughing at him as he cleaned the vomit from his back seat, occasionally hurling large pieces of puke at us (and coming nowhere close to hitting us) as we continued taunting him. In honor of that historic occasion, I am christening him Jeff “Piece of Puke” (“Puke” for short) Simon in order to distinguish him from his brother. I only hope that I never have to pay off a corrupt official after Puke pisses in an alley.

The great Sam Grunion

3. Sam Grunion . You may have noticed the rubbery-faced individual Puke Simon is standing next to in the photo above. That is legendary sports announcer Sam Grunion, who was my alter ego back in the halcyon days on the fantasy baseball league I ran for years. I would videotape the computer game that the league was based on, and then we would make elaborate television broadcasts (complete with mock commercials) in which Sam would be the lead announcer in the booth (along with Glenn Simon as Johnny Schmarm and Eddie Frierson as Pigworthy Manhattan). Sam’s trademarks were his hard-hitting interviews, his appraisal of everyone he approved of as “a good-lookin’ man” and his angst over the fact that everyone connected with the league was banging his gorgeous young wife June (except for possibly Sam). Grunion would inevitably have an emotional breakdown whenever she was brought up, whereupon the play-by-play took an inevitable tailspin away from the games and latch onto whatever drama the announcers were going through at the time. The rubber Sam mask now sits quietly in my bedroom closet, but I have no doubt that if I were to put it on again I would quickly transform into the pompously insecure emotional train-wrFargo that was Sammy.

Kenny Veranos modeling a toupee from Toupee Express

4. Kenny Veranos, who owned the perennially losing Bangkok Obsequious Balding Marauders of Death in the baseball league but was best known as the proprietor of one of the broadcasts’ biggest sponsors, Toupee Express. The monthly newsletter of the league (titled Low & Inside) invariably featured an ad showing Kenny in one of the company’s latest models, and the broadcasts featured the company’s jingle ”Toupees for you/ Toupees for me (Toupees!)/Toupees in fifteen minutes or the glue is free. Kenny is unquestionably much more in need of the services of Toupee Express now than he was while we were making the commercials, so if he’s ever interested I have about 40 pictures of him wearing a wide assortment of man-wigs that he can choose from.

Diana Burbano reacting to the news of my latest weigh-in

5. Diana Burbano. Kenny, the evil genius Lars Fargo and I were at the memorial service for our friend Reese’s dad Don yesterday. I told a story about Don coming along to dinner with us one night and somehow managing to fit in with us effortlessly despite being thirty years older than anyone else at the table. Afterwards, Kenny reminded me that Don pointed out in his matter-of-fact way that I had developed a bit of a gut. That was long before I was on my current physical regimen in which I have continued to shed a little weight without even really trying to. I have lost a total of 40 lbs. and was down to a svelte 175 at this morning’s weigh-in, and if I continue to lose any more I may have to have a body scan to see if there are any internal parasites that are consuming my food for me. I only mention Ms. Burbano in this listing because my continued weight-loss success really burns her hash, and I find that highly amusing.