remember when all the sports writers said that Michael Jordan shouldn’t come back? well, the regular season’s nearly over and it looks like the same could be said for the greatest basketball player ever. this is the conversation that i would have struck up with Tall Skinny Girl at the Vermont / Sunset station this morning, if i would ever take the time to talk to her, but instead i was reading “Notes of a Dirty Old Man.”

i guess she was running late.

she got on the third car from the front, i took the second car from the front and if you ask me, i won. i got a guy in sandals and dockers and a plaid short sleeve shirt and glasses who liked to talk to himself and chuckle as he read the paper. since most people dont talk to themselves in public, some of the less-aware passengers would answer him.

crazy man: “oh hahhahaa, hey what time is it?”

little old lady boarding the car: “about 8:30, dear”

crazy man: “oh hahahaha, where are we?”

befuddled Philipino man leaving the car, “Santa Monica station.”

crazy man: “hehehehehe what year is it?”

me leaving the car: “1998, buy eToys, quick.”

i like crazy people. i dont believe they’re crazy. betty tells me differently, but shes crazy, she gives any guy at any bar her phone number, which she now denies, but i vividly remember a dude who was singing to her outside a hollywood nite spot after last call who punched in her digits into his cell phone and called her the next day, naturally. am i supposed to believe that he was the one in a million? perhaps. either way i thought it was cool. it doesnt mean she’ll call them back, but at least they’ll float off into the night with pleasant dreams.

all the regulars were on the Wilshire/Western train including my new favorite guy to hate: Trench Coat Yuppie. It hasnt rained in LA since 1998 but this guy insists on wearing a trench coat, and insultingly holds a hankerchief between his pasty white hand and the evil that is the subway pole. we all know it’s dirty, Melvin, thats why we wash our hands when we get to our hi rise offices. people who pretend to be rich but take public transportation in LA arent fooling a damn soul.

it makes us think that you got busted for drinking and driving.

and it makes some of us think that you killed someone while drinking while driving.

and when i pass him while walking up the 58 steps because the UP escalator is broken at Wilshire/Western (and has been since 5pm yesterday) (and nobody since then has reversed the direction of the one good escalator) (and im in way better shape than our preppy pal) i whisper, “out out damn spot.”

Can’t Hardly Wait: Paul Westerberg is going to do a series of instore record store gigs to help promote his first new solo record in years. including a show on 4/25 at Ameoba Records on Sunset here in LA. Somehow Billboard got a sweet exclusive interview with the former Replacements frontman.

I once had an exclusive interview with the former Replacements front man. We were backstage at Rob Gym, The Replacements had just completely dominated all over the place and there were maybe 6-7 of us back there and the band was sitting around looking at each other, it was totally a “so now what” moment, and i wanted to juggle or something to keep them entertained, but fortunately there were a few girls backstage. So I took off my backstage pass and got my pen and handed it to Paul and said, could you sign this for me, and he took the pen and he wrote, “No, Paul.”

I’ve got tons more stories about the Replacements but it’s 2am and I really should get to sleep.

OK, one more, there aren’t that many poems of mine that I have committed to memory, maybe three or four. When I got to college I was happy to see that most poets dont memorize their stuff, they leave that for their fans.

Once my first love came to visit me at my beach side home in Isla Vista and she came with her husband, I think, and I was really looking forward to taking them out for a nice breakfast. But after our night of drinking, they left early in the morning and I felt a little sad, so I wrote this little poem, and it was the first poem that I ever got published and I named it after my favorite rocker at the time. it was during my it-aint-a-poem-unless-it’s-sad phase, so watchit.

“paul westerberg”

and now i feel like everyone has left

and the mess is mine to clean

unseen blood down miles of forearms

slimy goo all red and green.

but im the brown thats in the middle

im the brown that no one owns,

bastard wolf dog alone and freezing

and no one hears his moans.

theres a fastball flung and burning high

a nightmare in my eyes

my guts got stuck in quicksand

and you all think it’s lies.

and the sunset’s grey

and everyday i wake up and walk around

and find im lost

and need a nametag

in my dirty own hometown.

this morning on the Best of Howard Stern, they played an old interview that Howard had with the recently deceased Milton Berle who had some interesting sex tips for the King of All Media.

Howard, of course, was fawning over Uncle Milty for not only his reputed largess in the pants, but for the fact that when he was 41, he made love to a 19-year-old Marilyn Monroe.

“How do you do it, how do you not explode before it even begins,” Howard asked earnestly, just like any guy would ask another guy if they were driving in a long car ride, or waiting for the commercial to end while throwing back some beers.

Berle knew what Howard was asking and said, “you have to forget that her name is Marilyn Monroe, pretend that her name is Sally Monroe, she’s just a person.”

I don’t know how or why or when it started, but I have a very large highschool following and I get asked questions like these all the time and I’m no Rabbit, or I’d turn this thing into an advice column as well, although I’m not nearly as witty as my neighbor to the north. But fellas, listen to what Uncle Milty told Howard, and know that that self-psyche-out has to start way before the clothes get torn off.

“Everthing is mental,” Berle told Howard and Robin and the millions of listeners years ago, and thanks to the rerun, this morning. “Everything.”

I’m not sure that women fully comprehend the strange dichotomy between the sexes during sex, but while she is fully concentrating on the pleasure and of reaching climax, many men are doing their best to ignore the pleasure and shy away from the inevitable.

“Do you think of dirt, or garbage, or what?” Howard asked the inventor of comdey television.

“No no no, I dont think of garbage,” Milton said, and explained that he thought about the woman, but didnt let his mind control the actions.

It was a beautiful conversation. The inner game. Anyone can get a girl, how do you make her never forget you. How do you make her tell all her friends about you. About it.

When you look at a man like Milton Berle — when I look at a man like him, I should say, and I think that that was the face that launched television, and that was the face that was adored by some of the most beautiful and talented women in the world, it makes me glad that life isnt fair, that the most deserving doesnt always win. That sometimes the smart boy wins. That the cigar smoking cross-dresser gets to live well past the normal life-expectancy of his brethren.

And by live, I mean live.

Now go do your homework.

rule number one, when your town wins a championship, the hot chicks in the abercrombie are going to tuck in their shirts, step out of their sorority houses, and burn whatever they can get their hands on.

these grown men who feel that it is necessary to strap on their bullet proof vests, and their AIDS resistant gloves, and their riot helmets, and their rifles, and their diving knives around their thighs, to arrest these long-haired hotties ought to just drive them right to their daddy’s house because these chicks arent doing the community any diservice, if anything they’re showing us all how it should be. in santa barbara we burned shit down and we never won a national title, and guess what, theres no better city on God’s green earth and it’s due to more than just the scenery, its due to the ridiculous rituals that the citizenry joyfully join in on, rightfully, motherfuckers, rightfully.

ten bucks says that her mug shot is on the corner of the computer screens of half the guys in that department.

congratulations, Terps, that was the ugliest championship i ever saw.

My man Floor Pie has a nice little photo essay of my old stomping grounds, Palo Alto. (I used to work for WebTV back in the day.) And this picture was pretty funny – and the one after it. Click here for the entire journey.

Also, Nu-fan has an interview with Jim Treacher and waaaaay at the bottom he mentions me and Layne. Take that, College Park coppers.

and even though it’s nice to hear Jackie since they’re running the “Best of Stern” in the morning, the reruns dont do much for me. part of the appeal for me is the timeliness of the chit-chat.

i suppose any regular listener to a morning radio show appreciates hearing what the cast did over the weekend, and it would have been interesting to hear howard and the gang discuss the Easter holiday and the events in the Middle East and the death of the Queen Mum.

don’t think that I will change my dial to one of the other morning zoos this week in favor of new wackiness. even though it’s not as entertaining, the Best Of’s are still Howard – especially when he complains about having to come into work, being all cranky, despite being filthy rich, hooked up with a hot model girlfriend, and number one in practically every city that matters. it’s nice thinking that your life might be a little brighter than a guy who gets boobs flashed at him for a living.

now let me go back to my boring job of looking at models and celebrities flashing their boobs at me. today i have to deal with j.lo’s sister Lynda Lopez and playboy covergirl Kylie Bax. i suppose someone has to do these things. grumble grumble.

but before i do, i dont know what this bizarre groundswell about Artie Lange is coming from, with petitions to get him off the Stern show, but i think he’s a really nice fit. I didnt think that I would be able to be happy without Jackie, but Artie is great. AJ Benza would have been good too, but Artie is the softer side of a sidekick, and who doesnt love a drunken fat guy who always screws up?

i want to have a totally loud and fun wake, and on my headstone i want it to be written, “luckiest man (when he was) alive.”

one year ago today, me and chris broke up and i moved here to hollywood. that was unlucky. what was lucky was that chris is probably the greatest girl you’ll ever meet and in this year we have stayed best friends, calling each other several times a week, emailing daily, and fighting hate crimes while doing laundry.

i will always love her. i dont think i’ve ever gotten over any of my exgirlfriends. what’s the fun in that?

this weekend we celebrated our one year apart by spending the whole weekend together.

friday night we met sugarchicken and scatterboy for dinner at drinks at everyone’s favorite, pf changs, in santa monica. lively conversation, excellent food, stiff drinks. my only question is, who’s the asshole who swiped the sinatra cd that they used to play there, and shoved in oasis?

pf chang’s food is magical. not only does it please the palate, but it hypnotizes you into forgetting what you ate and whether it was the best food youve ever ate, or the second-best food you ever ate. i faintly remember a spicy tofu lettuce wrap that was delectable and, indeed, spicy. as well as some uninspired crispy honey shrimps, and a chicken dish of some sort, and i remember leaving satisfied but not full. i remember my cold medicine mixing nicely in my head with the baileys on the rocks, and i remember oasis in the bathroom.

pf chang’s is one of those places where the waiter takes your order and someone else brings you the food. during our wonton and tofu appetizer, the server approached our table claiming to have our entrees. turned out it was the food for a different table and i wondered, how rotten would you feel if your only job is to take the plates to the right table and you cant even get that right?

after our meal we had a nitecap at chez jay’s right by the beach. totally casual. really fun. i woulda done anything for a greasy fried shrimp basket but im watching my figure.

crashed at chris’s and took the bus across town in the morning as she got a little trim. im not the only one who adores chris. her hairdresser cleaned up her ‘do and didnt even charge her! when has that ever happened?

on the bus i read the latest Gear. i have always loved bob guccionne jr. and i dont know why i dont talk about Gear more often, but it’s dynomite and completely underrated.

when i got home i was getting it together when chris called and said she wanted to have a late lunch on my side of town, and since we had such a nice asian encounter the night before, i suggested Palms Thai, a place that I had heard about a bunch from Greg and Molli – huge Elvis fans – but neither Chris or I had had that pleasure.

We were a few hours early to be treated to Thai Elvis, but just in time to take advantage of the $3.99 lunch special menu. We only got one thing off that – a garlic shrip deal with brocolli – a dozen wontons, pad thai, tom kai kai soup and seven up. chris and i agreed that it just might be the best thai food we’ve ever had.

so many times have we ordered “spicy” and were met with nothing but bland mildness. this time i looked the woman in the eye and said, spicy please and she asked spicy or extra spicy? and i gestured to my pronounced ‘fro and i said, “i want flames to fly from my hair. i want to see smoke coming from her ears.”

she laughed. and the meal was indeed pleasantly spicy, but in a cute third-world way. my head did not combust. but the meal was sweet.

she dropped me off and we decided to have easter brunch together.

this time we chose Soul Food in Inglewood. the original choice was M&M’s on Crenshaw and King, an old standby, but the place was packed with a line outside of old folks pimped out in their flashiest easter-wear (eg. all-purple suits and creme chapeaux), and we were starving so we headed north a few miles to a former taco bell which had been converted a number of years ago into The Best barbeque drive-thru in the ‘hood.

we ate inside, which was quite a spectacle. we had the three-meat dinner (chicken falling off the bone, pork ribs, and hot links, mac&cheese, baked beans, cornbread, and a side of greens, black cherry soda (she), grape soda (me), and didnt mind the fact that we were given no plates – had to eat out of the styrofoam carryout dealio – nor no knives – didnt really need it.

i did turn off the tv that was Poltergiesting in the corner booth next to the apparently deaf old gentleman reading the Sunday Times.

as we were eating our meal, chris got up to get more napkins and the counterwoman asked her if she had ever tried any of their homemade bananna custard pudding, which of course she hadnt so the woman gave her a few scoops for free in a styrofoam cup which was plenty – and amazing.

afterwards we took in E.T. at the Cinerama Dome on Sunset and if i wasnt on cloud nine from the meal and the company i probably would have flinched when the lady actually charged us $14 each to see the 20 year old classic at 4:30 in the afternoon.

the first time i saw E.T. i was, i think, a freshman in highschool and i was on a date and the girl’s mom drove us and went to the movie with us and, fortunately was packing plenty of kleenex, and it’s still a pretty emotional movie, and even though ashley completely disagrees, i dont think the extra two scenes were necessary at all. but it didnt really matter, drew stole the show, again, as usual, as always.

as for the cinerama dome, i guess it’s nice that eastsiders dont have to trek all the way to the bridge to get jacked just cuz they want to see a movie. the sound was good, the seats were comfy, the bathrooms were big and clean and nice but the screen wasnt as super wide as i had expected, but who cares really. chris and i held hands through the whole thing and ate popcorn and non-pariels and drank coke and listened to the little kids talk to the screen, and i cant imagine a sweeter weekend.