I sat tonight watching the Oscars, sitting for the first time ever resisting the urge to change the channel. There was no host – well, there was Hugh Jackman, best known as Wolverine – so like I said, no host. Growing up in the years that Johnny Carson hosted the show, all of my contemporaries – except for Billy Crystal – fall short at best. For the first time in years I hadn’t seen any of the nominated films – with the exception of the one animated short I saw this morning – thanks to entertainment backwater I now find myself in. I sat through the over indulgence of Hollywood (and other) talent, thinking – to paraphrase Gloria Swanson – “it’s the actors that have gotten smaller.” It broke my heart to see an aging Jerry Lewis on the same stage with those drowning into today’s talent pool. For years, I would get up at 5:00 am to wait for the nomination announcements live – I even had the pleasure once of calling a friend who had just been nominated and telling him before anyone else. And tonight for the first time in my life, I realized I’m never going to win one - short film, screenplay, directing - nothing. Maybe if they create a lifetime achievement for leaving. It’s funny where the road less taken deposits you. Oh well, just as well, I'm shitty at keeping the mantle dusted.

I had written this a week or so ago and forgot to post it, now much of the attention has died down, a penalty has been issued and no other charges will be sought, but my point remains the same -

Olympic athletes are people who gave up their adolescence - hell, gave up everything to compete on an international level, to be the best in their sport. They did not train to be role models. Athletes, actors, and musicians are not role models - their achievements can be admired, but save the God-like adulation for parents, teachers, coaches, and mentors, etc. Fro two weeks, every four years – well, two years if you are seasonally inclined – they gather to compete for a shiny little medal. That’s what it is about; not politics; not what they do the two hundred and six weeks between. They strive to be the best and when they are the press – who today, seem to possess more opinion than talent - hold them aloft for one purpose, to tear them down when they stumble.

In 1980, it was the press who started voicing their opinion and athletes who were in the best shape of their careers were forced to boycott a chance of a lifetime. Now I am the last person in the world who wants to side with Michael Phelps, I think he’s an idiot savant capable of causing irreparable damage to the sport of swimming – but not because he hits a bong now and again. When the Olympic committee allowed snow borders into the game, they also allowed the marijuana. Anyone who has ever inhaled can tell you it does not fall into the category of performance enhancement – nor should the committee equate it with the potential use of steroids. It was a regrettable incident, nothing more and Phelps like many before him apologized for the incident – not smoking, but getting caught. Sound familiar.

I don’t live my life by whim or committee and detest those who do. If you can’t find an opinion on your own, or worse, can’t own your words without influence from those around you, you really have business saying anything at all. I am not a mind reader, if you need something or have something to say, speak up – again unless you make your voice heard, you have no business saying anything at all. Ill placed blame and anger at issues known only to ones self should be turned inward and not directed at some undelivered expectation. If you have a voice use it, if you have a choice voice it, if you have an opinion own it.

WASHINGTON, D.C. – Tragedy struck today, on the eve of President-elect Barack Obama’s inauguration, when outgoing President George W. Bush suddenly exploded. Details are still sketchy at the moment, but it would appear that Bush, today, came to the realization that he would no longer be President and “would hold his breath until he turned blue.” Secret service officials report that this has happened frequently over the past eight years and that the President’s mother and former First Lady, Barbara Bush was usually on hand to console her son as she often did when her husband held the office. A distraught Vice President, Dick Cheney was lead away in tears, rumored to have been mubling, “Goddamn Hammas, always blowing stuff up. I wanted to take him quail hunting. Does this mean I’m charge now?” Tomorrow’s inauguration will continue as scheduled.

Two years ago, I listened to an economist detail how the world economy could not survive the price of oil going over $40.00 a barrel. How it would trickle down through manufacturing, was well as shipping and delivery, impacting ALL durable goods. I wrote this off as typical doom and gloom economics, then watched the price climb to $40.00 and skyrocket past into infinity. Not a word mentioned along the way about the impact the price was having beyond what we saw at the pump. It seemed gas was the only commodity affected by this. The press, never again, mentioning the economic benchmark of $40.00 nor its predicted impact.

Well, Christmas is supposedly a time of miracles and today there is a bit of good news - the price of oil has dropped to $38.00 a barrel – much to the dismay of the greedy oil companies. In light of all the economic worries we hear each day, this is really good news – an indication that things are going to get better. Like all good things this will take time - probably the years it took us to get here – but have patience this is a good sign.

Sidebar – something to make you go hmmmm – the price of oil equals profits for oil men, of which George W. Bush is one. Now that he’s leaving office, pockets full, well I’ll let you draw your own conclusions. Let’s just hope the price of war declines with the exit of Dick Cheney.

Peace on Earth and change in your pocket, just imagine.

Two weeks ago, I took another step toward becoming a grown-up. Dammit!

In 1969, my world consisted of NASA, Aurora models, Hot Wheels, and Saturday matinees. I had recently discovered Dark Shadows, Twilight Zone, The Creature from the Black Lagoon, the late, late show and The Beatles – all things that would stay with me forever. I also found this great magazine, right next to the comic books – the cover was adorned with the giant rattlesnake – the same art from the Land of the Giants model box. I picked it up and magically, I was ruined forever. The magazine, Famous Monsters of Filmland #55, was the first of many firsts for me – none that I remember as well though. I don’t remember my first look at MAD, Crawdaddy, National Lampoon, or FM imitators Eerie or Creepy all staples of my early existence. It was the first time to took notice of a name – Forrest J Ackerman – editor in chief – whatever that was. It was obvious that it was Forry’s magazine though and obvious that we shared a love for monsters. It would be a rather one-sided relationship until 1989 when we actually become friends.

We lost Forry two weeks ago at the age of 92 and I’m writing this not because he was important to world of horror and sci-fi – the phrase he coined – he was. Not because he was the collector of all collectors, he was. Not because he was the only person I knew who had seen H.G. Wells speak, he was. But because he was my friend and I will miss him forever and I want you all to miss him too. “Uncle” Forry was everything his magazine was and every time I was around him, I was twelve years again – but that was okay, so was he. He was funny, smart, and most of all loved monster movies – what more can you say about a person. It is not lost on me, how lucky I was to have known him.

I just had the pleasure of seeing Michael MacDonald’s documentary Famous Monster: Forrest J Ackerman – featuring interviews with a great many friends from L.A. (I hope Road House Productions will find some way to release it on DVD). If you have a chance, see it, it’s a great tribute to a wonderful man – whether you know who he was or not. Otherwise, put on a copy of Dracula, or King Kong and be twelve again – we all need it.

Welcome back lone reader, far too much has happened since I last blogged, so I feel it would be best to let it unfold naturally over the coming months, much like a Season 10 episode of - LOST.

The biggest news is that four months ago, following Horace Greely’s sage advice of ‘go west young man,’ I did just that and upon driving into the Pacific Ocean, reconsidered the implications of this advice and turned my sights north toward Vancouver – settling in South Delta between “The Hole” and “Point Bob.” Another implication that needed an ounce of consideration.

The despair that comes over me every year at Christmas coupled with the despair of feeling snowbound in unfamiliar tundra, has left me in place that few get to visit. Not really a happy place to writing my return blog from, sorry. I have written tons since I got here – some lost after a security glitch in my laptop, of which I have recovered only about 60% - rants about the price of scotch; the unfairly high cost of junk food when compared to the availability of pot; learning how to deal with family and bi-polar bears. All of which will, no doubt, find their way to this page, now that I have unlocked the entrance to my blog once again.

While my current state of mind is good for my writing, as was the move out of L.A. ( I keep telling myself that) it’s not good for much of anything else – other than rediscovering the music of Warren Zevon and dusting off my uke. Did I mention the snow? Oh yes, I am literally snowbound. I ventured outside yesterday, feeling like I could drop, frozen in the snow and simply be absorbed by it and it reminded me of a poem by D.H. Lawrence:

I never saw a wild thing
Sorry for itself.
A small bird will drop frozen dead from a bough
Without having felt sorry for itself.

Yeah, Dave, I get it – especially the “drop frozen dead” part - humans are the only animal capable of self-pity. So I’m human, good to know. I think it would help my mood if it was about 80 degrees outside. And yes, I admit that I miss Christmas in L.A. I miss wearing shorts while picking out your tree. I miss cutting off that guy in the Christmas tree parking lot and getting that holiday greeting of “get flocked.” I miss seeing that mall Santa who was the serial killer on last week’s CSI. I miss dodging bullets from a drive-by as they ricochet behind you, ringing out “Hark, Hear the Bells.”

So, sitting here in this Winter Wonderland pondering the distinct probability of a f’ing White Christmas (and I only used f’ing because it’s the holidays) makes me wonder why, with all bustle & insanity of this “season” how anyone could write a song like White Christmas – because all of the songwriters of the forties and fifties lived where? That’s right, Los Angeles!

So, I will try to keep the self pity in check, if the rest of the world will keep Christmas in check. Deal? Welcome back.

Hello lost readers.

Miss me?

It's been an odd lost weekend that lasted two years. A long time since my last post. While it is not their fault, I will put the blame on Google for taking over blogspot as I have tried a number of times to get back on and finally tonight had obvious success. Much has happened in the past two years - too much to bring one up to date here and now, but I promise The Hyena Kitchen is back and will be (hopefully) a frequent addition to your daily waste of time.

However, sleep beacons at the moment - yeah, I know, another excuse. FIrst real post will be tomorrow.