It has not been a good week in LakinLand. I went out to my car one day and discovered I had a flat tire. I ruined my favorite shirt while changing the ink cartridge on my printer. And I just found out that Pauly Shore is releasing a new album that includes a collaboration with members of Limp Bizkit (which means itís not gonna go away quietly). With all this bad karma jumping on me like fleas on a dog, I canít help but sit back and reflect on all the shit thatís been coming down and wonder when things are finally gonna start to go my way. "When in doubt, pout."

Yeah, Iím feeling a bit down. And it probably wasnít a good idea to put on The Heart of Saturday Night by Tom Waits. Well, at least I had the common sense to steer away from Closing Time (so far).

I donít know why, but somehow I have become more sentimental over the years and find myself affected by things that should mean nothing to me. For example, is there really any logical reason for me to curl up on my bed in the middle of the afternoon and weep over the closing of Cats on Broadway?

What I need is some kind of sign that this is all just a phase. Something to tell me that I should not give up hope and that life really does have meaning. You know, like a naked women running through my apartment or Neil Young finally releasing that big ass box set heís been promising us for the past umpteen years.

One thing I can look forward to is the movie High Fidelity based on the novel by Nick Hornby and starring John Cusack. The book took place in London, but the movie is about a guy who owns a vinyl record shop in Chicago. Wow, thatís gonna bring back some memories. Itís also about how this guy fucked up all his relationships with women...wait, maybe this isnít gonna cheer me up. And what if the movie sucks? Yes, what if they made a god awful movie based on a book I really, really like? This whole thing could be a set up. Next...

My cable bill. Whatís up with that? All of a sudden Iím paying over thirty bucks a month and I still canít watch The Sopranos. When I was a kid, TV was free. Sure, you could only get the three local channels and, depending on the weather, WGN from Chicago, but, well, it was free! I think thatís the point I was trying to make.

Money canít buy happiness, but it sure can buy just about anything else nowadays. Log onto www.celebritycollectables.com and you can buy the wills, divorce papers and autopsies of the stars. Just added: the last will and testament of Ross Martin!

Remember when pro wrestling used to be really good? (At this point, just smile and nod.) Man, the plot lines are becoming way too silly and unbelievable. Whatever happened to the good old days of Dick the Bruiser and Baron Von Raschke? Peopleís elbow, my ass. "The Claw" - now there was a hold!

Thankfully, some things are right in this topsy-turvy world. Kathy Lee and Frank Gifford saved their marriage and they did it by having plenty of sex. I guess this just proves the theory that if the Giffer was gettiní it at home, there wouldnít have been a problem in the first place.

Iím not making this up. The other night I dreamed I was singing I Love The Sound Of Breaking Glass in my motherís kitchen with Marie Osmond. (I need to get me one of those dream interpretation books and find out what it means.)

I did meet a woman the other day. You might call her the artsy fartsy type. I was holding my own as we talked about foreign films, public television and the governmentís eroding support of the arts. Then I blew it. She said her favorite sculptor was Rodin and I, of course, argued that in a fair fight Gamera would beat the living crap out of him.

Thatís okay, I would have been dead in the water anyway if we started to discuss philosophy. I mean, although I no longer think that Camus is a killer whale kept in captivity at Sea World, I still donít have a clue when the conversation turns to existentialism or any other ism for that matter. Donít get me started on the existence of God or man. Iím more concerned with the existence of that strange purple thing in the fruit cup at Heckyís.

Unfortunately, my philosophies on life have been formed by television, movies and, most notably, song lyrics. I say "unfortunately" because real life problems canít be worked out in thirty or sixty minutes like on a TV show, Iíd be in prison if I did what Travis Bickell did in Taxi Driver and I canít begin to tell you the bad juju you get from "If you canít be with the one you love, love the one youíre with."

Philosophy 101: Offered in the curriculum first semester only and taught by professors Burt Bacharach and Hal David: "What do you get when you fall in love? You get enough germs to catch pneumonia. And when you do, they never phone ya. Iíll never fall in love again."

Advanced Philosophy: "Sometimes I almost feel just like a human being" is the keynote thought in this course taught by philosopher Declan Patrick McManus (better known to the layman as Elvis Costello.) This intense study will explore those sneaky feelings that simmer inside us and examine the moods for moderns that help shape our concepts of reality. "Forever doesnít mean forever anymore" teaches McManus and thus a whole new way of thinking emerges. Why ask questions about the meaning of life when the answers are already there? "But when sheís lying stretched out on the floor, itís no mystery to me anymore."

Okay, so things arenít so "sunshine, lollipops and rainbows everything" right now. And maybe Iím doing the wrong thing by putting Alone Again (Naturally) by Gilbert OíSullivan in the CD player. (Can Eric Carmenís terrible twosome of All By Myself and Never Gonna Fall In Love Again be far behind?) Itís best to get it out of my system, right? The time has come to lie in the dark with my face half lit like Colonel Kurtz in Apocalypse Now and murmur, "The horror, the horror."

Or maybe (just maybe) I should put a more positive spin on this whole thing. Maybe I should lie down on my couch and tape record a list of the good things that make life worth living. Like Woody Allen did at the end of Manhattan....

(Into microphone, sighing) Well, there are certain things I guess that make it all worth while. Uh, like what? (Clears throat) Um, for me I would say the "Weíre going to war" sequence in Duck Soup...anything by The Beatles, particularly John Lennon...(rubbing forehead)....uh, the drum intro to Be My Baby and Carl Wilsonís lead vocal on God Only Knows. (Exhaling) Television in the sixties...Billy Jack going berserk....ummmm....those incredible Fudge Rounds by Little Debbie....(sighing, exahling and clearing throat)...Dave Kingman taking one deep at Wrigley Field....and um, Van Morrison....the Bonzo Dog Band.....b-sides...uh, Carmen Electraís butt....

I shake my head and chuckle softly. Sad melancholy music begins to play in the background as I doze off on the couch and drool runs down my chin. Fade to black.
Last part...Issac Davis

Fuck and Run- Volume 9 is right here in case you missed it...