My "All Over the Map" from the 02.22.2011 Arkansas Weekly

Continuing my ketchup, here's my "All Over the Map" from the 02.22.2011 Arkansas Weekly:

The Academy Awards ceremony will be broadcast this Sunday for those of you interested in such things. I used to be an avid follower of the Oscars, but over the years I’ve realized it’s nothing more than a shallow celebration of spoiled, overpaid and Botox-ed individuals who wouldn’t be caught dead in a Waffle House.

Of course, had I landed that plum role on Beverly Hills 90210 for which I auditioned in 1989, I might be singing a different tune. I’m quite certain that my career would have taken off to the stratosphere, and I would be walking the red carpet on a regular basis. Damn you, Jason Priestley!

I sometimes wonder what would have happened if Priestley had been in a major automobile accident on the day of his audition, and fate would have landed me in the role of Brandon Walsh. I can tell you that the trajectory of my rise to fame would have been fast and bright.

Yes, I would have graced the covers of such magazines as Tiger Beat and Teen Beat, yet my magnetic personality and my mysterious, yet devastatingly handsome looks would have also garnered the attention of Rolling Stone, GQ and several female supermodels with exotic accents.

Quickly, all would have realized that 90210 was a completely inferior home for my intense Brando-like raw talent. Much to the disappointment of my fans, I would have been released from my contract within two years in order to concentrate on my film career. My final 90210 episode where Brandon choked to death on a chili dog at the Peach Pit would have been the highest rated television broadcast since man walked on the moon.

Through the 1990s, I would have worked with a variety of directing legends: Scorsese, Kubrick, Spielberg, Tarantino, Coppola, etc. All would have told the press that I was the leading actor of my generation and possibly the best actor with whom they ever had the privilege to work. As such, actors such as De Niro, Pitt, Cruise, Pacino and Hanks would be intensely jealous of my career and would collectively procure the services of a professional hit man to kill me and get me out of the picture – and their way.

Unfortunately their plan would have backfired when I successfully fought the assassin with my bare hands as he tried to kill me during a romantic liaison with Cruise’s then-wife, Nicole Kidman. After ripping off the would-be killer’s scalp with my bare hands, he would have confessed to me that the aforementioned actors’ plan, and I would have gone to each of their homes and unleashed my deadly kung fu skills, leaving them weeping for mercy, completely bloody and battered.

My romantic adventures would have been legendary and made Hollywood Casanovas such as Warren Beatty and Jack Nicholson blush. A particular incident where paparazzi would catch me in a hot tub with Penelope Cruz, Winona Ryder, Sharon Stone, Julia Roberts and Heidi Klum would have cemented my lothario status, however a later catfight that found Klum and Stone pulling each other’s hair out over my affections would have been a slight stain on my celebrity since it would have been discovered that I encouraged – and even videotaped – the violent showdown. As such, several prominent women organizations would have called for a boycott of my films, and I would have seen a gradual decline in my career.

In 2003, a year after the incident, I would have disappeared from public view for a two year period. During this time, I would have blazed through my millions of dollars, spending money on luxury automobiles, large amounts of cough syrup, and a bad investment in a chain of spray tanning salons.

I would test the waters in 2005 with an appearance in a Lifetime movie where I played a handsome veterinarian in a small town dating a teacher played by Jennifer Love Hewitt. My character is then shocked and heartbroken when he finds out she has fallen in love with one of her kindergarten students. I also would have participated in an episode of Celebrity Fear Factor only to be disqualified when I vomited all over Stephen Baldwin after trying to eat a live pregnant catfish.

With my comeback sputtering along, I would have finally decided to give up and head back to Arkansas with my tail between my legs. To pass the time and pay the bills, I would have opened a Chinese buffet and fed my performance urges by acting in community theatre productions and dancing in a Statue of Liberty get-up in front of a tax preparation business.

Dissatisfied with all of this, I would have finally held my nose and, in order to pay the rent, I would have waded into possibly the lowest form of employment muck: I’d start writing a nonsensical newspaper column.

Now that I look at what could have happened if I had made it to 90210, I count my lucky stars for Jason Priestley. Things really worked out for the best.

Writing a newspaper column? Please. I’d jump off a cliff if I ever had to resort to that.

Wait a minute.

"All Over the Map" Ketching Up Again

My "All Over the Map" from the 02.16.2011 Arkansas Weekly:

I am not a serious man in these pages. Most of you know this because I am often told that I have a somewhat twisted and/or deranged sense of humor.

For instance, take my recent column where I provided a play-by-play analysis of President Obama’s State of the Union. During the speech, I wrote that a bored House Speaker John Boehner practiced his nunchuck skills while the President spoke; that Vice President Biden had a pizza delivered to the chamber; and that former House Speaker Nancy Pelosi threw her underwear on the presidential podium. I also wrote that the address concluded with the President declaring that he was the Antichrist.

Many of you might not find any of that funny, but no reader would take such nonsense seriously, right?

Sigh.

I received a voice mail last week from a very irate-sounding woman.

“Well, I would leave my name, but I doubt very much you would call me back,” said the woman. “I’m calling about that disgusting article you wrote. I’d like to know where you got your information, and how could you do that to the President?”

All right, I grant you I’m not the most politically correct doofus around. Do you think Blazing Saddles, one of the funniest movies ever made, would ever be produced in 2011? Or Airplane would have kept its subtitled scene of the “jive-talking” guys with Mrs. Beaver in this day and age?

(Then again, television’s South Park does break about every taboo imaginable.)

Anyway, I digress. The woman’s voice mail confused me a bit. Did she not get that it was all a joke? Did she really think I thought all of that happened – because she did ask “where you got all of your information”? Is it “disgusting” to poke fun at any President or Congressional members? I don’t think so. I’d make jokes at the expense of George W. Bush and Barack Obama.

As for the Antichrist remark, I’m not making fun of Obama. I’m obviously making fun of those who really believe Obama is the spawn of Satan. It’s a ridiculous concept on the face of it.

Oh, why am I even worried about this? It was a joke, and if it offended anyone, my apologies, but lighten up a bit, would you? Having a vibrant and silly sense of humor is an essential part of life.

If we can’t laugh at ourselves, then what’s the point of getting out of bed?

***

I do want to clarify one thing, though. It’s perfectly fine of me to make fun of some people and things, but it’s not funny if you make fun of me.

I’m sensitive, and my feelings are bruised very easily.

For instance, I’m very touchy when it comes to my lack of pigmentation. So, if you call me “Casper” or “Liquid Paper,” well…you’re going to make me angry, and I might stomp off and cry. And for your information, I am able to have a tan. I just have to spend three weeks in a tanning bed.

Or, if you make fun of the fact that it’s my dream in life to become a beauty pageant coach for toddlers, my cheeks might become blood red and I might throw a coffee mug at you. Then I’ll stomp off and cry.

And don’t ever – ever – make fun of my perm I recently received. I think perms for men are coming back in style. If Mike Brady and the Brady boys could all get perms, then any red-blooded American man can rock a perm.

But if I catch you making fun of it, I’m going to tear my shirt in a rage, hit you in the arm really hard, and then run away from you really fast. Then I’ll cry.

My new perm. Don't even think about making fun of it.

My Fight Club. My Rules.

Here's my "All Over the Map" from the 02.09.2011 Arkansas Weekly:

I recently re-watched the Brad Pitt film, Fight Club, and it got me to thinking.

If you’ve never seen the 1999 movie, it concerns two guys who start an underground club where men, bored of their tedious and meaningless lives, go and willingly beat the living phooey out of each other. Their violence against each other reinvigorates the club members, and they decide to go unleash their chaos on that self-centered and spoiled outside world they initially chose to escape.

I like the film because of all of the beating-the-phooey-out-of-each-other. Fists. Blood. Flying teeth. Yeah – that’s a man’s movie!

That’s why I’ve decided to start an underground fight club of my own. We’ll be having a preliminary meeting in the Arkansas Weekly parking lot tomorrow around midnight.

But, please, don’t tell anyone. I need to keep this on the down low.

If you’re interested in my fight club, I have some ground rules.

First rule of Rob’s fight club is we don’t talk about Rob’s fight club. I have to admit that I really don’t understand this rule because if we don’t talk about fight club, how are people going to know to show up at fight club? It seems pretty self-defeating, doesn’t it? But that was the first rule in the movie’s fight club, and Brad Pitt must have had a reason for that particular rule. So, I’ll follow his wisdom because he’s Brad Pitt, and everyone should always follow the advice of a celebrity – particularly a handsome one.

Brad Pitt. Celebrity.

Second rule of Rob’s fight club is when Rob fights in a bout, Rob is not to be hit. You can throw air punches, but don’t hit me – particularly in the face. Obviously, I can hit you in the face, and I will win the bout, but you can’t hit me. My fight club. My rules. Besides, I’m on a blood thinner, and I could literally die if someone actually managed to land a punch and made me bleed.

Third rule of Rob’s fight club is all of my opponents have to be over the age of 75 and have some sort of physical disability. It’d be great if most of my opponents were blind and/or were missing an arm or leg, but I will settle for a guy with cataracts and a limp.

Fourth rule of Rob’s fight club is we don’t fight any night that Glee is on television. In fact, we’ll have Glee watch parties on those nights, and after the show, we’ll have sing-offs based on themes of my choosing. For instance, the first Glee sing-off will be based on the music of Hall and Oates. And I get to play Daryl Hall (the tall one). Remember: My fight club. My rules.

Fifth rule of Rob’s fight club is we do not accept ninjas. If you’re a ninja and feel this is unfair, then start your own fight club. I don’t trust ninjas, and I haven’t since they started following me in 1994 after I infiltrated an arm of the Asian-American Calculus Club of Greater Sacramento during my days as an assassin for the infamous Cannoli family of Pine Bluff. This was also around the time I was diagnosed with a slight form of mental instability, but I attribute that diagnosis the ninjas. They must’ve somehow intimidated the psychatrist.

Sixth rule of Rob’s fight club is we will have “Lawn Implement” night once a month. This means members must use some type of lawn care tool during their bouts. Garden shears, Weed Eaters, electric shrub clippers, hoes, leaf blowers, lawnmowers, machetes, etc. – it’s all fair game. However, I draw the line at rakes. We don’t want someone to put an eye out or anything.

Finally, the seventh rule of Rob’s fight club is someone must be assigned to bring a dish of food each night. Bean dip, a casserole, nachos, a nice quiche, and chicken wings are some examples. But nothing spicy. I sometimes get a little acid reflux, and when that happens, I’m simply useless.

If you have a problem with any of these rules, then I’ll say it again: Form your own fight club.

My fight club. My rules.