You Told Harpo To Beat Me?!

Sorry...

I watched "The Colour Purple" for the first time this weekend, and I've kind of become obsessed - er, pardon me - I'ZE kind of become obsessed, mista.

"The Colour Purple" is an epic tale from the pen of Alice Walker - the quintessential be-dreadlock'd, cowell neck sweater-wearing, over sized gold jewellery-sporting African American poetess/noveless - and starred both Whoopi Goldberg and Oprah Winfrey in both their Oscar-nominated feature film debuts. The story centres around Celie - a poor, shy, unattractive black girl living in Georgia at the turn of the century who's raped and impregnated by her 'Pa not a'once but a'two time, then finally sold off to a man named 'Mister' (Danny Glover) to be his mammy.

I always thought a mammy was just an olde-tymey black maid a-la Mammy in "Gone With The Wind" or mayhaps Aunt Jemima, but apparently it's just like a being a wife against your will. So there's no pretense that they weren't strictly there to cook, clean, look after the chil'lins, and have sex whenever and wherever they massa done pleased so. Quaint.

Anyballs... the story follows Celie's journey to build her self-esteem in spite of Mister always trying to knock her down. She's flanked by a colourful cast of characters - none more colourful than "Shug"... a juke-joint chanteuse who doubles as Mister's mistress and apparently as Celie's lesbian lover, although that storyline isn't explored in the film.

At first I was all, "this is Brutal Rapefest 2007", but then I grew to love it; particularly whenever Oprah's character 'Sofia' punched someone in the face. That was pretty awesome...

*Sigh*. Add 'Sofia' in "The Colour Purple" onto the pile of roles that I should play but improbably (but not impossibly) won't.

I'm so obsessed with "The Colour Purple" that Monday night when I was at a show, this girl walked by wearing some unusual pants and I was heard to remark, "Look! That girl's wearing Miss Celie's Folkpants!"... I'm not exactly sure what "Folkpants" are, but they NEED to make a come back. Are you listenin', Old Navy? Good.

I might actually read the book now, my interest is that piqued. Or, at the very least, pen my own seminal coming-of-age novel about black women growing up in the south at the turn of the century. Only this time: it's THEM doing the raping. *HIGH FIVE*!

Anyballs... sorry I haven't blogged in the past two days... Monday I needed to tape a host audition for yet another Slice Network show... I can't wait until I find out how the cards fall with that one so I can tell you the premise of the show... it's a real hum dinger, let me tell ya...

Monday was Remembrance/Veteran's (well, the successful Veterans) day, and I meant to do a blog on that... so meh... full steam ahead.

I didn't wear a poppy this year. I don't know as if I ever wore a poppy. I'm sure I must have because I sort of flinch whenever I see someone put one on, which leads me to believe that I pricked myself with its unguarded pin-point at some point. Yes, I'm sure that's why, so yeah, I totally did.

Veteran's Day in the states is supposed to be about celebrating all the Veterans, but it's so not. It's only about celebrating the successful ones from World War's I and II, and the Korean War. Fuck Vietnam and super-fuck the misadventures in the Middle East. On that note, not much fan fare is made about the troops in Afghanistan here in Canada where we have Remembrance Day. But certainly fan fare and a solemn trumpet solo is well deserved to commemorate the lives lost fighting Nazis and the like.

Apparently I have an uncle, still alive, who was a war hero. Apparently he escaped from a Nazi camp. I know I've met him before - he seems pretty cheerful and quiet. Not the type that screams "I ESCAPED FROM A NAZI CAMP MOTHERFUCKER!!! I CAN KILL YOU WITH MY BARE HANDS!!!"... I don't actually know the specifics... every time my father - a bona fide war-history buff and card-carrying Civil War re creationist - tries to tell me, he falls into some never ending tangent about something loosely connected to the war, but ultimately related to the Civil War... then I say I have to go to the bathroom BUT TOTALLY DON'T... I just fucking leave and go watch TV or something. I'm such an asshole.

What makes me more of an asshole? On the 11th minute of the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month of this year, I was not having a moment of silence. No No. I was watching Whoopi Goldberg confront Laura Ingraham about free speech on "The View". Well, I was being silent. So I guess that counts.

And I'm sure I listened to the song "Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy" at some point during the day, and I certainly know all the words to it, so there's that. OH! And just last week a bunch of us watched "A League Of Their Own" for the zillionth time... which is a wartime movie, so that counts as commemoration, too!

We decided several things while watching this: A.) We're going to adapt "A League Of Their Own" for the Broadway stage, B.) We're going to approach Kylie Minogue about writing the score/using her existing songbook and re-writing the lyrics and C.) Cast it using our friends...

Here's how the cards fell:

As team Chaperone Miss Cuthbert, Gail...
As 2nd basewoman Vivian Ernst, Kirsten...
As outfielder 'Mumbles' Brockman, Sheanna...
As pug-faced powerhouse hitter Marla Hooch, Kyte...
As heartbroken widow Betty "Spaghetti" Horn, Anth...
As 'Queen of Diamonds' Dottie Hinson and spotlight-stealing kid sister Kit Kellar, real-life sisters Meaghan and Heidi Brander!...
As beauty-queen turned shorstop Ellen-Sue Gotlander, Nicole Arbour...
As 1st basewoman/coffee-maker extraordinaire Helen Hayley, Muff...
As hardened team captain and has-been baseball legend Jimmy Dugan, Lariss...
As outfielder Connie Calhoun, Dini Dimakos...
As former dime-a-dancer "All The Way" Mae Mordabito, ME...
As surly 3rd basewoman Doris Murphy, Yerxa...
As Saskatchewanese centrefielder Alice "Skeeter" Gaspers, Deano...
As outfielder Neezer Dalton, Marianne...
As rightfielder and Stillwell's mother Evelyn Gardner, April Wozniak...
As shortstop Marbleann "Beans" Babbit, Andrea Caswell...
AND
As recovering illiterate Shirley Baker, Katherine "Kitty" Ryan...

Phew. That took a lot out of me.

Also... LESS THAN 1 WEEK AWAY!!!!!!!

It's gonna be huge. Look for an interview I did with Paul Bellini in tomorrow's Fab magazine!!!

--- Aj

Hocus Poke-us Retrospecticus

Is it Friday already?

I meant that facetiously... this has been the longest week EVER... and it's ooonly getting longer...

Well no, it's not really. It's effectively over today after I'm done postering the village and the gym. I might stay in tonight. I haven't decided. I probably won't, but I might.

This is boring. I'm sorry.

Now...... an unfashionably late recount of our annual Hallowe'en fete two weeks ago, "Hocus Poke-us"... with you penis!

Every year, it seems, the costumes get more and more brilliant and more fun is had... this year was in fine keeping with that rule...

Here's Kyte and Gail as Pete Doherty and Wonder Woman, respectively.

Gail opted for a classic, straight-forward approach, channelling Lynda Carter, and let's be honest... who the fuck can't appreciate that?

Kyte, on the other hand, kept it current as male trainwreck-du jour Pete Doherty, dousing himself in artificial vomit whose recipe I can't remember, but it was very well thought-out.

Something tells me it had maple syrup in it, but don't quote me...

Here's the lovely April Wozniak paying homage to the lovlier Divine... John Waters' muse and "Edna" in the original film version of "Hairspray".

They broke the mold when they made April Wozniak, let me tell ya.

While every desperate bitch and her mother was dressing up like a sexy cat this Hallowe'en, April Wozny up and does THIS - BRILLIANT!

And a rather obscure reference, too.

Meh. If someone didn't know who Divine was, we just told them she was Anna Nicole Smith and they were very rarely any the wiser...

Here's Anth and Cliffy Richie as Prince and Pugsley from "The Addams Family", respectively.

Well, I think Anth might be a cross betwixt Prince and a stunned marmasat... he's got a very wide-eyed, rainforrest creature look about him in every photo that I schnapped of him... Hmmm.

Cliffy Richie's not the only homo I saw donned in Pugsley-gear this year... Not that it was this super-popular costume or anything, but I guess I'm just surprised that it was go-to for more than one... Again, hmmm...

Dinilightful DiniLicious Dimakos hit the nail on the head as Britney Spears, present day.

From the cheetos to the Venti Frappucino, there was absolutely no mistaking her.

Methinks the only thing that would have made it more obvious that she was Britney Spears would have been for her to walk around naked from the waist down holding a chandelier catalogue.

Because if there's one thing that Britney Spears loves, it's chandeliers, apparently...

Here's Muff and I as just a regular-old Policewoman and Yacht captain (I FINALLY GOT A CAPTAIN'S HAT!!! SCORE!!!), respectively.

We weren't anyone specific, but if pressed, I guess you could say that I was "Sexy Gavin McLeod from The Love Boat" and she was "Sexy Cagney AND/OR Sexy Lacey"...

Whatever lets ya sleep at night...

The award for costume of the night, however, could have gone two very different, distinct ways...

A.) Heidi Brander as Zanessa - Zac Efron and Vanessa Anne Hudgens...

Yeah. It's pretty fucking brilliant. Agreed.

One side: Basketball champ Troy Bolton - Zac Efron's character from the "High School Musical" franchise...

The other: Plentifully-beaved superskank Vanessa Anne Hudgens... Zac Efron's current beard and co-star from HSM...

The one problem I have with this is that she had to include a bikini and didn't rock a googly-eye nipple and makeshift pubis.

So for that, Brander, you don't get costume of the night...

Sorry... but never underestimate the power of correct pubic hair configuration replication when putting together a costume...

I used to draw boardwalk chariacatures - you know those drawings you get done of yourself where your head is exponentially bigger than your body and you're doing something like go-karting or skateboarding? Yeah... I used to do those... - and I always realized that replicating the persons hair was the thing that really brought it all together...

I guess same rule applies to pubic hair configuration and Hallowe'en costumes...

Anyballs, the out-and-out star of the night also happened to be the host of the fete - Yerxa as Amy Winehouse...

Yes.

Yes...

... Yes.

Which one is which is what I wanna know - who's with me?

Yerx actually looked good as Amy Winehouse, which was terrifying...

Like, it was a very becoming look on him...

And because of that, here's one more...

Behold: Amy Winehomes.

You don't see his ballet slippers in it, but you get the point.

Best story that may embarrass Yerx but is just to funny not to tell:

The moment I saw this bitch I was like, "You're totally going to pick up as Amy Winehouse. It's totally going to happen".

And it totally did. Kicker: Leaving the dude's house in the morning, which was November 1st, he discovers his Metropass has expired - fucking Metropasses... -

So he gotta WALK HOME AS AMY WINEHOUSE in the unforgiving autumn morning sun...

Kicker on top of the previous kicker: one of his ballet slippers broke the night previous, so he had to walk home Cinderella stylez...

Anyway... that's it... have a good weekend everybody... and remember - 10 DAYS AWAY FROM THE NEXT BITCH SALAD!!!

--- Aj

Haute Topics

Okay... let's get down to bidness...

1.) BRITNEY SPEARS ABANDONS CHILDREN IN CAR IN FAVOUR OF CHANDELIERS

Yes. You really did read that right. On one of her increasingly few days of visitation with her children, Sean Preston & Jayden James, bitch left them in the car to SHOP FOR A NEW CHANDELIER.

It's certainly the most glamorous tale of child abandonment I e'er heard, I'll give her that much.

She really had no time to do this outside of the hour and half or something she's granted with her children per week? Really? REALLY.

Was a walkway in her Malibu estate inadequately lit and was she going to face a fine if she didn't remedy the situation, but instead of just getting a motion detector light she had to do it Britney-stylez and get an assfucking CHANDELIER?! Because that's the only excuse I could remotely digest.

I guess on the upside, she saved her visit to the marble column, ivory piano, killer whale caviar and French Revolution-era chaises lounge stores until after the kids was back wit' K-Fed.

Speaking of babies...

2.) NANCY GRACE GIVES BIRTH TO PREMATURE TWINS

CNN's resident blowhard ballbuster Nancy Grace finally popped o'er the weekend, and gave birth to twins whose names escape me at present TWO MONTHS PREMATURE. I think the second born girl weighed in at something like 2 lbs or some shit. Which means that I've easily eaten Nancy Grace's 2nd born daughter's weight in Reese's Pieces before... on more than one occasion.

In her official press release, she proclaimed them as "two little crime fighters". Which is just SO tempting fate. Bitch, you know theyz gonna grow up to be the most fucked-up, anything-BUT-law abiding citizens ever. It really is Murphy's Law/karma for you falsely accusing people of things with hyperbole that makes a Chinese New Year's fireworks display seem under-the-top by comparison.

One the plus side, since they were born premature, they'll probably never have to worry about being fat. That daughter that clocked in a 2 lbs. could probably model in her teenage years. Hopefully she doesn't inherit Mommy's hair though. I'll bet that shit was ingrained into their genes. They'll both have Nancy Grace-hair...

3.) ROSIE O'DONNELL IS COMING BACK TO TALK-TV!!! NO, SHE'S NOT.

Every news source in the world was reporting that Rosie O'Donnell was in heated talks to host her own political talk-fest on MSNBC that would go up in the Thursday, 9 PM time slot against CNN's Larry King Live (when is that bitch gonna die? Seriously! It's time.) and Fox News' Hannity & Colmes.

This would have basically been the greatest thing ever. My God I miss her. "The View" sucks my taint nowadays. Whoopi has some moments, like the other week when she got in Hasselbeck's face over abortion, but lately it seems like edge-less conversations about lady-parts amongst 40+ year-old curmudgeonettes at a breakfast nook and Barbara Walters thinking that people care about her life waaaaay more than anyone does/ever has. Like the Hallow e'en episode was all about her father's night club back in the 1940's. NO ONE GIVES A FUCK!!! YOU'RE 109 YEARS OLD AN NO ONE GIVES A FUCK!!!

Meh.

Anyballs, Rosie O'Donnell is desperately needed back on TV in a political mouthpiece capacity - period. I live for it. And going to her blog isn't enough for me. It's far too "peering through a keyhole into a lesbian's craftroom". But I still go there every day...

... Which is where I found out, in the latest posting, that the deal FELL THROUGH. FUCK! I'm sure it's because she wanted some outrageous sum of money, as she always does. And do you know why she does? Well, that will be detailed when I review her book in the inaugural and perhaps lone edition of Andrew's Book Club later this week when I take a look at Rosie O'Donnell's "Celebrity Detox"!!!

Anyways... bottom line: that shits' not gonna happen. = (

4.) I'VE FINALLY DECIDED WHAT I WANT MY HAIR COLOUR CONFIGURATION TO BE WHEN I'M OF 'A CERTAIN AGE'

The Bonnie Raitt.

There's nothing that says tiger-in-the-sack YET wise-beyond-my-years like a thick mane of red with a tiny puff of grey.

Yep.

SIGN

ME

UP.

I don't know why I included this. I saw an add in today's "24" for some CBC show "The Lion's Den" - which is like "The Next Great American Inventor" or whatever the fuck it is in the states - and the lone female on the panel was also sporting the Bonnie Raitt... red hair with a white poof... and I was all "how the fuck do ya get that? I want that." And thought I'd blog about it. Which brings us to where we are now. Cosmic.

5.) ON A SERIOUS NOTE...

I'd just like to send out condolences to the friends and family of Douglas Scott - a Mountie who was tragically shot and killed up in Nunavut recently.

In the latest of a string of violent acts against authorities via locals, he responded to a drunk driving call - some bitch tore his car into a house, y'all - and was brutally gunned down by the driver upon arriving at the crime.

Why is this of importance to me? Because he was from Brockville... and so am I... and there's a shared bond betwixt those who hail from the mighty BrockVegas.

I was watching Global news today at my gym and all of sudden it showed a correspondent reporting live from Brockville and I'm all "Y'ALL! I'M FROM BROCKVILLE! What the fuck?!" and they reported this story...

They were reporting live from his high school, which they deemed "the local high school in Brockville"... as if to imply that there was only one... WHICH THERE SO WAS NOT... they were reporting from Thousand Islands Secondary School, or, TISS (ribald trivia: it used to be called Thousand Islands Technical School, or, TITS. Yeah, they changed that), and there are in fact THREE high schools in Brockville. TISS, Brockville Collegiate Institute where yours truly went, and St. Mary's Catholic High School where no one except for sexual predators, shift supervisors at Wendy's and girls who sweep up hair at hair salon's that offer 23 dollar perms went.

Brockville's high school rivalries aside, alllll my love and prayers go out to the friends and family of Douglas Scott. He's got a facebook group if you're so inclined to join, which I was, SO DO IT!

Anyballs... that's it...

Tomorrow - week's of aggressive/annoying hocking of the next Bitch Salad begins! JOYOUSNESS.

--- Aj

That LA Blog

So, um, hi.

It's kinda been 11 days or some shit. Sorry. I was on vacay.

In the sunny city of angels herself, Los Angeles! (pronounced: Loth Angeleth, for reasons that will become all too clear as this blog treks on...)

Here's a day-by-day recount of how the shit went down:

SUNDAY

Best idea ever? Getting a 6:30 PM flight following the out-and-out debauchery that was Saturday night's Hocus Poke-us Hallowe'en fete. Boy-O it was a good time - a good time whose goodness will be detailed in its own hearty-albeit-belated blog sometime this week.

Anyballs, I haven't flown in a very long time - like the last time I flew would have been for a Johnston family vacay and in a pre-9/11 world at that, so this was going to be a very foreign experience for me. I cautiously check in, go through customs where they bombard you with all these questions like "where are you staying" and I'm all "A Ramada Inn." and they're all "where?" and I'm all "okay... y'busted me... I'm staying at Ron Jeremy's house..." and then I'm all "kidding".

I had a bunch of bananas with me as I either took them with me in hopes that I could bring them on board or they would rot in my apartment for a week. I didn't know if they would be classified as material that could be a bomb, but to my pleasant surprise, customs lady let me bring them through.

That day, I scrambled to fill my iPod with music that I hadn't heard in a while that would keep my interest as piqued as it could be for the 5 hour flight. This scrounging resulted in me stumbling across a Journey's greatest hits album that I COMPLETELY forgot I had... so Journey's lesser known hits were happily filling m'ear canals for most of the wait... "Faithfully", "I'll Be Alright Without You", "Separate Ways"... the list goes on...

The only piece of literature I had with me - looking back, a VERY ambitious assumption that this would be all the in flight entertainment I'd need - was Rosie O'Donnell's "Celebrity Detox" on gracious loan by one Miss Dini Dimakos.

What did I think of it? TUNE IN LATER THIS WEEK for the first every installment of Andrew's Book Club, in which I review it. I can already anticipate it being the best blog ever. Yeah.

Anyway - I basically crap myself as we take off... it's been so long I totally forget what it feels like... taking off, that is. Not crapping myself. I know that feeling faaaar too well. It's like rapidly ascending a roller coaster only there's clearly no tracks beneath you. I start sort-of-dangling my feet in recognition that there's 0.0 ground beneath me and feel myself settle into that "I wanna get off, I wanna get down, Ehn! Ehn!" reflex... and that lasted like 2 minutes then I was golden.

I read some of Rosie's latest tome, which again I will review later this week, listened to some Journey and in little-to-no time we was there. This is what I saw out m'winda...

It just doesn't end. Just this never ending, sprawling field of lights... and I think I actually said to myself out loud, "wow... so it is real".

I get to LAX, get my luggage without very much incident at all, then make m'way out to the shuttle station. I'm astoundingly pleased that the first person I meet there, the shuttle attendant, is a sassy Comptonite named LaQuesta (well, I don't actually know what her name was, but it might as well have been)... She had gold teeth, a ring with her name on it that spanned her entire knuckle and a ghetto dialect that I only thought existed in Tyler Perry movies...

I must have mentioned that I was from Canada at some point, which she found very amusing - as most people I met there did... there's some adorable novelty that American's have developed with Canadians and automatically their tone becomes different. Like "Really? You is? Cool!" - anyway, she says to me "yeah, I gots some Canadian money. I gots a fi' dolla bill... who dat up on it? (points to picture of Wilfred Laurier on the front)... is dat one of yo priiime ministers?" --- Yeah, I think you can imagine, right now I'm dying. DYING. DDDDYYYYYINNNNG!!!

She then asks - or rather, AKS'S - me if it's my first time here. Which it totally is. And she recommends that I go to a place up on Sunset called "Saddle Ranch". They've got a mechanical bull. She was there the other night and got so drunk she fell off it and "bruised up [her] shoulda". Then she showed me. It was a pretty nasty bruise. I said that I'd make it my business to get there at some point.

So this shuttle zips me from LAX down in Inglewood-up-to-no-good-HEEEY! (where Tyra Banks is from... which is why I know that it's called Inglewood-up-to-no-good-HEEEY! because she pronounces it so every chance she gets), through downtown LA (which is like 10 skyscrapers comprised of mostly banks and law firms), finally up to where I'm staying, at a quaint l'il Rrramada Inn at Santa Monica & Vermont.

I get there and my friend Mike, whom I'm staying with, immediately hands me a margarita made of some Jose Cuervo that he's purchased for THIRTEEN DOLLARS. Yes. A litre of Cuervo costs some shit like 40 dollars at the LCBO. Yes. It does cost 13 fucking dollars in L.A. More startling liquor price comparisons to follow. I think you'll find yourself shocked and/or appalled.

Our room is on the first floor, o'erlooking a courtyard not unlike the one from "Melrose Place"... so it's already SO L.A. But the terlet's leaking and the tub is clogged, so we'ze gotta move. We move up to the second floor, with a balcony giving view to a hardly majestic side street off of Vermont St. and 0.0 wireless reception... which is squarely why you didn't hear from me for the week. For realz... if we wanted Internet access, we needed to go and sit in the hall and have the Mexican maids look at us all cockeyed.

MONDAY

After getting to bed somewhere around 1 AM L.A. time, so 4 AM Toronto time, I get up sometime around 10 AM L.A. time, so 1 PM Toronto time. We go downstairs to check out our complimentary continental breakfast. Not so continental... egg paddies, damp sausages, a waffle bar facilitated by some Scandinavian woman (the lone non-Mexican member of the hotel's custodial staff, I'd wager) and some shitty cereal and toast. We have some, Mike goes off to check out the UCLA campus and I watch 'The View' for the first time in like 2 weeks as my VCR has been on the fritz.

After a workout in the perfectly serviceable fitness centre, I venture up Vermont to get some lunch and some liquor. What I find astounds me:

I march into a Jon's Marketplace. Y'all - I had only heard about this, and in dead seriousness, thought it was a myth, but no, t'isn't... You can buy liquor in grocery stores... There it fucking is... right across from the Michelina's in the frozen foods section...

And the prices. Don't get me started about the prices DON'T EVEN GET ME STARTED. Pictured to the right - a bewildered/perplexed/roaringly pissed off Andrew Johnston crouching next to a 60 OF SMIRNOFF VODKA PRICED AT $15.99. FIFTEEN DOLLARS AND NINETY-NINE CENTS.

I immediately tell the Mexicali checkout personnel that in my country, Canada, the same thing goes for a cool $52.50. To which they yelled "Aiaiaiaiaia Papi!", flung off their sombreros, fired several shots into them and then Charo appeared to sing us out with "Felize Navidad". No. But they were very surprised.

Not near as surprised as I was, but still. It really makes me want to lead a probing inquisition into what exactly our liquor tax goes to. 'Cuz y'all, it must result in billions per day. FIFTEEN FUCKING DOLLAZ!!! FIFTEEN!!!

On my way back to the hotel, I now feel comfortable making three sweeping generalizations about this place:

I.) If you see 3 people at any given time in this neighborhood (which I later discovered would be classified as a bit of a no man's land bordering Hollywood, Los Feliz and Silverlake), 2 of them will be Mexican. That's the ratio. Or rather, the HoRatio, as it would be. Tee Hee.
II.) If you see 3 buildings at any given time, 1 of them will be a fast food restaurant. The amount of fast food restaurants in this city is staggering. Staggering.
III.) Out of those fast food restaurants, out of 3 at any given time, 1 of them is appropriated Mexican cuisine for white people named shit like "El Pollo Loco!" or something... loosely translated, the crazy chicken.

I get back to the hotel and Mike and I decide to do some sightseeing before I need to get back to the hotel and prepare for my first show... navigating through L.A. will be incredibly easy now, thanks to Mike's tasty new toy, a freshly unlocked iPhone. This thing is crazy. It's like something not even the creators of The Jetsons and Inspector Gadget combined could have dreamed up... you can do anything with it, I swear... anyways, we tour around Silverlake - which is like The Williamsburg/hot new spot for artistes... for real... artistes... we pulled up next to a cafe that had three 20-something dudes with John Waters' moustaches... lookin' good, pretentious douchebags - and go get a confectionery that has now changed my life... PINKBERRY...

HO

LY

FUCK

Y'ALL.

Pictured to the left, to the left: Me upon the first tongue-to-PinkBerry contact. Wow. I can't even describe it... but I can try.

It's kind of like a lemon gelato or mayhaps, sorbet, crossed with the taste of a dense frozen yogurt, only not the calories because it was something like 70 calories a serving and fat-free.

Whatever it was, it was fucking delicious. It was something where I'd purposely drink something extra-fizzy before having it so I could burp up the flavour for hours afterwards-AKA-make it the gift that keeps on giving... Wow... it was good... if it ever becomes super-franchised, it'll be the Starbucks of ice-cream... woo-howdy...

Pressing on: I go to my first show and am RIDICULOUSLY early for it. Like 45 minutes. Which, anyone who knows me can tell you, is unheard of. I'm never early. I'm either on time by the skin of my teeth or unfashionably-nay-challengingly late... so we take off again and ogle the Roosevelt, Grohmans, drive past about 18 more El Pollo Loco's, and come back at quarter to. I go in and meet some of the other comics. Two other Canadian comics were on this particular bill: Rebecca Kohler and Jay Malone. Kohler I know from 'the scene'... but Jay Malone I had never met before. He's now based in L.A. and recently booked a pilot. I imagine it's probably been squashed now what with the writer's strike, but the accomplishment certainly deserves some huzzah's.

Anyballs, Monday night's show went GREAT! GREAT! About 25 people, but super-rowdy and generous. I was just happy that my material was working... I have this stupid phobia that the success of my material is life-or-death conditional on my surroundings and that it will ONLY work in Toronto/Canada but NO --- killed it! Yay!

I'm sure I had some help, however, in the form of one Miss April Macie, whom I'm pictured with to the right. She's the vivacious redhead from Last Comic Standing Season 4 and has a very aggressively sexual-yet-suuuper likable act. Anyway - we hit it off immediately and took to the alley behind the theatre where we proceeded to be assholes and talk amongst ourselves for the rest of the show. Whoops.

Anyway - LOVE HER. If I can somehow bring myself to change my myspace top friends one of these days, she'll TOTALLY be in them.

Following the show, Mike and I went to famed Hollywood Hotspot, the Chateau Marmont. It's a super-swanky and famous hotel up on Sunset in West Hollywood whose bar has been the catalyst for many a Young Hollywood DUI. My verdict: Meh. It wasn't any nicer than the Drake, per se. Like if any Los Angeleno asked me where to go in Toronto that was akin to the Marmont, I'd say the Drake, and I doubt they'd be disappointed.

Anyway, Mike savoured a Manhattan, I slung back a vodka soda, and we remarked that no one was that attractive. Isn't L.A. supposed to be the beautiful people Olympics? Yeah, not so much. Maybe they were all partaking in some week long convention in some emerald knoll behind a waterfall that was off-limits to pedestrians and tourists, and if that's the case, BOY IS MY FACE RED. But no... anyballs...

TUESDAY

Mike went off to Burbank in the morning to tape an audition that he had to send back to Vancouver for a TV Movie he was up for, which meant another leisurely morning of a not-so-Continental breakfast, "The View" and a workout in the serviceable fitness centre.

That afternoon we set out for the beach - SANTA MONICA Y'ALL. Looking back, I really, really, really regret not having the Village People's "Go West" blaring in our car, because that's exactly what we were doing/where we were going.

It was just lovely. The smell of fish innards and seaweed took some getting used to, but after that, t'was fine. We went down to Venice Beach - where Romy & Michele lived in the movie that chronicled their respective high-school reunion.

It was quite something. I had never walked a warf as such. Every second stand was hocking henna tattoos, that I can remember. And there was a row where the vender's dissipated and it was homeless dude's instead - each with their own unique sales pitch on why you should give them money.

Props to the ones who just wanted it for booze. I guess I'm just of the mindset of supporting local bums before giving it away out of town... call me patriotic, but...

Following the Santa Monica excursion, we set out upon the Pacific Coast Highway - the very one where the likes of Mel Gibson and Nicole Richie have been busted on DUI's - and headed to the 'Bu. Malibu, that is. As Mike made us a reservation at Malibu's famed sushi establishment, Nobu.

We were early once again, so we pulled into the Malibu Starbucks in the heart of "downtown Malibu". I put that in quotations because there's not really a downtown. It's just kind of three adjoining strip malls. Anyballs - this Starbucks is the one that Britney is usually photographed at, so that was exciting/filthy. GET A LOAD OF THIS: There's no bathroom in it. Can you believe that? "But where does Britney do coke?" I wondered.

Nobu was lovely - not this terrifying, world-class dining experience that we expected, but very elegant and high-fallutin' just the same. The Miso Cod was basically the best thing I've ever had. And I'd never been hammered on Saki before, so I've got that going for me, too. As we left, we noticed two things: A.) IT GETS FUCKING COLD HERE! For realz... it was freezing! It cools right down at night, y'all! and B.) Paparazzi. Which means someone of importance was inside, but we didn't notice anyone... we thought we saw Helen Mirren, but it was just another well put-together older lady... ahhh well...

Following that, we ventured into West Hollywood to do gay stuff. West Hollywood - this supposed former gay mecca. Not so much. We went to the Abbey... which is like Woody's meets the Playboy gratto. The L.A. gays were nothing to shake a stick at. And by stick... well, it's not a very far fetched analogy to decipher...

The singularly greatest thing that happened was a rose seller came by - as every gayborhood has one... in Toronto there's a 3 foot Asian woman and a man who looks exactly like George W. Bush - and she was a very boisterous Mexican lady who would abruptly come up to you and yell "RRRRRRRRotheth!" ("Roses" with an 'r' rolled so sharply it sounded like a lawnmower motor and requisite Spanish pronunciation of 's' sounds so they're instead a 'th'). Apparently she's legendary around those parts.

And then we went to the Mel's diner at Hollywood & Highland and called it a night...

Fade out-

Fade in-

WEDNESDAY (Hallowe'en)

Early start to Wednesday as we decided to trek up to the Griffith Park observatory - the Planetarium/Planetorium where Rebel Without A Cause was filmed - which is waaaay up yonder in the Hollywood Hills and gives a majestic panorama of beautiful, sunny, barely-visible-through-the-toxic-haze Los Angeles.

For serious - that's it. And I fucked with that picture's exposure somethin' fierce.

The planetarium is still a functioning planetarium, but also an aerospace museum of sorts/tribute to itself. Inside there was a bunch of historical shit about Gallileo and the invention of the telescope and information about how stars are made and black holes and a whole whack of shit that was of 0.0 interest to our materialistic homo souls that just wanted to go down to Robertson and see if Lohan was anywhere to be seen.

So after getting tasty, tasty photos taken in front of the Hollywood sign - SCORE! - we headed out... and got a taste of L.A. traffic along the freeway on our way back.

L.A. is such a driving culture it just makes my head spin. There are buses, but it's not public transportation - it's private transportation. In that they're all privately owned companies that you need to pay for each time you use. And the only people who do use them are the lower classes - it's not a mixed bag like any East Coast city's transportation system.

There's an assload of radio stations in L.A., 18 of which feature Ryan Seacrest at the helm. Everyone drives with their window down in what I presume to be an effort to not only attract cancer, but actually romance it. If you can drive in the carpool lane in L.A., you're so fucking golden. EVERY CAR HAS ONE PERSON TO IT! It's nuts! I think half an hour went by in one sitting before I saw two people in a car! And this car issue gets nuttier...

That night, we decide to take part in the Hallow e'en festivities - it said something like 400,000 people descend on Santa Monica boulevard in West Hollywood bedecked in their Hallow's eve garb. We thought this was a gross overestimation - a classic case of "LA Spin". I can't tell you how wrong we were.

Here's something: THERE'S NO SUCH THING AS A CAB IN L.A. I think we tried for a solid 40 minutes before flagging down a cab. $25 later we were in WeHo smack dab in the middle of an Agoraphobic's worst nightmare. Holy fuck. This crowd was insane. Jam packed. For those of you in Toronto: picture the Church & Wellesley festivites on Hallow e'en. The street is shut off for one city block from Wellesley to Alexander along Church, and reasonably populated with about a half-and-half mix of people in costume and people not. Now picture Church St. three times as wide, and that crowd times about 30. That was Santa Monica. It was a nightmare.

BUT OUR NIGHTMARE HAD JUST BEGUN!!! Around Robertson, we decide to bail and go get food or something. Simple enough. We'll go up to Sunset and grab a cab. Yeah, no dice losers. It was impossible. We were basically the distance between Keele and Yonge on Bloor from our Hotel. And every cab we saw was in vein. Another thing: they don't turn their lights off when they're in use, so it's just maddening. We had no idea what the fuck we were going to do so we just kept walking...

We didn't pass all the signs you see to your right, I just felt like A.) it would illustrate that sort of image of walking aimlessly through a city at night, B.) I had all these pictures of signs of places we'd been and there was no particularly appropriate time to post them, so meh.

We thought we were going to need to walk to Sunset and Highland and take the subway - yes, there is a subway in L.A. And I'd wager it's worse and less efficient than the TTC, so score, TTC. Somehow - an act of both our guardian angel is the only way I can reconcile it - we managed to catch a cab. It was the 50th cab we tried to get, and he was A.) free and B.) willing to take us to the far reaches of Hollywood-meets-Los Feliz-meets-Silverlake where we were staying.

The kicker: it was parked outside of SADDLE RANCH. Where LaQuesta told me I gosts'ta go! GIRRRRL! Talk about serendipity.

So we got in that cab and pledged to ourselves that we would never, ever, EEEVER do Santa Monica boulevard on H-Ween again, got home, by this time Mike had sobered up considerably, so we decided to drown our sorrows at a local Denny's.

THIS is why everyone drives drunk in L.A. Because there is honestly no other choice unless you have a driver. There's no such thing as going to a party, having a few too many and hoppin' in a cab. Nuts. I have a renewed sympathy for those busted on a DUI. Well, that is to say that I don't equate them to Nazi's anymore. Now they're more Klansmen in my eyes. So yeah, it's softened.

THURSDAY

We decided to say 'fuck it' and sleep in after our very late night the evening prior. At around 3 PM we headed out to get a gander of Beverley Hills during the daylight. Oooh-Wee. It's pretty. It's like the Bridal Path meets Rosedale. In that it's huge fucking mansions in really high density. It was kind of surreal, I must say.

Of note: There's a prominent street named after Chevy Chase. WTF?!

Following that, we decided to take a leisurely put up Mulholland Drive. I wanna barf just thinking of it. It is a fucking crazy-straw of a road. It twists and turns so obnoxiously, it's like being on a really shallow roller-coaster for kids at 50 mph and for 45 minutes. Oy. I got super-sick. The view was great, though.

We came back to the hotel, Mike had a nap, and I worked out to the "Hairspray" soundtrack, so I was in a very happy place. We went to the show, I showed up at usual Andrew Johnston time - so 7 minutes before the show. We had a full house that night, apparently, full of suits who weren't so into it, but it still went great!

The best part? Two words: Cocoa Brown. Brilliant. BRILLIANT. Words can not describe. Picture everything I want to be when I immitate a black woman in my act/in general.

She actually IS.

Holy fuck. I told her about Bitch Salad and how desperately I want her to do it and she was like "yeah baby, I gots air miles." Oh my GOD. Amazing. Anyway - that's us to the left, to the left, suffice to say...

So after that, I chatted to some other comedians who weren't on the show, said bye-bye to the producer of the festival, Lawrin, and of course April and Cocoa, and Mike and I headed back to We-Ho for a last hurrah. We just ended up going back to the Abbey. And this girl dressed in a white trench coat and sporting a Rihanna haircut came up to us and gave us both coupons for Camel cigarettes - 2 for 1. Wow, again. You could never do that shit in Canada. Smokers are pariahs and cigarette companies have no rights at all. But yeah - they can just give the shit away in the states. Anyway, we spoke to her for a while, she left, RRROTHETH lady came back, I cackled at her uncontrollably, Mike and I spoke about the state of gays in Hollywood and we went back to the hotel. Pardon me: we actually went to a Carl's Jr. for some grotesque mutant burgers that were bigger than any burger every dreamt of being, THEN back to the hotel.

The flight out was entirely uneventful, and I mean that in the most positive way possible. I had to change over in Charlotte, North Carolina... which means that all the stewardesses were Nancy mother fucking Grace wearing a pantsuit with wings on it. The in flight movie was "Hairspray", so that was cool.

And that's pretty much it.

One word to sum up the trip: Demystifying. L.A. is now without the mystique that it used to have... it's no longer this sort of untouchable holy land where the big fishes are. It's just a town that industry happens to reside in. I'm certainly in no rush to move down there, I can tell ya that... but I'm sure I'll eventually have to. Blah. It won't be before I learn to drive, I can definitively tell ya that much...

Anyway - GOOD TO BE BACK!!!

Talk to you tomorrow... early and often!

--- Aj

Hocus Poke-Us...

... with your penis! (pronounced "penith" a-la Maya Rudolph's character of Rosa Santiago, a maid of Spanish heritage).

Making no sense making no sense making no sense...

Alls I know is that it's the end of the fucking week, which I am ecstatic about. Yet nervous about. Ecstatic because it's been long and I'm ready to get BIGLIA*, Nervous because I leave for LaLa Land on Sunday... y'all, I hate flying! I didn't as a kid - I loved it... I'd always sit by the window... then 9/11 and the television show "Lost" happened in relative simultaneity... and now I absolutely crap m'slacks at the mere thought of it... like, it makes me wanna tie up loose ends and say my goodbyes in the event.

I would SOOO take a bus if I was super rich/worked at some cheap-bus rental place (as I'd assume I'd get a staff discount on our already discounted buses, which would make it an affordable-nay-necessary option).

But alas, no dice. Anyballs... it's looking to be quite the time. I received word last night from one Miss Rebecca Addelman who's down there right now that she show's are kind of brutal - it strikes me that at their best, they're gonna be like a good night at McVeigh's. Which is a comparison that only people in comedy are going to understand, but meh.

By the looks of things, the writer's strike is going to happen, and on Hallowe'en, of all days. SPOOKY! This article lays it out neatly... far neater than the clothes I'm planning on packing are, I can tell ya that right now... my apt's a mess! Whoa. The entire strike is over residuals, or lack there of, that writers are owed for the wave of downloadable and DVD-packaged content that's boomed in recent years. Apparently, the last time the Writer's Guild's contracts were negotiated (every time I see/say/hear that word, it's like John Travolta as Edna Turnblad in "Hairspray"... neg-eeeowww-shiated... drives me nuts...) was before this boom happened or was foreseeable. So yeah.

It does, however, give me a renewed 'discovery' fantasy about my whole LA excursion that I was sorely lacking before: Because of the writer's strike, producers and network brass will be scouring LA's comedy clubs desperate for non-union comedians, specifically Canadian non-union talent who will work for a green card and some graham crackers.

IT'S TOTALLY GONNA HAPPEN! I'm using the secret! SECRET!

In other news:

Tonight I'm doing a show at a little, intimate joint called "Bread & Circus" in Kensington Market called "Dragons of Comedy". It's hosted by the divine Dawn Whitwell and features the strongest lineup I've played on all-year excluding, of course, every single Bitch Salad that's either happened and/or been conceived of. On tonight's lineup: Me, Debra DiGiovanni, Gavin Stephens, Laurie Elliott, sketch by Aurora Browne & Carolyn Taylor, and improv by Lisa Merchant & Jan Caruana. NUTS! Do you even know how good that fucking lineup is???!!!

I'll be trying the set that I want to do for LA out tonight - so it'll be neutered of its Canadian references. Namely: TTC, Brockville & Jann Arden. TTC's being changed to 'bus'. Brockville's being changed to 'Canada'. Jann Arden's being changed to "Carnie Wilson... PRE-bypass..." Hopefully it all goes swimmingly.

Then I'm off to a Hallow e'en function at Buddies called "Boo Bitch" where I'm acting as """"celebrity judge"""" alongside babelicious Nicole Arbour for a costume contest. Here's a hint to you if you're there and want to win: Make out with me and you'll emerge victorious.

SATURDAY NIGHT:

That's right... it's our annual Hallowe'en party... bewitchingly titled "Hocus Poke-us" this year...

It'll be nuts as per usual. I'll have a ton of photos, as per usual. That I'll try my damnedest to blog about as soon as possible, as per usual. But will probably be distracted by something shiny, as per usual.

K...

If you live in LA, which a few of you that I've heard from but brilliantly not kept remotely active contact with do, come down to the McCadden Place Theatre either Monday, October 29th and/or November 1st... that would be sweet...

Wish me the safest trip ever and know that I'll be crapping myself for approximately 6 hours betwixt 6:30 Eastern time and 8:45 Pacific Time...

Smell ya sooner rather than later,

--- Aj

*Short form for "Booze In Gut, Legs In Air"... i.e. be a drunken slut...

Something to think about...

Cowboys, Indians...

So last night was one of the fucking highlights of my life, although I've been so busy, I haven't been able to digest it nor even anticipate digesting it ---

For, you see, yesterevening, I sat down for an interview with none-other-than PAUL BELLINI!!! There he is, pictured to the left, to the left... for those of you who don't know who the man is, A.) you should be repeatedly branded with a live cattle poker square in your perineum, dumbass, B.) he was one of the writers and creators of one of the seminal comedy programs of mine and many others' youth, "Kids In The Hall". He was frequently featured on camera during the run of the show, wearing a towel in the most unlikeliest of situations.

"Kids In The Hall" was the shit. I caught onto it considerably later... when it was rerun on Comedy Central... I'd watch it every day at 4 after school - we're talkin' mid-late 90's-ish. As far as I'm concerned the Kids In The Hall were the Monty Python of their generation - their humour, style, tonality, phrasing, content, everything was so distinctly theirs and I think their influence can be seen and felt on the construction of a lot of comedy since. Phew.

Anyballs... Paul "had never really thought about it like that before". Which is SO fucking nuts. But, as as with all true brilliance, it doesn't seem abnormal at the time.

So we met for a feature he's doing on me for his column in "Fab" re: the next Bitch Salad - WHICH, by the way, IS NOVEMBER 20TH!!! IT'S GONNA BE RAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWWWWW!!! - well actually, it's not solely a feature on me, I'm told. It's sort of a co-feature... on me and - and I can't even believe I'm sharing print with this man, it's so unbelievable - the late Charles Nelson Reilly. Hahahaha. Yep. You know you've made it when... = )

It was an insane amount of fun, and as per usual, I wasn't lacking in anything to say. And there were a few moments that I genuinely had some original insights that I'm fairly certain impressed him - which just gives me the biggest boner of all time. I was able to speak authoritatively about comedy to Paul Bellini... whom I consider a comedy legend.

And after the tape ran out on his recorder - which y'all know it did - he dished about the history of Kids In The Hall. And I think I just sat there grinning, resting my chin on m'hand, listening with undivided attention and childlike enthusiasm for about half an hour or so. It was awesome. And also stuff that I'm not sure if I can divulge here, so I won't. An interesting history, though.

So that was awesome. Without a doubt - one of the highlights of my year. Watch for the actual article in Fab sometime before November 20th...

In other, more random news:

Well, it's not news at all... but...

WHAT'S THE DEAL WITH MAYPOLES?!?!?!

I was just randomly thinking about this the other day. Maypoles - why were people ever into them? It's just running around a fucking pole attached to a string! You call that fun?! WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?

It's like tether ball - WHICH IS ACTUALLY KIND OF FUN - without the tether nor the ball. WHAT THE FUCK?!

Like really - is this how hard-up people were before TV? That a pleasant activity to engage in was holding a fucking rope and running around a pole? A fucking dog would find that boring!? GAH!

I just really don't get it.

I wiki'd maypoles, and even it's history is boring and nonsensical. It's some sort of appropriated pagan ritual and meant to some mix of the sexes. But not really. It's fucked up.

Anyway... again, something to think about...

Smell ya later,

--- Aj

Ho-Hum.

Hey muggles...

Sorry about the no bloggage yesterday - it was kind of a big day. Kind of.

Last night I hosted the 2007 Tim Sims Encouragement Fund Nominee showcase. There's the poster to the left, to the left. And no, the one face that could have moved tickets - MINE - was not originally on it. So, I remedied that. Too little, too late, m'fraid...

No. I'm kidding. They did just fine - the shit was rollickingly sold out, as per usual... filled to the brim with each nominee's respective supporters, nay-sayers and everything in betwixt...

As you can see, this years crop of nominees is an all-male bunch... I guess it was an effort to counter the Vaginapalooza that last year was - am I right? am I right?

Anyway - terrific group of guys who seem to have genuine camaraderie with each other... which is again, so different than the 24/7 cat fight that last year was. Again... kidding... or am I? No... it was just really chill last year... Desiree just kind of did her thing... Nathan, his... Rebecca stressed over her plethora of tech queues... the Roses hummed their optimum pitch in opposing harmonies... and I guzzled back wine and swore a lot... these guys were very different - chumming around fancifully. Really.

I didn't know how fresh in m'memory HOW FUCKING NERVOUS I was last year would be... but it was fresh a daisy. Y'all, I was nervous last year. It was effin peanuts this year - PEANUTS. Well, not quite - I had 8 million points of information to give out in my 'opening monologue'... I basically did 8 new minutes of time about the Tim Sims Encouragement Fund that I wrote from scratch that day. It almost killed me. And it was executed far from seamlessly.

I tried, and succeeded in some capacity, to weave this American Idol comparison to the process of Tim Sims Encouragement Fund... which I will still maintain to my death bed was APT! I then went into this long bit about how it's tradition that they get the unofficial runner up to host the nominee showcase each year, and went through every single pairing of winner and runner up of American Idol, comparing them to myself and Nathan Fielder...

It's like I was sexy, beat-boxin' wigger Blake Lewis... to Nathan's stately, Melato songstress Jordin Sparks...

It's like I was sultry, bulimic chanteuse Katherine McPhee... to Nathan's silver-haired Soul Patrol captain Taylor Hicks...

It's like I was whiskey-slingin' classic rock star Bo Bice, to Nathan's robotic rodeo princess Carrie Underwood...

It's like I was peppy teen queen Diana DeGarmo, to Nathan's gospel-tinged illiterate single mother Fantastia Barrino...

And perhaps in the most telling American Idol-related comparison I can make between Nathan Fielder and myself...

It's like I was smarmy, homosexual balladeer Clay Aiken, to Nathan's morbidly obese velvet teddy bear Ruben Studdard.

Yeah. There was this one woman in the front who SO fucking into that bit. Like, this woman knew her American Idol and I was pounding away at her comedy and pop-cultural G-Spot.

Not enjoying that bit? Nathan Fielder! Well... it's not that he wasn't enjoying it, per se... he wasn't there - MOTHAFUCKER WASN'T EVEN THERE AND I DID A CUSTOM BIT ABOUT THE BITCH! Apparently he's on This Hour Has 22 Minutes, which films out in Halifax... so he's excused... but still... *shakes fist*...

Anyballs... the show went great! I purposely didn't watch anyone's set so I wouldn't be able to judge them and give emphasis or favour to anyone in particular... well, that and my head's just generally up my ass and you'd be amazed at how easily I can kill time admirin' m'own reflection in the looking glass. But yes - everyone got laughs in my estimation, so it's anyone's guess who'll take the crown.

Well, that's bullshit. Of course I have an opinion, but this is hardly a forum I can be candid in - a fact that was tidily reinforced to me this weekend when I was confronted by two people who work on Project Runway Canada regarding my blog proclaiming it to 'suck'.

Anyway - on m'way out, I ran into the one and only Debra DiGiovanni who was fresh off the heels of a visit to LA and a stint at the LA Comedy Festival - which I'm also doing, and heading down to on Sunday. She said it blew. Hard. 20 people there her first night. 11 people the second. Including, apparently, the booker from Jimmy Kimmel.

Wow. Yeah. If I could cancel m'ticket now, I would. But I can't. So I won't. Blah. What with the bush fire currently toppling Malibu and San Diego, and the impending writer's strike set for the 31st, it looks like high season to be going down to LA... cherry on top of this being a good-old-fashioned hell-gig to go to.

Anyway... that's about it... it's really overcast here and I've been reading Rosie O'Donnell's blog all day, so I'm a bit depressed. Sorry for that.

Ta!

--- Aj