Monday, December 26, 2005

The Stacy Master Plan 2006

For those of you uninitiated to the reality of the cost of living in the Bay Area, let me attempt to illuminate.

My present salary would be considered satisfactory in the remainder of the country.

In Canada, I could probably own a small home.

In Mexico, I would be El Guapo and possess at least 50 acres of fertile land.

In Antartica I would rule all penguins and they would bring me fish and iced tea and I would thrive in an igloo palace with snow bunnies giggling at my side.


So today I gave my thirty day notice at my overpriced apartment.

I pay $725 a month for a one bedroom apartment that is barely teetering on the brink of 400 square feet.

I consider this far too much.

That is also too much money to be woken up by terrible bassish music or kept awake late at night "cuz your homies gotta toke it, yo."

I hate the Coddingtown peeps.

Anyway, I gave my notice and wandered over to Craigslist and searched under the Rooms/Shared section and responded to two different ads that sounded pleasant enough.

They surprisingly both called me back.

The rooms are small, 10'x10' and 12' x 10' and both overpriced at $500.

And require a $500 deposit.

I don't think I have to tell you that I don't have that kind of money.

I have now designated what I call the "Stacy Master Plan 2006" and it goes as follows:

1. I allow my lease to run out and I move most of my possessions to a storage unit.

2. I reorganize my 8' x 8' office at work to make room for a rolled up piece of foam and pillow.

3. I forward all my mail to a P.O. Box.

4. I sleep on the office floor and use money I would have used for rent and utilities to pay off the remainder of my bills.

Pure genius! Utterly brilliant! Fantastically annoying!

I know you have questions, so I will answer them before you even think them up using the Stacy Mind Trick:

(It's just like a Jedi Mind Trick, only creepier, and with more carbs.)

Won't you get caught living at work?

I usually come in to work at 2pm and stay late so everyone is used to seeing me here after hours. As long as I rise before the lobby opens and park my car away from the building, no one will know.

Won't it be hard to sleep on the floor of your office?

I haven't had a good night's sleep since my first kidney transplant, so this is really a non-issue.

Isn't this truly the act of a desperate man?

I'm a guy with nothing to lose.

Speaking of lose, wouldn't this make you a complete and utter loser?

You see "loser", I see a guy taking care of business.

What are you going to do about showering?

I will rise each weekday morning and take a duffel bag full of clothes with me to the health club. I will do forty-five minutes on the treadmill and then shower and get dressed. This situation will force me to workout more. It's win-win for my health, my pocketbook and those who work in my vicinity.

Can I come live with you in your office fantasy world?

Yes, and bring snacks. I've made room for your sarcasm right here in the wastebasket.

Thank you and good night.

Tuesday, December 20, 2005

Santa Claus and the Wacky Memory Stocking

A myriad of activities and frustrations compose the list of reasons why I haven't blogged in some time.

But that doesn't matter right now.

I was in the horizontally challenged position on my highly used couch on Christmas evening, enjoying the fourteenth straight broadcast of "A Christmas Story" when outside my apartment there arose such a clatter.

Was it my rudely living neighbors flinging fecal matter?


I glanced over at the lock on my front door to see that someone was using strange and bewildering powers to make a surprising entrance.

Yep. It was Santa.

Santa and I have a pleasantly mixed history. When I was young and healthy and full of life he visited every year like clockwork bringing toys and gifts that I can barely remember.

But lately, I've been on the Naughty List.

Vicodin laden afternoons will do that to a guy.

Last year I heard him fly by at breakneck speed and somehow he managed to teach the reindeer how to pinpoint crap right on the roof of my truck.

"Ho, ho, hold you nose," was the refrain that greeted me last year as my noisy neighbors received a free trip to the downtown jail for producing vast quantities of meth.

But that's another blog entry for another holiday.

As my apartment door flung open a less than stellar Santa stumbled into my apartment.

He didn't appear like he does in all those over produced holiday commercials.

This was the New Millennium Santa and he was dropping by to visit moments before returning to the North Pole.

The aroma of cheap liquor and non-filtered cigarettes invaded every crevice of my apartment while my nose hairs slowly retreated into my lungs.

As he took another swig from a rather disturbing goblet, one by one reindeers scampered single file into the bedroom behind the kitchen.

I was full of ham and homemade mashed potatoes and holding about 3.4 kilos of fluid due to a lack of a recent Dialysis treatment, so I didn't put up much of a fight.

"Where are they going?"

"Ho, Ho, hack! Oh man," was all Santa could muster as he wiped the stained cotton at the end of his sleeve along his equally dirtied beard.

"They're using the facilities of this (burp) posh establishment my good (hic), my good (hic), my goodness."

Santa looked off into the distance as he reached down to scratch himself.

"I haven't heard from you in years and suddenly you're my guest. Come on Santa, what's the deal?"

He started to get this freakish look in his eye, like he was going to vomit. You can see the thoughts start to evaporate from his memory as the toilet flushed in my bathroom.

Then I heard the sink water running.

One by one it seems the reindeer were using my toilet, washing their paws and then flossing.

But that wasn't as suprising as what happened next.

"Ho, ho, holy mackeral, what's this in my pants?"

I covered my eyes in horror as Santa rummaged through his pants, his eyes peering toward the ceiling as his tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth.

"Here you go!"

Out of Santa's magically rotting trousers came the oldest, most frayed stocking. It smelled of salami and bad cheese.

"Reach into my Wacky Memory Stocking and pull out a memory. It'll be fun and magical and fun and magical."

"You said that Santa."

"Sorry about that. Santa gets a little loopy when he talks about himself in third person. Ho, ho, horribly unfunny!"

I kept hearing the bathroom sink turn and off and what seemed to be scrubbing.

Apparently the reindeer weren't too fond of my dirty bathroom.

"I'm not reaching in there Santa. And you better go."

His face dropped as sadness overwhelmed him.

"But how will you learn how special your Christmas really was if you don't reach into the Wacky Memory Stocking? Please don't make Santa cry. The last time Santa cried Mrs. Santa had just returned from a weekend in Maui with the Easter Bunny."


"Exactly. So make Santa happy. Reach inside and enjoy the magic."

I was hesitant as I raised my left arm. I'm right handed, but I figured my Dialysis arm wouldn't mind since it's used to intense, unintended trauma.

Instantly, Christmas memories of the past few weeks washed over me...

--- My parents drove 700 miles from La Pine, Oregon to spend Christmas weekend with their first born son.

--- Ted and Gayl visited too and brought gifts of boxers and hot chocolate.

--- The radio station went off the air three different times because it missed me.

--- I still didn't have any naked time.

As I pulled me hand out, it was covered in a reddish goo and smelled of cranberry schnapps.

"Taste it. Santa thinks it tastes like yesterday."

I was about to get up and wash my hands and figure out how to move a 300 lb. man to the wood chipper when one by one, reindeer's entered the living room.

Dasher brought a towel, Dancer with soap,
Prancer with egg nog, Vixen with hope.
Comet was smiling, Cupid taking notes,
Donner nudging Santa, Blitzen with his coat.

And then the most magical thing happened in the history of the Stacy Bachelor Pad.

Santa placed a finger inside of his nose, and up the chimney he rose.

Which would have been great, if I owned a chimney.

Santa started to glow as his finger deepened into this nasal passage and he turned a bright green. All of the reindeer cowered nearby as Santa made his way through my sliding glass window.

"Ho, ho, horrible pain!"

And then they were gone.

And with them, my security deposit.

Happy Birthday Jesus.

Monday, December 12, 2005


At exactly what point in the history of this country did good manners and courtesy take a backseat to being a complete and utter asshole?

Today was filled with examples of people who are cruising through life with huge blinders and an ego filled with contempt and disdain for other's feelings.


My neighbors next door started blasting their stereo for the umpteenth time. I never hear any lyrics, but the rumbling bass wakes me from my slumber and puts me in a relatively grouchy mood. Monday's always start off poorly because I feel like crap after a weekend of too many fluids and not enough rest.


I'm following a middle-aged person into Dialysis and reach my hand out to take the door that I'm assuming they're going to hold open for me.

Nope. Not happenning.

I'm still semi-conscious because of the early hour, so the incredibly heavy door swings back and pulls me with it, nearly chopping off my hand at the wrist.


Elderly Obese Man waddles in and takes a seat directly next to mine. Fine, no problem. He looks friendly enough.

Until he turns on his TV.

I ask him politely numerous times to turn it down, but he acts like he doesn't hear me. I'm 18" away from his chair so I know he can hear me because he just answered all the tech's questions quickly and with ease.

I ask one tech after another over the course of the next 2 hours to have him turn down his TV, but after they walk away, he turns it back up again.

So the remainder of my Dialysis treatment continued without any televised entertainment and with a throbbing headache for my trouble.


This happens every day and it just boggles me. Every day I leave Dialysis I drive right around the speed limit, which is 35mph on Dutton Avenue here in Santa Rosa.

And every day I glance in my rear view mirror to discover that someone is about to drive into the bed of my pickup.

Every Dialysis day, every drive to work, it's the same thing and it's very frustrating.

I deal with these tailgaters like I always do.

I drive slower.

They eventually start flailing their arms and honking, speeding by me and flipping me off while they run the next red light.


I've barely been on the air twenty minutes and the idiots at the rock station are blasting their music again.

It bleeds over the air when I open my mic, but nobody in management seems to care.

I try not to care, but I do, which just adds to the problem.


I need to get out of the building, so I quickly drive to the nearby shopping center to get a bite to eat. I find a parking spot in the next row and I'm about to pull in. I have my blinker on, I'm prepared to turn and someone else screeches in and takes my spot.

The guy gets out and smiles at me giving me one of those hang loose gestures.

Congratulations. You won the Asshole Lottery of the Day. I hope you're prepared to be hung by your toenails and forced to listen to Enya albums until your testicles burn off.

It's now 7:06pm, Christmas music is blaring over our station and I could care less about the holidays.

It's not that I don't adore Christmas, I do, or at least I used to. I tried to put together some gift baskets over the weekend, but mindless idiots with stretchy pants and hats that say "No Fat Chicks" clog the aisles looking aimlessly at all the shiny crap to purchase.

Are people this rude everywhere? Is this just a California epidemic? Or am I just expecting too much out of the general public?

I remember fondly my days in radio in New Mexico. People held doors for you and addressed you as "sir" or "ma'am" without a hint of sarcasm. If your car broke down, people jumped out of theirs to push you out of the way.

I fear for my country and my fellow man. This is just the beginning. This is how it starts.

Rudeness leads to hate. Hate begets violence. Violence spawns suffering. Suffering devours hope, and once that's drained, there's nothing left to live for.

Overly dramatic you say? You're probably right.

But that doesn't mean I have to put up with it.

Saturday, December 10, 2005

The Four Signs of the Apocalypse

The Four Signs of the Apocoplyse are gaining strength and it is only a matter of time before they destroy us all:

1. Ben Affleck Has Reproduced

The blood is still drying on the seven year contract Affleck signed with Beelzebub. The Best Screenplay Oscar has been tarnished, the Jack Ryan films have grinded to a screeching halt and Liv Tyler's beauty and taste have been questioned since the animal cracker scene in "Armageddon."

Wait a minute. Armageddon? Apocalypse?

Both start with "A", both have 10 letters.

It's all starting to make sense now.

On to #2.

2. Ryan Seacrest Will Co-Host ABC's New Year's Rockin' Eve

This is one of those deals where one would assume the Devil was involved, but actually it's all Merv Griffin's fault.

Here's the story from radio people I have spoken to who worked for the same media company as Seacrest before he was a cue card sputtering goon on "American Idol."

Seacrest provided "favors" to Merv in return for the lucrative TV contract he was eventually blessed with at FOX.

But that isn't what disturbs me about Seacrest, I could care less. That's Hollywood.

It's that he has gotten by on his pool boy looks and killed one of the legends of the broadcasting industry: Rick Dees.

I used to listen to his Top 30 Countdown show while I was playing in the backyard as a kid. His show was amusing and he always brought an infectious energy to the airwaves. He's one of the reasons I decided on radio as a career.

Now Mr. Teeth Whitening is hosting Rick's old time slot at KIIS FM in Los Angeles.. Mr. Dees is now "retired."

And now Hair Gel is segueing into the hosting slot for New Year's Rockin' Eve with Dick Clark.

Another legend will be unseated and the Evil That Is Ryan Seacrest will continue unabated.

3. "Rocky VI" Is Filming Right Now

The official title is "Rocky Balboa", but what's the difference? I remember vividly back in the early 90's on a breezy Thanksgiving Eve, my plane didn't leave until 2am, so I went and PAID to see "Rocky V."

Instead of a ring fight at the end, Rocky takes on Tommy Morrison in an alley with poor lighting and bad editing.

This time, Rocky is widowed (so no neckish Talia Shire in this one...I was so in love with her in the Rocky films, but that's another post) and broke, so he decides to go back in the ring one last time and...

Well, it's not really important.

The highlight of filming so far has been Sly's freakish plastic surgery and a cameo with Mike Tyson during the climactic fight.

When the film is released straight to video in 2007, Sly will be 61 years old and a year away from Social Security.

Then he goes into production for "Rambo IV."

The preceding would all be pretty funny if it weren't for the fact that it was the Third Sign of the Apocalypse.

4. Paris Hilton Is Releasing Her First Album

When will people in one branch of fame stop believing they can excel in others?

Lindsay Lohen is a fine actress, but her music makes me want to rip out my ear canal and feed it to a giraffe.

But it's not her fault. "Yes" people are telling her that every single goddamn thing she creates, including her bowel movements, smells like roses.

Which is exactly the same problem with Miss Hilton.

She was famous for being fabulously wealthy. Then for being a dimwit on a reality show on FOX. And then for answering her cell phone in the middle of her sex video.

Now this.

But that's only part of the reason she merits the Apocolypse rating.

According to "New York Dog" and "Hollywood Dog" (real magazines) she has been voted by readers as Worst Dog Owner Ever.

How can you be a bad dog owner?? They're like 24 hour love sponges that bring nothing but mirth and happiness to their owners.

First she loses Tinkerbell, then she ditches her dog for a cuter dog, then replaces that dog with a ferret, then a monkey, and according to annoying reports, a goat.

Once her album reaches the masses in 2006, the final piece of the Apocalypse Puzzle will be in place and existence as we know it will be no more.

Ben Affleck. Ryan Seacrest. Sylvester Stallone. Paris Hilton.

The Four Talentless Celebrities of the Apocalypse.

Thursday, December 08, 2005

Blood Soaked Bastard

That was me earlier today.

For the last few weeks, Dialysis has not paid me any mind. I arrived, I endured the needles, I watched scantily clad women on the E! Channel and then I scurried off to work.

That was, until today.

I believe Dialysis was just sick of the Anti-California chill we've been experiencing lately and he only stopped in to warm his blackened heart.

It was actually my fault when it came right down to it.

I wore my new short-sleeved Eddie Bauer white twill shirt. (I only go into deep descriptions because this is the first new shirt I've bought for myself in months. Yes, I'm taking a bow right now.)

I had decided at the beginning of the treatment that I wanted to try and use a larger needle.

Larger Needle = Better Dialysis Treatment = Flirting Power At Maximum

Or so I thought.

When Neckish Blonde Tech pulled the needle from the arterial side (where the blood flows into my arm) blood soaked the gauze right through. She finally managed to replace it with a fresh one, so I held it for a while and then attempted to stand up.

This is when Dialysis struck.

He weaved his way through the highly populated center and clamped his sharp, decaying teeth on both my calves simulateously.

The pain was overwhelming.

I thrust my body back into the chair and then quickly stood back up, all the while holding both my needle sites. When cramps hit your legs you need to apply pressure to them to curb the pain.

As I was tending to my legs, Dialysis struck again in my chest and neck.

That's right...neck cramps. Where's the Guiness Record people when you need them most?

There was one benefit to all of this bewildering pain: all my favorite neckish tech's and nurses came to my defense. As I sat back down again, Raven Haired Tech pushed my foot to apply pressure to the calf while Hot Librarian Tech monitored my vitals.

This must have caught Dialysis by surprise, because all the cramping started to cease.

But Dialysis didn't give up on me.

As I was standing upright once again to have my blood pressure taken, I felt really dizzy.

Then my arm felt moist.

Dialysis must have flicked the gauze on the arterial side because blood was squirting in all different directions.

There was blood on the side of my new shirt, on the chair and down upon my shoes.

I apolgized to the tech wiping my blood from the floord. He said he'd seen much, much worse.

For some reason, they didn't make me feel any less guilty.

Dizziness and fatigue combined their forces to create a weakness I could barely endure. I thought about calling in sick to work, but I never do.

Three hours down. Sixty minutes until showtime. Twelve minute drive to the station. The next forty lieing on the floor of my office until airtime.

And 48 hours until the vicious cycle repeats itself all over again.

Tuesday, December 06, 2005

How Do You Measure a Year?

This is one of those wacky question-answer dealeys that get passed around the internet like bad gas, but it's popular with the kids today, so I thought I would go ahead and take a look back at the Stacy Without an E Year in Review.

Please hold your applause until all the questions have been answered.

1) Was 2005 a good year for you?

2005 was a real Chex Mix bag. Some pieces were tasty and crunchy (like the drunken night at the hot tub) and others were bland and tasteless (translation: anything having to do with Dialysis). Overall, as the year comes to a close, I find myself with more days that I can classify as "good" rather than "can you hang yourself with dental floss?"

2) What was your favorite moment of the year?

That's easy, meeting my nephew for the first time. I was only in Tucson with my sister and her husband for three days and every moment with Nakai was memorable and inspiring. My sister looked great and it was good to spend some time with my brother-in-law.

3) What was your least favorite moment of the year?

When I broke down at Dialysis and had to put my blanket over my head because I was so ashamed and humiliated. My psyche just couldn't take the intense burning any longer and I cracked. This was around the same time I had my nervous breakdown and almost got fired.

4) Where were you when 2005 began?

Alone and miserable because I spent Christmas alone and miserable.

5) Who were you with?

My demons. Their names are Herbie and Lester and they love canned ham.

6) Where will you be when 2005 ends?

I don't know, but I'm hoping it's somewhere I can find happiness. I feel like I'm broke down on the highway of life and events are speeding by ignoring my very existence.

7) Who will you be with when 2005 ends?

Hopefully with my Italian brother Ted, but we'll see.

8) Did you keep your New Years Resolution of 2005?

I resolved to kick Dialysis' ass and make it my bitch. I still have 3 weeks left, so there's still time.

9) Do you have a New Years Resolution for 2006?

I resolve to hate myself less and love others more.

10) Did you fall in love in 2005?

No, but I stepped in lust a number of times.

11) If yes, with who?

I said "no" so you're obviously not listening to me.

12) If yes, do they know?

Hello? Bueller? See #10 and #11.

13) Are you still in love with them?

Yes, are you happy now?

14) You regret it?

Yes, the itching and burning is killing me.

15) Did you breakup with anyone in 2005?

No, but I did have my heart broken by someone I thought cared for me.

16) Did you make any new friends in 2005?

Yes, and for some reason they're all women. Maybe I'm compensating for not having a girlfriend.

17) Who are your favorite new friends?

I don't play favorites.

18) What was your favorite month of 2005?

July ruled. I took my first week long vacation in forever and a day. I spent the first 3 days in Tucson with my sister, her husband and my nephew Nakai. I had a fantastic time. When I returned, I invited Ted up to my place and we ate pizza, laid by the pool and played frisbee. I came back to work six shades darker and a lot less stressed.

It took two days for that feeling to evaporate. I hate this place sometimes.

19) Did you travel outside of the US in 2005?

No, and I didn't really travel inside the US much either. Dialysis does that to a guy.

20) How many different states did you travel to in 2005?

Just one, Arizona. It was 115 but surprisingly bearable.

21) Did you lose anybody close to you in 2005?

One of my co-workers committed suicide earlier this year, but we weren't close. It's still pretty eerie when you're used to working with someone and suddenly fate takes them away.

22) Did you miss anybody in the past year?

I missed my family very much.

23) What was your favorite movie that you saw in 2005?

I watch a lot of movies at Dialysis which is good, because it makes the time go by quicker, but it's also poor because I don't remember a lot of what I saw. I do remember enjoying "The Aviator" a helluva lot. I love Scorsese films and period films so add that together and I was really swept away by the production value and cast portrayals.

24) What was your favorite song from 2005?

"Boulevard of Broken Dreams" by Green Day.

25) What was your favorite record from 2005?

I finished the year with the "Richard Pryor: Anthology." Eddie Murphy, Martin Lawrence and Dave Chapelle found their voice by mimicing Pryor in their youth. More than a comedian, he was an entertaining and insightful social commentator.

26) Did you drink a lot of alchohol in 2005?

I haven't had a drop of alcohol since I started Dialysis back in May of 2004. If I'm with friends on New Years Eve I'll probably have a drink or two. I don't like to drink too much because I tend to wander off.

27) Did you do a lot of drugs in 2005?

For a good six months I had a terrible Vicodin dependency just to get through a Dialysis treatment. The pain was so unbearable I had to medicate myself just to endure. It almost cost me my job and my sanity.

28) How many people did you sleep with in 2005?

Low Self Esteem + Painful Dialysis Treatments = Only Nutty People Will Sleep With You.

Does that answer your question? I hope so because that's all you're getting.

29) Did you do anything you are ashamed of this year?

In one of my Vicodin hazes, I threatened to burn down the rock station across the hall because they were playing their music too frickin' loud. If I could go back in time and confront Vicodin Stacy I'd punch him square in the jaw.

30) What was the worst lie someone told you in 2005?

People tell lies every day in radio. That's what makes it interesting. And hellish.

31) Did you treat somebody badly in 2005?

Yes. The guilt will haunt me until the end of my days.

32) Did somebody treat you badly in 2005?

Yes, but the individual is a souless, dim-witted bastard so I've learned to let it go.

33) How much money did you spend in 2005?

All of it.

34) What was your proudest moment of 2005?

Making amends to people I felt I had wronged. I admitted my mistakes and tried to start anew.

35) What was your most embarrassing moment of 2005?

While holding my needle sites after a rather painful Dialysis treatment, I was watching South Park and pretty much blitzed on Vicodin. I didn't realize I wasn't holding the gauze tightly enough. I felt something wet on my leg. It turned out to be my blood, a pool of it running down the seat of the chair and completely drowning my jeans. The tech's said they'd seen worse, but I think they just said that to make me feel better.

36) If you could go back in time to any moment of 2005 and change it, what would it be?

I'd take January thru May and completely erase it from human existence if I could.

37) What are your plans for 2006?

Stay healthy. Build confidence. Forgive myself. Adore neckish women.

Not necessarily in that order.

Wednesday, November 30, 2005

The Stacy Neckish Hall of Fame

According to, the following is the first definition for the word "neck":

NECK (noun) - The part of the body joining the head to the shoulders or trunk.

Rather dry. Very boring. And highly unappreciative of said body part.

In the Unofficial Stacy Without an E Scribbled on a Napkin Late at Night at Chevy's, the definition of the word "neckish" is as follows:

NECKISH (adjective) - A woman who accentuates and dignifies her nape by the use of hair buns, ponytails or a shorter haircut while simultaneously exuding a sassy attitude and alluring demeanor.

The Emperess of all Short-Haired Women is the lovely and talented Miss Winona Ryder:

Occasionally I will mention Winona on the air because she used to live in Petaluma during her post-childhood pre-adult hippie days. I'm hoping that one day someone will hear my amazingly devout comments and inform her that she can add another looney stalker to her already expanding list.

My God she looks good, doesn't she? I just want to take her home and care for her for all eternity.

She has four movies planned for release in 2006 including "A Scanner Darkly", "The Darwin Awards" and "Alpha Numeric" where she plays a geometry teacher who uses all the right angles to decipher who should truly be her one and only soul mate.

She comes up with a negative number, so she ends up with yours truly.

At least that's how my screenplay ended.

Since I'm not a rock star, a fellow actor or anywhere near famous, it's time now to check the Stacy Date-O-Meter, which measures the possibility, albeit remote, that I may date a woman on the Stacy Neckish Hall of Fame.

Stacy Date-O-Meter: 1 in 2.4 billion

Like Jim Carrey said in "Dumb and Dumber":

"So you're telling me there's a chance!"

As we continue browsing the Stacy Neckish Hall of Fame, we come upon Miss Catherine Bell:

I had no clue who she was until I was channel surfing at Dialysis one night and stumbled upon this tantalizing raven-haired temptress in a military uniform.

I don't remember what the plot was, who was guest starring or why they were in a courtroom, but by God if Dialysis didn't sail by.

She is a thyroid cancer survivor and has a scar on her neck. Because of this information I believe we have a starting point for conversation. Since "JAG" ended earlier this year, she has filmed the miniseries "The Triangle" on the Sci-Fi Channel. It tells the thought provoking story of a trignometry teacher who uses the sine and cosine of triangles (thus the title) to fight crime.

When she's not looking sultry in bikini's of course.

Stacy Date-O-Meter: 1 in 1.5 billion (the odds are a little better since she's a TV star and not a movie actress like's my Date-O-Meter so stop laughing...)

Ever since "Party of Five" I've been hooked. Her biography says she's had a nervous breakdown in the past.

It's like fate is trying to put us together because so have I.

She also desires dark-haired gentlemen because she's dated Matthew Lillard and John Cusack.

Those guys have been in films like "Scream" and "Say Anything."

I'm in the company employee film as an example of how flirting with co-workers can get you in heaps of trouble.

Stacy Date-O-Meter: 1 in 598 million

Truly the only reason to endure "Northern Exposure." She played a sassy, neckish pilot who flirts shamelessly with the fish-out-of-water-doctor-who-annoyed-the-hell-out-of-me.

She's on a new medical show they repeat on Lifetime and it's as though she hasn't aged at all.

That would be the Neckish Power at work thank you very much.

Earlier this year she was in a "Walker, Texas Ranger" TV movie and just wrapped a film called "The Night of the White Pants."

Thus, Janine Power can continue unabated.

Stacy Date-O-Meter: 1 in 243 million

If Winona Ryder is unable to fulfill her role as Queen of Neckish Women, Dana will quickly step up and take the crown from Miss Ryder.

I deem it so.

She hasn't performed in any projects since 2004, so I'm beginning to worry about her. Where have you disappeared to Miss Dana?

If you're a fan of superhero animation (and who isn't?) you would know her as the voice of Batman's flame in "Batman: Mask of the Phantasm" and as Lois Lane in "Superman: The Animated Series."

So she's not only neckish, but she scores geek points too.

She's neckishly geek. Or geekishly necky. I can't decide.

Stacy Date-O-Meter: 1 in 143 milion

I hope you enjoyed the Stacy Neckish Hall of Fame. I also hope you learned something about the Neckish Power of Short-Haired Women.

One day I will preside over my own island filled with waterslides and rollercoasters for travel, nothing to eat but anchovie pizza and buttered popcorn, and only bikini clad short-haired women will be allowed to enjoy the luxuries therein.

Don't laugh. Some days this dream is all I have.

Neckish women rule.

Friday, November 25, 2005

Thanksgiving Hangover

I was very fortunate to be able to spend Thanksgiving with my Second Family. My best friend Ted, who has known me for fifteen years and still speaks to me, invited me to join his lovely wife, parents and brother for a Thanksgiving feast.

Everything was rather delicious but I couldn't eat very much, so now I have guilt.

I was also rather proud that I didn't have to lie down on any of their couches due to fatigue.

This is a major holiday coup for me.

What's rather strange is what happened when I returned to my Sparsely Furnished Bachelor Pad.

Stacy Without an E has attempted to be comical by titling his apartment, but in fact, since he started Dialysis, no member of the feminine species has viewed the interior. Save for the landlord. Shudder.)

I was sitting there minding my own business, enjoying the chocolate walnut cookies Ted's Mom had insisted I take (damn tasty) watching "America's Next Top Model" (Neckish Jayla should win) when my doorbell rang.

That would have been ok, but I don't have a doorbell.

I was wearing my favorite pair of colorful boxers and an old worn t-shirt but I didn't care. I continued munching on my cookie as I answered the door.

If I were 100% conscious at the time, it would have bothered me that a Six Foot Tall Turkey was standing in my doorway.

He pushed his way in and knocked me back down to the couch.

Six Foot Tall Turkey turned quickly in my direction and started flapping his wings as his high pitched voice began to lecture me on the meal from earlier in the day.

"How would you like it if I kidnapped you, shoved you in an oven, cooked you for three hours and then served you up to my friends?"

"Wow," I replied, "that's food for thought."

I then darted up and stood right next to Six Foot Tall Turkey. We put our arms around each other and took a small bow.

"End scene," we said in unison.

"That was fantastic Tom. Same time next year?"

"You bet. Next year I'll bring stuffing."

"That's a good one."

"Thank you."

Six Foot Tall Turkey left my apartment with a little extra energy in his step. A low rider Caddy pulled up to my apartment door and the passenger door opened. Inside was Six Foot Tall Turkey's "companion" Big Bird.

"Vegas baby, yeah!"

The tires spun out of control until the tread finally grabbed the pavement.

And then they were gone, feathers and gravy left in their wake.

If the preceding proves anything, it's that you should always ask what's in the Special Cranberry Sauce before consuming.

Thank you and good night.

Thursday, November 24, 2005

7 Minutes of Hell

I waited until 8:12pm on Black Friday to venture out into the shopping mecca known as the Costco Shopping Center to commence my Christmas shopping.

For myself.

Three months ago I lost a dear friend that had been with me during my entire broadcasting career here in Sonoma County.

My Sony headphones died.

I asked the engineer if he could fix the problem. The sound kept cutting out so I couldn't tell what was going over the air when the microphone was open.

I had bought these less than standard headphones at Radio Shack to replace them for the time being.

"Radio Shack" translated to proper English amounts to:

"I bought this piece of crap until I could afford something namebrand that will last longer than it takes me to walk back to my car."

The problem with those, since the actual earphones were smaller than my ears, every time I would open the mic and a song was fading out, I'd get feedback.

Even if I lowered the volume on the headphones, the problem still existed.

My boss would have brought it up, but he never listens to the station.

After a lackluster on-air shift where I spoke of six foot turkeys threatening the entire human population, and made several illicit references to sundresses, I had had enough.

I threw the Radio Shack knockoffs to the aged and stained carpet and then proceeded to jump up and down upon them again and again until all the frustration of the day was spent.

Then I laughed hysterically as the Radio Shack Knockoffs tried desperately to reach up and input their audio jack into the studio board, hoping to produce sound and live for one last moment.

The scissors pretty much took care of that final endeavor.

But this isn't why I'm blogging today.

I'm blogging because I remember why I despise Christmas so very, very much.

People are frickin' sheepish idiots.

Allow me to explain...

I waited until after 8pm because I figured most of the shoppers would have gone home and devoured some more turkey.

Dopey me.

If I had parked any farther from the entrance to Best Buy, I would have been home.

Before the sliding glass doors even parted I could feel the bass burrow itself under my skin.

This was not going to be pleasant.

I knew exactly what I was looking for, so I headed straight for the headphone section. I've been purchasing the same headphones from Sony since I began my radio career in the mid-90's, so I was hoping to find them, purchase them and get the hell out of there.

Not so simple.

Fortunately I'm thin, so I can weave in and out of human traffic with a few simple "excuse me's" and "pardon me's" and I'm home free.

Except today.

--- Two six year olds carrying what looked to be CD door's to portable stereo system's sped by underfoot laughing and giggling.

--- A rather sweaty obese man wearing a wife beater t-shirt wondered aloud to no one in particular where the DVD porn section was.

--- A rather frazzled soccer Mom was nearly in tears because her sons wouldn't listen as she insisted they stop playing Killey Willey 3.

I made it nearly unscathed until I reached the headphone section. This is when I was introduced to Bad Ass Gang Member #37.

Bad Ass Gang Member #37 was looking over the stereo receivers as I tried to find my new headphones. He started to walk away, passing me as he started to exit the aisle.

"Yo bro, you bumped me."

"Excuse me."

"You bumped me bro. You gonna fuckin' apologize?"

He got right up in my face as he said this. He smelled of cigarettes and cheap beer.

This is where my years of growing up in Stockton, the Official Armpit of California, comes in handy.

I locked eyes with him, but I didn't get angry or upset.

Looking away denotes fear. Fear equals weakness. Weakness will get you whacked.

"Listen man, I was over here looking at headphones. You walked by. That's all that happened."

I tilted my head forward slightly, but kept his gaze.

This usually makes me more imposing, even though I'm tipping the scales at 122 these days.

"Hey puto, don't you know who I am? I'm trouble with a capital fuck."

As he approached the phrase "...fuck with me" he lifted the front of his shirt to expose his piece.

The following are what I WANTED to say:

"I didn't know they sold those here."

"You wouldn't be a Coddingtown peep would you? You look familiar."

"Mine's bigger."

"I'm a dialysis patient. You'd be doing me a favor."

My Internal Censor was working overdrive pulling on the back of my tongue to prohibit it from uttering any of the above phrases.

Fortunately I'm in radio, because my Internal Censor is well developed.

That probably saved me from a good pistol whipping.

Eventually he started to relax his shoulders and backed away from my face a few inches.

"I thought so motherfucker."

He walked away using his Bad Ass Gang Member #37 walk.

As I stepped from the doors with my brand new headphones, I realized that Dialysis has given me a gift I didn't even realize I had opened.

I have no fear.

That's a very satisfying, yet very dangerous place to be.

But I'm ok with that.

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

The Ying and Yang of Dialysis

I often wonder why those who work at my Dialysis clinic hate me so.

Or more specifically, why they become so angry when my session doesn't run so smoothly.

Monday was miserable. I somehow managed to weigh myself down with 5kg of fluid.

(For those of you taking notes, that's about 3kg more than usual. Thank you for playing along.)

Sometimes, especially on the weekend, I get incredibly thirsty and can't cease ingesting fluids.

At the time, it feels great and quenches a desire.

But then with anything we enjoy, there are consequences.

Which leads us back to Monday's miserable session.

Two and a half hours in I could feel my entire body rise in temperature. I couldn't breathe. I felt the need to suddenly, and without warning, jump out of my skin.

Now here's the tricky part: trying to get someone to give a damn.

Usually when I'm suffering, I don't scream out obscenities in order to get what I want.

But they sure do escape my lips when no one's paying attention to me.

I finally managed to get someone to notice. Her tone was dripping with all-American, run-of-the-mill indifference.

"Do you want me to get someone for you Stacy?"

No eye contact. No emotion in her voice. She continued to take notes on another patient's machine while my vision started to black out.

Just as my eyes were turning back into my head and my skin was nearly melted away, Neckish Blonde Tech (not her real name) returned and stopped the machine from stealing my sanity.

I can't help feeling it's my fault every time something like this occurs, but my body reacts how it sees fit to help me survive.

I'm sorry if my health makes you grouchy, but it can't be helped.

What I find most interesting is that ever since I changed to the day shift, I notice none of the tech's I used to work with on the night shift ever say hello.

I've always believed that people who work in the medical industry do so due to an incurable desire to help others.

I realize now that it's just a job to most of these people and that I'm simply another annoying customer.

"May I help you?"

Apparently not.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Stacy's Tasty Mind Nuggets!

Dizziness prevails as I remain conscious just long enough to present a blog entry that will be completely devoid of maturity and substance.

That's right. It's time for Stacy's Tasty Mind Nuggets!

The title, "Stacy's Tasty Mind Nuggets!" has an added "!" in hopes that this post will be more entertaining.

You know, like the "Airplane!" and "Naked Gun!" movies.

Never mind.

1. If I don't make out with somebody REALLY soon, I'm going to go completely frickin' insane.

2. This entire election was proposed by one individual with the backing of his representative party.

I'm going to hold an election to decide whether or not I will be the leader of all short-haired women populating mankind.

See how stupid the preceding sounded?

I believe I've made my point.

3. I would like the chance, just once, to be a receiver for the Pittsburgh Steelers.

"Roethlisberger, back to throw. He takes a five step drop, his line is holding. He throws a spitfire to Stacy Without an E in the backfield on the post. It's complete! What a catch!"

"Wait a minute John. He was just sandwiched between two Cleveland defenders."

"You know Scott, he made the touchdown, but he doesn't appear to be moving."

"Although this puts the Steelers in the Super Bowl, this doesn't look good."

As the camera tilts down to see STACY'S FACE, we see that he's smiling.

And dead.

4. I wish those ridiculously hopeful commercials for eHarmony would stop airing.

That creepy old guy comes on, you know, the one who looks as though he was manufactured by the same creators of the Larry King android? Then you see a couple of happy actors bestow upon the world that they couldn't find one another without the help of eHarmony.

Aaah. How sweet.

Here's my deal with this company. You're matched by your individual attributes.

Now if I were to head to the site and take the time to fill out all the psychological information, I would end up receiving e-mail's from demonic women who've served jail time and call everyone Bernie.

That's unfortunate, because I believe my Demons deserve better.

5. I love it when long haired women put their hair up in a bun. It drives me crazy.

(That breeze you feel is the wind created by all long haired women letting their hair down at exactly the same time, simply because I find it attractive.)

6. I've been living on what I assume is about 500-600 calories a day simply because I have no appetite.

Popsicles. Bananas. Cereal. Green onions.

That's pretty much my diet lately.

You want to really piss off people with a weight problem? Casually mention in an offhand manner how you forgot to eat a meal. It doesn't matter which one, take your choice.

This drives them absolutely insane and makes part of my soul giggle just a little.

That is, when I'm not dizzy from forgetting to eat.

7. I spend a good 25% of my day fixing problems created by my "Manager."

(I have placed his title in quotes because each and every day he "manages" to screw things up.)

What really irks me is he's been under contract for the last three years and I'm an at-will employee.

One day I will run my own radio station and remember how poorly he managed and become the most magnificent Program Director ever.

8. One of the last women I dated told me to cover my dialysis access because it was really gross.

Her opinion still wounds me to this day.

9. Although Radio doesn't fill my pocketbook, it somehow still manages to recharge my soul.

And I'm pretty damn good at it.

10. My next door neighbors blast really crappy music at all hours of the day. From 8:3o in the frickin' morning to 2:30 in the A.M. My upstairs neighbors blast really bad redneck TV at hours similar to my next door neighbors.

I have fantasies, although they don't last very long, where I take a lighter fluid, spray it on their door and light it on fire.

That'll teach 'em.

Then I calm down and call the landlord.


11. I occassionally stop by Ford dealerships to browse the new Mustang's. I can't afford to purchase one, mind you. I use it as incentive to force myself to continue to better my resume package so I can get the hell out of here.

And treat myself to one in the future.

12. Once I win the lottery I'm going to become an International Playboy for a year.

Since this will involve dating very beautiful, but very shallow women, I'll probably get really annoyed and bored much sooner than that.

Like three weeks.

13. I will also use a portion of my lotto winnings to help Congress realize that we need a National Donor program where people can legally, and safely, sell their kidneys for fun and profit.

14. If it weren't for Dialysis, I would probably be farther in my Radio career.

If it weren't for Dialysis, I probably wouldn't appreciate how much I've accomplished so far.

15. I hate the Coddingtown peeps, yo.

Thursday, November 03, 2005

My Nephew Nakai: Ladies Man

This is the most adorable photo in the history of mankind.

I know. I'm bragging.

According to my sister, little girls are always coming up to him and trying to kiss him.

Lucky little bastard.

I say that with the utmost affection of course.

He's nearly three feet tall and has really large feet already.

That's right, my nephew is going to be some sort of Super Human Giant.

I can't frickin' wait.

That way, when evildoers try to tear down all that I hold dear, I can use my handy dandy Nakai Cell Phone Dealey 3000 to call him and he can just hop on over and smoosh them good.

Here's a quick quote from my last sister's e-mail where I found the preceding photo:

"This is Nakai's friend Sabrina who we are convinced is in love with him. She always gives him hugs and kisses and he usually cries, but I think he's getting used to it now!"

My young nephew, the Brad Pitt of the toddler set.

Trust me young nephew, hugs and kisses from beautiful young women are not a time to give in to crying.

Sometimes hugs are so good you want to freeze time and make them last forever.

Other times, a hug can be the last physical interaction you have with someone you've spent years loving and trying your best to understand.

all things being equal though, hugs simply remind us that we're still alive.

Keep kissing young nephew Nakai. As the cliche goes, practice makes perfect.

And its usually frickin' fantastic fun.

The only downer about this whole experience is it reminds me of how little lip service I've been getting lately.

Like I said before, lucky little bastard.

With great anticipation of your next photographic masterpiece,

Uncle Stacy

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

Time to Check the Stacy Request Line

Some days I loathe answering the request line. Truth be told, unless you're calling for a really cool prize like canned ham or ammunition, you're most likely a dimwit whose IQ is inversely proportional to the amount of times you call.

I am now going to do what few radio personalities ever deem appropriate.

I'm going to give you a peek inside a 50,000 watt radio studio, broadcasting to most of Northern California.

You know, when it's raining or there's a riot off Sebastopol Avenue.

Otherwise our signal pretty much only covers Santa Rosa.

And if you've ever heard my show, that's probably for the best.

Caller 1: The Unsupervised Latch Key Kid

C: "I need you to, um, like, ugh, play some, uh, song thingey."

S: "Doesn't anyone ever say hello anymore?"

I've been doing this for quite some time and all I ask is that you say hello, which used to be considered polite in American society.

C: "Huh? Whuh?"

S: "All I'm asking is that you say hello, ok?"

C: "You better like, um, play my fucking song or I'm gonna, er, um, tell my Mom."

I'm being threatened by a six year old.

S: "Ok, that's fine. Let me speak to Mom."

C: "Um, well, ugh, I can't. She's in da bederroom with Randy."

S: "Is Randy your daddy?"

C: "Um, er, um, no. He gets a turn after Pete's done."

Oh gawd. Poor child.


Caller 2: Hideously Drunk Redneck

C: "Playou sum Hank!"

S: "Excuse me? We usually only broadcast in English."

C: "Mudderfooker. I'm callin' you out boy."

S: "Dude, I'm 35, I don't think I'm your 'boy'."

C: "I buhknow (burp) wear foo wurkey dimfoh."

S: "I had dimfoh last night. It's great with teriyaki sauce."

The sound of a blitzkreig drunk attempting to hang up a regular land line phone bursts through the cue speaker as I imagine my latest caller has passed out stone cold drunk.

Caller 3: The Accuser

C: "Oh my gawd, you answered! I'm caller 5! Woo-hoo! I get free gas for a year!"

S: "I'm sorry, but you've called the wrong station. We're doing the Word That Wins."

C: "I'm a winner! Screw the oil companies, I get free gas for my Hummer! Who's a winner?? It's your birthday! Who's a winner?? It's your birthday!"

S: "Hello?? Listen very I'm really sorry."

C: "But I got through! I heard the Song of the Day 'Who Let the Dogs Out'. I'm a frickin' winner! You guys are liars! You're trying to rip me off! I want the number of your boss!"

I politely give her the number to the Taqueria I frequent around the corner to the station. Apparently later that evening when she stood up, right there on her chair was a clue.

Caller 4: The Space Cadet

C: "You guys played a song about three weeks ago around 4:20 in the morning. I need to know what that song was."

S: "Hmm. Ok, do you have any lyrics?"

C: "It was a guy or a woman singing, and their heart was broken."

S: "You've pretty much described 60% of the songs in our library."


C: "I think it had the word 'the" a few times. Oh yeah, and the preposition 'at' too."

S: "Are you an English teacher?"


C: "Come on! I need to know that song. My friend is getting married in three hours and it would be perfect for their first dance."

(silence...this time, from me...)


Caller 5: The World Revolves Around Me

C: "I want Kenny Chesney tickets. Can you give me some?"

S: "We've been doing a contest all day for those. You have to listen to the radio."

C: "But I really, really love Kenny Chesney! And I've been a good girl all day, can't I have some tickets ppplllleeeaaassseeee!!"

S: "I'm sorry. I appreciate you trying but that wouldn't be fair to everyone else."

Her demeanor quickly changes.

C: "Who the fuck are you? Why should you get to go to the concert and not me? My boyfriend cheated on me and gave me the herpes and I don't get to go? What the fuck is that?"

This is where I'd really like to hang up, but in the deep seeded recesses of my belly, I do have a little compassion.

Or pity. This call is really hard to read.

S: "I'm sorry you're having so much trouble, but..."

C: "Oh no, no, no, no, no, no, no, please don't say no!"

Tears feed themselves through the fiber optic line as my stomach curls up into knots. My Achilles Heel is when women cry.

S: "Listen. Call me around 5:30pm this Friday. If one of our winners doesn't pick up their tickets, I'll give you a call, ok?"

Long pause.

C: "Ok, thank you. I'm sorry I told you my life story but I'm really upset and trying hard to hold it together."

S: "Trust me, I understand."


Psychologist to the weary. Giver of cool prizes. Entertainer occasionally.

This is my job. This is what I do for a living.

Radio is like that fetching, alluring, drop dead gorgeous woman at a party wearing the hip hugging black spaghetti strap dress with a come hither stare that invites your attention and who you would absolutely kill for if requested to.

Once you give in to Radio's spell, she slaps your face, kicks your shin and tells you to fuck off.

But you can't stop thinking about her. You're doomed. And you take the punishment over and over and over again just to be in her presence.

That's Radio. She's a fascinatingly frustrating mistress that will cheat on you with little regard for your well-being.

And that's why I still love her so.

Friday, October 28, 2005

Super Glue Goo Starring Doogie, George & Clinically Obese Woman

As all three of you who peruse my blog from time to time must realize by now, this blog has become a playground for my Demons, a place for them to thrive so they don't destroy what little personal life I'm attempting to maintain without going madly insane.

But sometimes my Demons like to play and frolic at three in the morning and they produce quite a bit of noise.

Thus, I can't sleep.

Dialysis patients historically have periods where they don't sleep, but since my mind seems to perform negative actions exponentially, I had to seek other methods to combat their manic activities.

I wish to thank my friends Tylenol PM, Restirol, Adavan, Vicodin and Lunesta for attempting to help me fight my demons. You all fought valiantly and with valor.

Unfortunately, you were all handily defeated, and my Demons hopped up and down on what little furniture I own to celebrate.

Thus, I still can't sleep.

It had reached a point where my vision would black out for twenty or thirty seconds at any given point, or I would become so dizzy I would have to lie down or I wouldn't be able to maintain my balance.

So I researched sleep clinics and found one here in Santa Rosa that my nephrologist was willing to refer me to.

Last night I grabbed my pillow and headed over to the clinic for my 9pm appointment.

As I entered, about three steps in front of me Clinically Obese Woman was also carrying a pillow, so I at least had some comfort knowing I'm not the only one in the known universe who has this problem.

After all my reading online, I could guess that sleep apnea was probably her affliction. Overweight people typically snore to such an extent that their airway becomes blocked and they stop breathing numerous times during a regular eight hour stretch.

I barely tip the scales at a buck fifteen. I was hoping this procedure would finally tell me why I more often than not awake at 6am every frickin' day with no rhyme or reason.

As I entered the office a middle aged man looking remarkably like George Costanza gretted us both and pointed to two different clinic rooms on either side of the expansive lobby.

I was hopeful the receptionist with the short raven hair who always showcased tight little skirts in the daytime would be in attendance to help me with my sleep study.

No, not like that. Welcome back to PG-13 land goofballs.

So George Costanza escorts me to what can best be described as a horribly awkward melding of a doctor's examination room and a hastily fashioned Motel 6 single occupancy room.

George starts to recite a bunch of rules and guidelines to follow, but he's speaking in a voice so bored and monotone that he sounded like a poorly paid tour guide.

I hadn't slept more than two hours in the last three days, so I was falling asleep just trying to focus on this guy's sentences.

Maybe he should use his voice to record audio books to help people sleep. A regular Trump empire in the making.

He leaves and I start to make myself comfortable by ripping the comforter from the bed and cranking the fan up to its highest setting.

As I'm changing into my sweats a young kid with Doogie Howser features comes in and sits down to explain that they'll be placing plastic doohickeys all over my head and upper body to record my sleep patterns.

His voice cracked like Peter Brady and he wouldn't look me straight in the eye when he spoke. For some reason he was much more nervous than I was.

Remember the scene in the original "Matrix" where Keanu rises out of his liquidy peapod and gasps for air for the first time?

I looked just like that when Doogie was finished, except I'm not dating an Italian model.

He had to use this Super Glue Goo like substance and every time he applied one of the doohickeys, he pressed really hard to make sure it was fastened to my body.

When I climbed into bed I felt as though I had been through this before, as though this entire process had already happened.

Then I realized where the deja vu deja vu'd from.

A flood of past hospital stays with IV needles dragging long thin tubing across my body came back to haunt my eventual slumber.

Throughout the night, whenever I tossed and turned, (which was actually the theme of the entire stay) a past hospital stay invaded my mind.

Three different times Doogie opened the door to ask if I was okay.

"Duh, this is why I'm doing a sleep study! I can't sleep! Now go back to your desk and call Vinnie or beg Wanda for sex again...just leave me alone!"

That's what I should have said.

"I'm fine. I just can't sleep," is all I could manage to explain.

Doogie woke me around 5:30am. I heard Clinically Obese Woman in the hallway yawning while describing exactly what 3500 calorie meal she would be shoving down her gullet after she exited the building.

All the Super Glue Goo that had helped affix the doohickeys to my body had all banded to create this smell not unlike stale milk. Doogie was grouchy as he pulled the wires from my body.

I emptied my bladder as I realized the entire experience was highly ironic.

There really wasn't much "sleep" attributed to any of the process.

I decided to treat myself to the Big Breakfast at McDonald's as a reward for enduring the entire experience.

When I arrived at home, I looked in the mirror and realized I still had some of the Super Glue Goo stuck to my chin.

This would explain why the young woman at the drive thru window kept glancing at me trying not to laugh.

She must have thought I just came from the set of a local porn shoot.

So to speak.

And now that I think about it, since my doctor still hasn't called me with the results, the whole process has turned out to be a huge yanking waste of time.

Although I do believe I have a sitcom idea where we bring back two historic TV icons and place them in a sleep center where they encounter wacky characters each and every week.

Before you know it, hilarity ensues and you've got yourself ratings gold.

"Super Glue Goo" should premiere as a winter replacement on the WB in January.

Friday, October 21, 2005

The Angel of Mercy, Part I: Barren Wasteland of the Soul

(STACY WITHOUT AN E has closed the door to his office at work and is curled up on the decades old carpet weeping uncontrollably. He has not slept in over a month now and it's starting to create an ocean of emotional pain within the confines of his soul. The ANGEL OF MERCY appears to travel with stealth like precision through his uncleaned and grimy ear to try and discover the true reason for his insomnia, and if hope is still an option...)

Without any forewarning of her appearance, the ANGEL OF MERCY materializes above STACY WITHOUT AN E's desk, her arms crossed shaking her head disapprovingly.

Surprisingly, she is dressed as STACY WITHOUT AN E would wish her to be: her short, cropped raven hair dances just above her ears as a beautiful midnight blue sundress adorns her frame. By all appearances, she would seem to be diminutive and shy, but the fire in her deep brown eyes betrays such a facade.

The ANGEL OF MERCY crosses her arms as she strokes her chin, peering up toward the decaying ceiling.

"Yeah, I'm sick of seeing him like this too."

She pauses between sentences, as though responding to no one in particular.

"Are you sure about this? It hasn't been tried in ages."

The ANGEL OF MERCY sighs and places both hands on her hips, rolling her eyes.

"You sure this isn't going to be too painful?? I meant for me."

The flourescent lights flicker on and off, slowly at first, and then more violently as all the typical items of a normal office dance momentarily on STACY'S DESK.

"Ok, alright. Sheesh."

Her speech quickly turns sarcastic.

"I know. I'm the Angel of Mercy, blah, blah."

She takes in a deep breath as she presses both hands together tightly while shutting her eyes. A sudden breeze takes hold of her sundress and whips it mercilessly.

The lights above flicker on and off quickly once again and begin to spark. The walls shudder as the ANGEL OF MERCY summons the power of the Almighty, diving head first into STACY'S RIGHT EAR.

The ANGEL OF MERCY lets out a scream that echoes off the interior walls of STACY'S MIND. He fell unconscious some minutes ago due to a lack of REM sleep, so they went unheard.

The ANGEL OF MERCY'S crumpled mass lay on the floor of STACY'S MIND. Slowly she raises her head to find herself inside a large, pulsating half dome. With each of STACY'S hearbeats, the entire dome beats red, expands and then relaxes, over and over again.

The ceiling framework is made up of STACY'S VEINS, and if one were to look closely, they would see individual red blood cells making their way through STACY'S BLOODSTREAM. Each red blood cell seems lonely and fearful, for there are few freinds to join due to STACY'S DIALYSIS and KIDNEY FAILURE.

She peers down to find her wardrobe, along with her location, changed as well.

"You've GOT to be kidding."

As she rises to her feet she finds that she's now wearing a skin tight leather jumpsuit.

"This guy has some really annoying fantasies."

Within the shadows of the nearby wall of STACY'S MIND, the ANGEL OF MERCY can hear crunching.

"Whatever happened to the good old days where I simply show them what their life would be like if they never existed?"

A wave of thunder rumbles through STACY'S MIND as the ANGEL OF MERCY shakes her head in agreement.

"You're right, too sitcomey. I agree."

The crunching becomes louder as she takes gentle steps in its direction. With each beat of STACY'S HEART, the light becomes more and more luminous.

"Oh God, that's disgusting."

The ANGEL OF MERCY covers her mouth as a huge mass of a man devours a hideous yellow substance piled high next to him.

"Excuse me, who would you be?"

His massive red eyes open wide as he takes in the beauty of the ANGEL OF MERCY. As he grins, three or four teeth jut out of his mouth in different directions. As he starts to laugh, layers upon layers of fat dance in unison along his gluttonous belly.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm Guilt."

"Ok, I understand. But what are you...eating?"

GUILT stretches one of his bulbous arms into the yellowish mush and shovels it into his gullet, content with the taste and texture. As he continues to speak, pieces of his meal fall into his belly and absorb into his skin.

"These are all the tasty instances where Stacy Without an E feels guilty about something."

The ANGEL OF MERCY glances at the mass as it hugs the nearby dome wall of STACY'S MIND, making it's way nearly to the top of STACY'S HEAD.

"Why is there so much of it?"

GUILT seems thrilled to expand on his wealth of nutritional knowledge.

"You see, Stacy doesn't just feel bad for the small injustices he's caused, but for his very existence."

The ANGEL OF MERCY has crossed her arms again, rubbing her chin attempting to take this all in.


"Ok, how about this? All those trips his parents had to make over and over and over again to San Francisco for Stacy's checkups, that Guilt is in this pile somewhere. Making his family worry about him time and time again, that's in here too. That last piece I just bit from, that was from putting his mother in so much pain during the first kidney transplant."

The ANGEL OF MERCY covers her eyes and bows her head.

"So let me get this straight. Instead of putting those memories aside and dealing with them, he's been storing them for all these years??"

GUILT grabs a small piece that's jutting out from the pile and knaws on the top.

"Thamert's ruhite. Mmm. Makes me happy. I'm never gonna go hungry. Before I was assigned here I talked to other Guilt's and they weren't as, oh, well developed as me."

"Doesn't he have any friends that he console in, people that he can unload this on."

GUILT bellows out a frightening laugh as a massive amount of gas expels from his hidden ass.

"Oh," GUILT says sheepishly, "sorry. Find FEAR, he'll be better suited to explain the situation to you."

The ANGEL OF MERCY suddenly jumps and looks down because something is grabbing at her leg. A small mass of what can only be described as goo is reaching up in an attempt to get her attention.

"Do you have any compliments, I'm really hungry."

She glances back at GUILT with a question upon her face.

"Oh, that's Stacy's Self Esteem. Cute little critter, isn't he?"

The ANGEL OF MERCY bends down as though she's reaching for a lost pupply.

"You poor thing, what can I get for you?"

STACY'S SELF ESTEEM is doing his best to stay in solid form. Every so often he glows deep green and seems to liquify, but before he can dissolve he closes his eyes and retains his shape.

"Just tell me I'm handsome. Tell me what a good job I do. Tellmetellmetellmetellmetellme..."

The ANGEL OF MERCY holds him close and rocks him back and forth in her arms.

"Sssshhh. It's going to be ok. You're the most adorable creature I've ever seen. You're doing a great job here. Everybody loves you."

Suddenly SELF ESTEEM grows in mass and becomes too heavy for the ANGEL OF MERCY to hold.

But as soon as the ANGEL OF MERCY sets him down, he starts to return to his weakened state.

"I don't believe you! You're lying! You don't even like me! I can see it in your eyes, you despise me!"

SELF ESTEEM starts to cry as he slowly worms his way across the floor.

"A woman like you would never find me attractive. Why do I even try? I can't believe you even touched me."

SELF ESTEEM's voice trails off as he disappears into the shadows of STACY'S MIND.

"He told me this would happen."

"What's that," asks GUILT as he continues his gluttony on the memories of Stacy's past.

"That I wouldn't be able to save him."

She bows her head, arms still crossed and slowly makes her way across the pulsating half dome of STACY'S MIND.