Archive for August, 2013

Gregory Gerard is honored to receive the Golden Goose award from The Grimm Report today. A fantastically clever and humorous blog. The Brothers Grimm got nothin’ on Eric Wilder! 

Sunday, January 03, 2010 

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 36 – Vision
Current mood: chill
Category: Life

Okay, I’m fourteen and thinking that this ‘masturbation-will-make-you-go-blind’ thing might be the reason I have to wear the proverbial coke-bottle glasses now. But wearing glasses, I decide, isn’t too high a price.

I’ve been a mystery, comic book, and TV fan since I was like two, which means I love Nancy Drew and Captain Archer and Superman and Wonder Woman and all the other icons who put their lives on the line for truth, justice, and the American way. Since it’s snowing like crazy outside and the rest of my family is trapped at my Aunt Celina’s (I faked a stomach ache so I could stay home) I decide to spend the day making up my own hero, somebody who can really cut it in a new decade.

I start typing, burning through the page after page on my computer screen until it’s late afternoon. A dark hero develops, a teenage boy whose superpower is so dorky, he doesn’t know what the hell he’s supposed to do with his life. His skill? The kid can make bad smells good.

I’m just launching into the big caper where he’s fighting his town’s most hated supervillan, Gas-O-Matic, when the loudest rumbling I’ve ever heard in my life begins. The whole house shakes for several minutes. Seconds later, my computer screen blanks out. Dead. Along with the TV, furnace, and lava lamp. Without the lights, it’s much darker in the room than it should be for two-thirty.

“No fucking way!” I scream, thinking about the ice-packed mountain that just happens to butt up against the back of our house. When I open the mudroom door to check the circuit breakers, I am greeted by a wall of snow.

“Cooper!” I yell, calling my beloved spitz husky to my side. At the same time, I work to close the door before too much snow tumbles further into our house. Cooper bounds down the hallway and shoves his front paws against the door. It clicks shut. “WTF, huh Boy?” I say. He barks his agreement.

We stumble through the darkness up the stairs to the second floor. I grab my high-powered X-Files flashlight (my dad ordered it special from the Internet after I made a fuss about how cool Mulder and Scully’s flashlights were) from my bedroom and turn the beam toward the window, trying to look out. Hard-packed snow, all the way up to the top of the frame, looks in.

“OMG!” I holler. “Coop, we’re freakin’ buried alive!” Cooper and I race up the attic steps to the third floor. As I was afraid, the windows are dark. We’re completely covered.

“What are we gonna do?” I ask him, starting to feel the fear that makes your balls crawl further into your crotch than seems healthy. Our house is far away from the neighbors, so they won’t be any help. Our phone is IP, so it doesn’t work when there’s no power. My parents and little brother aren’t due home from Aunt Celina’s until (at least) ten. Maybe later – if Aunt Celina makes her trademark “indigestible pizza sauce” and they have to spend some time in the rest area on the interstate.

All of which will be too late for me. If we’re truly buried under snow, I’m thinking oxygen is now my and Cooper’s greatest concern. “Damn global warming!” I yell to no one and slide open the attic window. Cooper and I begin to dig.

Three hours later, we’ve made some progress in an upwards direction, but no light. No air. My head starts to feel woozy. My cuticles are cracked around the knuckles. The house is as cold inside as outside. I start getting that warm feeling they describe you’ll get when you freeze to death. The end is coming quicker than I expected.

Easing back from digging, I think that maybe it’s best this way. It’s been a damn cold winter and they just took Dollhouse off the air. “What’s the point?” I mutter to Coop, who’s now lying by my side, looking equally exhausted.

But then I think of Buffy and Jupiter Jones and all the kids with a vision to make the world a better place. Teen Titans. Clay Aiken. The Balloon Boy. I can’t give up now.

Cooper nudges me with his snout and barks a Lassie life-is-really-worth-living bark. I rouse from my snoozy, oxygen-deprived slow freeze to make one last effort. I think of all the heroes I’ve known. If they were me, what would they do? Diana Price would probably just punch her way through the snow. The Hardy Boys might use some chemistry knowledge to melt their way out…only to discover that Aunt Gertrude has made them a hearty meal of beef stew, candied potatoes, and apple pie as reward.

Mulder and Scully would…”I’ve got it!” I scream at Coop. Pulling off my spectacles, I shine my super-powered X-files flashlight through the thick lenses. Twin beams shoot out at the snow pack, burning their way through the frozen threat. The attic becomes thick with steam as oxygen deprivation gives me giddy hallucinations. I giggle uncontrollably.

The flashlight/glasses combo does the trick; a now-cavernous tunnel breaks up through the snow to reveal the last light of day – and precious fresh air. Cooper and I gulp breath after breath as we lay on the now-steamy attic floor.

“Thank God for masturbation,” I gasp out to Coop. He barks in agreement. 


For FUN, I put my stuff at
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at
I invite you to visit my stuff.










Currently listening:
    The Doors
    By The Doors
    Release date: 2007-03-27



Wednesday, August 19, 2009 

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 35 – Road Trip
Current mood:road trippy
Category: Life

Okay, I’m thirty-six and thinking that lay off doesn’t have to be as bad as it sounds. After all, nine percent of all Americans are in the same boat…and now I can have a cosmopolitan at noon. And I have more time to promote my new memoir, In Jupiter’s Shadow. I just overnighted a galley copy to FOX news yesterday, figuring stirring up a little liberal memoir controversy might give them something else to trash besides President Obama.

Instead of a mixing my favorite fruity drink, I throw a weekend pack and my first print run of books into the Honda and speed south. Cooper, my trusty spitz-husky, joins me for the ride. “Maybe we can find someplace to do a reading in Florida,” I tell him. He licks my face in response.

Sleeping overnight in one of those highway rest areas (to keep my laid-off expenses to a minimum), I wake in the a.m. to view the sun creeping over the edge of the rest-area building. “Time to get up, Boy,” I poke Cooper.

I think if I had awaked just 15 or so minutes earlier, you know, like 6:10, or even 6:15, I might have been able to avoid the whole thing. Cooper and I would have toileted and tramped on south at 70+ mph. Maybe to Myrtle Beach, and homemade fudge at The Island Fudge Shoppe. Maybe to New Orleans, and a hurricane drink at Pat O’Brien’s.

But no, I have to wake up at 6:30.

As I reach for the car door handle, in the rear view mirror, I see a tractor trailer bearing down on my teensy Honda and my 50 remaining copies of In Jupiter’s Shadow. I make out the banner across the top of the cab: FOX NEWS CRACKDOWN.  Damn that GPS I installed last month.

“Cooper, let’s GO!” I shriek, grabbing at my dog’s mane, diving out of the vehicle into the damp weeds next to the Interstate. Cooper, half awake, tumbles along with me. We’re about eight feet from my car when a terrific crash splits the morning air. The tractor trailer crunches over my little vehicle like a train smooshing pennies on a railroad track. Glass and metal peck the ground around us as spare copies of my book, shredded to a fine pulp by the impact, rain like confetti throughout the entire rest area.

The tractor trailer driver slows, waves, blasts the horn twice, then continues back toward the highway. 

Now I am not just perturbed. I am not just angry. I am furious! Furious for all of it: the endless news cycles about Health Care Death Clauses. The scrolling banners about Government Stimulus Overspending. And now, my shredded Catholic, it’s-okay-to-be-yourself-even-if-you’re-gay, memoir.

I leap to my feet. “AHHHHH” I scream into the morning air, already running to catch the rapidly accelerating truck, Cooper close behind. With a leap worthy of Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon, I land on the rear ladder, climbing onto the roof. I run to the front and, twisting the FOX NEWS CRACKDOWN banner off the cab, I use it as a springboard to rocket myself through the open rider’s window.

“Did you even READ my book?” I hurl at the trucker, pummeling his gut and opening his door simultaneously. He’s out and in the dirt before I can say “conservative bias.” I grab the wheel and slow the truck slightly, just long enough for Cooper to leap up into the cab.

“I hope FOX provides good healthcare benefits!” I shout to the trucker, as Cooper and I speed back up and head to the publisher for more book copies.

For FUN, I put my stuff at
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at
I invite you to visit my stuff.


Tuesday, August 18, 2009 

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 34 – The Perils of Blogging


So I’m twenty eight and thinking that it’s a sin to let a blog go unblogged for nine months. But sins, like modern art museums or severance packages, must be evaluated relatively: how bad are they really?

I log back into my MySpace blog and start thinking about what the heck I’m going to write about…I mean we’ve lost Farah Fawcett, Michael Jackson, Ed McMahon, Walter Cronkite, and that OxyClean guy. I launch into a diatribe about the media’s uneven coverage of these events…when a screechy metal sound starts up outside.

I ignore it.

Cooper, my faithful spitz husky, runs to the window barking furiously. But he does this every time a leaf rustles down the sidewalk, so I ignore him too.  

The sound gets louder — I start wondering if I’m going to be one of those people you see on TV describing what it’s like when a tractor trailer drives through your front wall — and finally I get up from the computer and join Cooper at the window.

“What’s up, Boy?” I ask.

I think if he could talk, he might have called me a bad word for my slow response…but that all gets lost as the wall in front of both of us explodes inward. 

“Coop!” I scream, swatting at drywall and glass shards. A cloud of dust surrounds both of us. I cough and fall backwards, grabbing for Cooper’s furry mane. 

I think I would have actually got it, but at that moment, a cold, steel hand clamps over my wrist. “Yahhh!” I yelp a high-pitched, girly yelp and consider that it’s not just made up when they say in movies and books that the manly hero “…was so frightened he actually peed his pants.”

The cold, steel hand is attached to a cold, steel body. One cold, steel camera-like lens/eye stares me in the face from a semi-human robot creature that has attached itself to my left arm. I now consider that it’s not outside the realm of possibility to believe it when they say the manly hero “…was so frightened he soiled his trousers.”

“Are you looking for the Terminator set?” I joke, trying simultaneously to lighten the mood and wrestle my wrist free. The lens/eye regards me and a metallic voice from inside the robot booms forth. 

“Are-you-Gregory-Gerard?” it asks in a flat, I’ll-show-no-emotion-as-I-rip-the-male-parts-from-your-quivering-body sort of voice.

“Ummm…who wants to know?” I stall for time. 

The lens/eye flashes bright blue, which I might think was kinda cool if the situation were slightly less life-threatening. “Voice-match-confirmed,” it says. “I-am-the-MySpace-BlogBot-and-you-are-in-violation-of-MySpace-required-blogging-policy-you-will-now-pay-the-agreed-upon-penalty.”

“Agreed by who?” I squeak out, glancing left and right, wondering if I can reach my Treo PDA with my right hand. It’s on the left side of my belt, so my initial attempts are unsuccessful. 

“Agreed-by-WHOM,” the BlogBot corrects me. “When-you-created-your-MySpace-account-you-checked-the-I-agree-to-terms-and-conditions-box-terms-which-state-that-all-MySpace-bloggers-leaving-blogs-unattended-for-a-period-of-six-or-more-months-shall-forfiet-one-body-part-for-each-unattended-month.”


My scrotum retracts into a tiny ball.


“That’s crazy!” I yell at the creature.


“That’s-MySpace,” it replies, reaching another cold, steel claw toward a part of my body that a man never wants somebody to reach for without first asking permission.


My mind races with the possibilities for escape…in the movies, every cyborg has some vulnerability: high voltage, hydrochloric acid, molten lava. None are in the near vicinity. “Ahhh!” I shout instead.


That’s when Cooper leaps through the drywall cloud, fangs bared. He lands on top of the clawed hand, which swings out of control, missing me entirely. I use the distraction to grab my Treo from its belt pouch. I flip open the power port and jamb it ass-first into the chest cavity of the BlogBot. “Take that!” I shriek.


A huge load of sparks spews into the air, making that same cool blue color as the lens/eye. Cooper completes his leap and rolls out of harm’s way. An acrid electric-wire burny smell fills the air as the robot releases my left hand and slumps onto the floor, smoldering.


Cooper and I stand over the steaming hulk, breathing heavily. I pause, pet my trusted four-legged friend, and grab hold of now-defunct steel claws. “Facebook is better, anyway,” I say, dragging the BlogBot out to the curb.


For FUN, I put my stuff at
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at
I invite you to visit my stuff.

Friday, October 10, 2008 

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 33 – The Eighties
Current mood:Weather Beaten
Category: Life

Okay, I’m fourteen and it’s raining buckets of pails of bathtubs full of water on the roof of my parents’ big brick farmhouse.  The remnants of Hurricane Whoever, according to the weather guy (the one with the cute dimples) on The Weather Channel.  I don’t really care, I just want to be in my attic fort by myself.

The rain is louder up here and I’m okay with that because I have my I-Pod with all my 80s music blasting into my ears.  My attic fort is one of the best I ever made; piles of boxes surrounded by hanging blankets.  I brought up a power strip, Christmas lights, some comic books, and snacks.  Nobody knows I’m up here.  And my whole family has gone out for the evening, so not only do I have the whole attic to myself, I’ve got the whole house to myself.  

I love 80s music even though my friends at school think I’m weird.  I just think Madonna, Annie, Sheena, Olivia, and Debbie had it going on — and I don’t care what people think of me anyway.   

I’m singing all the “shu-bop shu-bops” in all the right places in “Here Comes The Rain Again”…that’s probably why I miss the renewed wall of rain that pummels our house.  I think it’s my calypso dancing during “The Tide Is High” that distracts me from noticing the tide rising from the pond out beyond the barn.  And the crunching from my fort snacks during “Thriller” probably explains why I miss the cadre of ghouls dancing across the back lawn toward our farmhouse.  

It’s my Tina Turner strutting during “What’s Love Got To Do With It” that brings me in front of the gable window.  I see it all at once: the rain, the tide, the ghouls, my danger. 

Too late, I realize I’m experiencing I.E.A.S. (I-Pod Environment Affective Syndrome).  A under-reported phenomenon where I-Pod overusage in sensitive-yet-intelligent teens has occasionally produced the inexplicable ability to bring songs to life. 

As the ghouls reach the wall and begin to climb toward my window, I glance at the song list on my I-Pod and scream — a high-pitched Homer-Simpson shriek — as the next song, “You Dropped a Bomb On Me”, queues up.

I race from my fort as I can just begin to hear the drone of a jet approaching through the gale…something throaty and huge, probably Army, probably filled with enough bombs to take out me, my 80s collection, and the ghouls too.  

I grab at my I-Pod, trying to get my shaking fingers to work the round control.  My fingers are greasy from the Cheetos I’ve been munching on…which doesn’t help things in any measurable way.   

The plane’s roar is now louder than the rain, the flooding tide, and the moaning ghouls put together.  I glimpse a fuselage against the darkened sky for just an instant as I yelp a prayer, grab at any title on the list and punch at the “Play” button. 

“You Dropped a Bomb On Me” cuts out and immediately “Walkin’ On Sunshine” blasts in my earphones.  In response, the clouds outside my window crackle, rumble, and break.  The plane motor recedes into the distance.  A beam of sunlight floods the attic and I dance around in very gay fashion.   

After I document the whole thing in my journal and the local newspaper has dismisses my story as “an unsubstantiated tale from a disturbed teen”, I sneak back to my great attic fort, scan the songs on my I-Pod, and pull up “It’s Raining Men”.    

For FUN, I put my stuff at
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at
I invite you to visit my stuff.


Thursday, August 07, 2008 

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 32 – TRAP(P)
Current mood:Making it happen…
Category: Life

Okay, I’m thirty-eight and it’s been one of the worst days at work EVER.  I just want to spend the evening soaking in vodka and The Sound of Music.

I’m trapped at a company that makes zero sense – I’m just been introduced to my fifth “virtual manager” in two years (because they’ve reorganized my department AGAIN and I report to yet-another person in yet-another state); my new dual-processor laptop runs slower than my crappy old one (‘It’s the new anti-theft corporate encryption software,’ my sys admin tells me), and my five-thirty conference call included a thirty-minute discussion over whether a picture of dolphins splashing around in the ocean captures the “synergy” of our group. 

You get the idea.

So I’m REALLY ready to have a white russian on the coffee table and Maria and the Von Trapps on the high-def plasma screen.  I’ve seen the movie like forty times, but I never get tired of singing along with great songs.  Songs like “How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria” and “Sixteen Going on Seventeen”.  The show is my ultimate favorite. 

All my life, I’ve secretly imagined what it would have been like if my parents had put me up for auditions for the movie — Kurt, when I was a kid, Freidrick, when I was a teenager, and Rolf, when I was seventeen (going on eighteen).  Lately I’m thinking I might be hard-pressed to pull off Gayorg – but to sing a duet with Julie Andrews, I’d at least give it a shot (and I secretly think I sing better than Christopher Plummer does anyway).

I pop the DVD into the player, peel off my too-hot penny loafers, and prepare to launch into my overstuffed couch.  That’s when I realize I don’t have any Half-and-Half in the house (a key ingredient for my white russian.)

“Fuck,” I say out loud to no one.  

I scrounge the fridge for a few minutes, wondering if stale milk or powdered Cremora will successfully pinch hit but, in my heart, I know it will be more painful than my last personnel review.  I put the DVD on ‘PAUSE’, hop into my hybrid Honday, and head to the grocery store.

I negotiate past a screaming kid (drooling what looks like Cream of Wheat on his Sponge Bob overalls) and enter the dairy aisle, wondering if I’ll still have time to watch the bonus interviews with the cast members.  I softly sing “Doe, a Deer” – nailing all of the tricky “Doe-Me-Me, Me-Sew-Sew” parts – while I scan the aisle.  That’s when the shopper next to me grabs my arm. 

“Is that ‘The Sound of Music’ you’re singing?” she asks, staring at me. 

“Yeah,” I say, mentally willing her to disappear like the Von Trapps at the Saltzburg Music Festival.  Out of the corner of my eye, I search the cooler shelves for Half-and-Half.

“That was really good!” she says, gushing.  “My friend is a singer and, believe me, she’d be interested in hearing you.”

“No, really, I just want to grab some creamer,” I say, seeing the empty slot for the Half-and-Half pints.  Maybe they have some in the organic section, I think, ploting my escape.  

“Sing some more,” she encourages.  Praying it will get rid of her, I briefly launch into “Climb Every Mountain,” vibrating the high parts in my best mock Mother Superior, hoping it will drive her away. 

It doesn’t. 

She laughs, claps her hands, and grabs her cell phone.  “My friend is at the shop next door.  I”ll have her come right over.  She’s gotta hear this!”  

“Listen, Lady,—”

“I hear Christopher Plummer got his start this same way,” she talks over me, turning to flag down an attractive older woman who’s just entered the store.

I grab a quart carton of organic creamer and turn to scream at the woman and her friend –  to tell them that I don’t give a shit, that I just want to get home to my vodka and DVD, that I hate my job and them too – when I recognize her attractive older-woman friend.

It’s Julie-freaking-Andrews

“Do you like white russians?” I ask instead, launching into a heartfelt rendition of “I Have Confidence”.

For FUN, I put my stuff at
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at 
I invite you to visit my stuff.


Tuesday, July 29, 2008

The NERVOUS STOMACH Series: Ego-Strategy 31 — WATERLOO
Current mood: Heroicly sated
Category: Heroicly sated Life

Okay, I’m fifty-eight — the same age as Meryl when she filmed Mamma Mia.  I saw the play up in Toronto, and I really liked it, so I wonder if I am going to enjoy the film version.  But it’s a Thursday afternoon on my “staycation”, and it’s pouring gallons of buckets of cats and dogs with some water buffalos thrown in, just to make this screwy summer weather even screwier, so I hit the theater.  I pay the $7 matinee price…which was the price for seven movies when I qualified for “Under 13 pays $1”.  But everything is relative.  My mom tells me she used to go to the movies for a dime for the whole day.  Who knows, maybe $7 will seem like a bargain in a couple of more election cycles.

But I’m in my seat in the semi-darkness, and I’ve got my $12 worth of popcorn and soda.  I’m thinking about how I could maybe open a black-market popcorn and soda stand just outside the theater and quit my day job when the screen finally comes to life.  I survive the 15 minutes of commercials (wondering why my $7 admission didn’t exempt me from such fodder) and the music starts. 

Meryl and I are the same age, but I’m considering that she is freakin’ awesome playing a part that is twenty years too young for her and still pulling it off — jumping around the Greek inn, running along the dock, being a Dancing Queen.  The movie’s okay, but Meryl steals the show.  When she sings “The Winner Takes It All” to Pierce Brosnan on the steps of that gorgeous Greek island with the sunset in the background, pouring out her heart, I actually cry. 

The crying is why everything else happens. 

While the credits are rolling, I dab at my eyes with my buttery salty popcorn fingers.  The salt burns and I start to feel the sharp pain I get when something is under my contact.  For those who don’t wear contacts, it’s somewhere between having your cornea peeled off with a pair of tweezers and dripping hydrochloric acid into your pupil.  Either way, my eye is burning and I stumble to the nearest bathroom. 

Through my salt haze, I don’t notice it’s the employee bathroom.  Or that it’s “Closed for Maintenance”.  I rush to the sink, yank out my contact, gush water into my palm, and thank God that I live in a spot on the globe that has hot and cold running water. 

With my contact seated firmly back on my eyeball, I heave a sigh of relief and turn away from the mirror.  And stare at the small circle of half-naked men and women sitting yoga style atop what appears to my non-trained, salt-free eyes, to be a pile of explosive materials.  It’s not conclusive, but the wires, strange liquid tanks, digital timer (there’s always a timer!) and slightly acrid smell clue me in.  Like something you would see on TV or in a movie.  Except it would be somebody like Matt Damon or Angelina Jolie confronting the bomb, not fifty-eight-year-old me. 

“We are the Children of America”, a guy wearing what might double for a loincloth in a Tarzan movie, says to me, as they all join hands and stare at me.  “This room is closed for maintenance.”

“I had something in my eye…” I offer, checking out the digital readout.  It says “93”.  I wonder briefly if it’s minutes or seconds, until it flips to “92” and then “91”. 


“We are protesting the effect of America’s entertainment industry on the world’s morals,” Tarzan continues, shifting on his explosive perch enough for me to see more of his business than I care too at the moment. 

“By blowing up the theater?” I say, my eyes darting to the hand dryer, the soap dispenser, the mirror.  There are NO weapons in reach. 

“Well, actually, more like the whole block,” he smiles, a crooked, toothy grin, that tells me his parents’ didn’t believe in corrective dental surgery. 

I look again at the timer, which now reads “68”.  I have a little over a minute to act.  But what can I do?  My boss keeps sending jobs to India; my knees hurt when I get out of bed each morning, even when I take my glucosomine; my DVR deleted three episodes of Monk without asking me.  Maybe the American way isn’t worth saving, I allow the defeatist thought to float by. 

Only for a moment.

Because then I think of Abba singing WATERLOO; I think of my spitz-husky, Cooper, waiting at home for his supper; and I think of Meryl, at fifty-eight, racing through that Greek town singing DANCING QUEEN loud enough to blow a computer speaker.  Pride, anger, and indignation rise in equal quantities in my chest.

“Hey, Children of America,” I shout.  They all turn my way, still holding hands.  “Just because we’ve put out some dogs like “X-Files: I Want to Believe” is no reason to give up on American entertainment.  We also put out “Sophie’s Choice”, “The Sound of Music”, and “Nine to Five”, thank you very much!”

“I like “The Sound of Music”,” one of the girls to his right pipes up.

“Shut up,” he barks at her.  He turns his focus to me, breaks from the circle, and approaches.  He’s taller standing up, and muscular enough to make me rethink my position.  “So you believe American values should continue to pervert the global culture?” he asks, flexing his biceps.  The crooked front teeth have kiwi seeds stuck in them, I note. 

The readout is now “41”.

“Well,” I say, easing toward the first stall, “it depends on your definition of perversion.  For me, blowing up a movie theater ranks pretty high up there.” 

  He kicks out at my crotch but I anticipate him.  With visions of Meryl storming the Greek citadel, I dive sideways and scream “LOVE ME OR LEAVE ME!”

I reach into the stall and yank the predictably loose toilet seat from the top of the john.  It comes off cleanly in my hand, forming a large horse-shoe shaped weapon.  I’m good at horseshoes. 

Tarzan rushes me.

“TAKE YOUR CHANCE BUT BELIEVE ME!” I holler, swinging the hard-plastic seat at his skull.  The resounding crack brings him to a hard stop on the cold tile floor. 

“‘CAUSE IT’S TRUE!  I LOVE AMERICA!” I shout, whipping the horseshoe-shaped seat at the bomb’s digital timer (Did I mention I’m good at horseshoes?) I briefly see the number 22 blink and disappear, as a small cloud of smoke drifts lazily toward the flourescent lights above.

“I DO, I DO, I DO, I DO, I DO!” I finish the song, screaming at the Children of America.  They stare at me and blink.  The conscious ones, anyway.

Later, I love that MEET THE PRESS starts a blog about my patriotism; I love that OLDER AMERICAN features me in their “Fifty and Fit” anthology; I even love that Hollywood Boulevard dedicates a star to me — dubbing me “The Heart of American Entertainment”. 

But it’s the invite to a one-on-one evening with Meryl Streep in her own home –“Bring Cooper along!” she says, laughing that sweet, throaty laugh — that makes me feel truly heroic. 

For FUN, I put my stuff at
For SERIOUS, I put my stuff at 
I invite you to visit my stuff.



Currently   listening :
  Release date: 2001-07-02