World Humour

Macintosh Blues

Sat, 20 Jan 2007 21:06:53 GMT

Mad Cow Fever

There are times when owning a Macintosh computer is not exactly a bag of joy. Parts are expensive and qualified technicians are an endangered species. It’s actually easier finding a photo of Paris Hilton without cleavage than a Mac tech that actually knows what they’re talking about. Mac enthusiasts might point out that every Apple Store offers the Genius bar where anyone may make an appointment and discuss their problems with a resident “Genius”. Now I admit I have received help from these guys but usually they are only going through a short list of solutions they learned in their 8 week program in Cupertino. If that doesn’t solve your problem you’re out of the door in the allotted 15 minutes.

I have loved Macs ever since my first Mac SE 90 in 1987 and belonged to the Los Angeles Macintosh User Group when thousands of us would flock down to the Department of Water and Power building in downtown Los Angeles for our monthly meetings. We would be astounded at the possibility of balloon help and any new improvements to our miracle machines. So when I say I am lately tempted to surrender my Mac passport and swear allegiance to the Nation of PC it is saying something.

It all started a month ago when I took my iMac DV SE out of storage where it had collected dust (figuratively) for six years. I wanted to give it to my four year old granddaughter. A friend of my son’s gave him OS 10.3 and I was going to upgrade my 9.0 system so Angel could play her new Dora The Explorer games, which require a minimum of 10.2, as most games these days do. I inserted the 10.3 installer CD into my iMac but when I received an alert box notifying me that I didn’t have the necessary firmware I didn’t install the system. Yet my iMac went into seizures and wouldn’t reboot for two weeks, even though I consulted all the Mac forums and tried everything. After two weeks of trying three pages of solutions I was preparing to throw it into a dumpster.

Then I ran across Mad Cow Studios in Toluca Lake, CA.

(818) 623-9626 helpme@madcowstudios.com

Geoffrey Miller is truly a genius as compared to those who merely wear the title at the Apple Store. (I suspect he's a genius compared to most of us mere mortals) He found that my video card was affected by the 10.3 installer CD, made some frequency changes and I had my iMac back. Now if only he worked on Toyotas. PC don’t “bite the dust” when you just install a CD. I didn’t even try installing the new OS but just inserted a CD! Then there is the Mac engineering. Apple back in 1999 redesigned the analog board so the flyback transformer sat right next to a hot CRT, and then in their Mac wisdom, took out the fan to quiet down the computer. That is a recipe for transformer failure. The guys at the so-called “Genius” bar were all convinced my analog board, specifically the flyback transformer, was bad and not worth the hundreds of dollar to replace.

Geoffrey Miller at Mad Cow Studios was the only true genius who suspected it wasn’t that serious and he was right. I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised if Mr. Miller is rarely wrong. If you’ve got a Mac problem and the world is stumped you might consider contacting him. My granddaughter is now gleefully playing Bugdom and her Disney games thanks entirely to his Mac expertise. Thank you, Mr. Geoffrey Miller.

If it wasn’t for your Mad Cow Studios my granddaughter's iMac would be sitting in the dumpster right now.

Tom Neuhoff

World Humour

Wreck Beach

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:22:31 GMT

Wreck Beach is the biggest nude beach in North America and it's located right on the campus of the University of British Columbia. I know because I took every opportunity to spend time down there, enjoying the sun, conversing with other students, meditating...oh, who I am kidding? I went down there to stare at naked chicks.

Nudity in Canada is somewhat different than nudity in California. If you can find a clothing optional beach in Southern California there's also a good chance that it's littered with needles, used condoms and discarded issues of "The Hollywood Reporter". In Canada, as in Europe, nudity is not considered taboo or even risque. Whole families spend a day, naked in the sun. The very young as well as the very old.

Girls and boys alike, going through those delicate stages of puberty, are rarely seen. Not even with their families. Perhaps while they are understandably sensitive to their developing bodies it's apparent that many obese individuals couldn't care less what they look like. Picture a Speedo stretched around a wine barrel.

Growing up in convervative Wisconsin left me with some hangups as to public nudity. The only time you're naked outdoors in Wisconsin is when a bear is attacking your tent and you don't have time to slip on some underwear. There are some suspicions that the bear actually considers this humorous and gets a big kick out of chasing naked campers through the woods until he needs to catch his breath.

My son, Tyson, was about six or seven years old when he came to live with me for my second year of graduate school at UBC. Wreck Beach is on the other end of campus and while we would walk there he would pick flowers to give to the prettiest girls on the beach. Let me tell you a kid with flowers hooks you up with far more chicks than a puppy anyday. No matter how cute the puppy might be.

Some of the locals make a living on the beach selling everything from margaritas to hashish. You could always tell if someone was a cop because they would be wearing underwear. Technically, it's illegal to be nude in public but that hasn't stopped thousands from descending on Wreck Beach as late spring approaches.

You would think that naked people would be more guarded and less likely to befriend a stranger and yet those sunbathers on Wreck Beach are the nicest people you're ever going to meet. They will be annoyed, however, if you keep your clothes on and insist on bringing more than one camera with you.

Trust me, it's not easy running at top speed across a beach with several cameras bouncing off your chest and hitting you in the face.

Sometimes it takes a kid to immediately notice anything a bit out of the ordinary. My son was too young to know anything about menstrual periods or tampons. Some of the women, in their periods, would be lying on their back, legs apart with the tampon string hanging out. My son wanted to know what happened if you pulled the string. I guess he thought it worked like one of those Talking Barbies. If I was a cruel father I would have suggested he try pulling the string and find out.

It's not easy getting down to the beach. If it was nobody would feel safe. You've got to crawl down this incredibly steep, winding path for about a quarter of a mile before you hit sand. Walking back up is a fine workout for anyone. (Especially if you're carrying a number of cameras around your neck.)

I have so many fond memories of the University of British Columbia. The Creative Writing was, and still is, the finest in North America offering a wide diversity of genres to its talented writers. Vancouver was a different city back then. Back in 1980 many restaurants catered to the backgammon craze and placed boards on most of the tables. That's all history now.

Wreck Beach lives on and always will. The arch conservative elements of Vancouver politics have always threatened to bulldoze a road down to the beach so the cops can more easily patrol it but that has never happened. I hope it never will.

Where else can you be naked without getting laughed at?

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Blogstream

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Wreck Beach

Sex & Sin

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:18:19 GMT

I was raised in a small Wisconsin farming town where we learned the two greatest sins were sex and losing to the Bears.

Lombardi was coach of the Packers and I thought sex was only for people in California and Paul Horning. I've grown up since those days and learned that even butt ugly people have sex. So there is that glimmer of hope.

I lost my virginity in the front of a '61 Falcon and to this day can't have sex with my knees bent. Don't ask. It only brings back embarrassing memories.

There was a time in my life when I wanted to be a Franciscan monk. Not because I wanted to devote my life to Christ but rather because I thought the robes looked so cool. That's pretty much the same reason I enlisted in the Air Force. Cool uniforms. I was a young, naive altar boy back when Latin was spoken in Mass. The cool robes sucked a lot of us in at that age.

As a Catholic growing up in the 50's and 60's I was taught that sex was a sin unless you were married and then only if it was with your wife. There's always a catch. One teacher I had told me that sex was bad even in marriage but I don't think she was speaking of sin or other marriages. Just her husband.

Where I grew up in Wisconsin there were only three religions: Catholics, Lutherans and Packer fans. I never met or even saw any minorities until I graduated from high school and worked as an elevator operator at the YMCA in Chicago down in the loop. Talk about culture shock.

I don't think I would enjoy sex as much if it wasn't a sin.

It's a lot like eating a hot dog on Friday back when it was a venial sin to eat meat on Friday. I'd get married again in a heartbeat if they only made that a sin.

There is talk now with the publishing of "The DaVinci Code" and other books that Jesus married Mary Magdalene and they had a daughter who grew up in France after Christ was crucified. While this story doesn't offend my Catholic sensibility, I am saddened to hear anybody's kid had to grow up in France.

At the risk of sounding sacrilegious, I am curious what it would be like to have sex with the Son of God. You figure anyone who can turn water into wine has a few tricks up his sleeve. But wouldn't it be intimidating to know He's the Son of God? It would be like I was back in 5th. Grade and had to shower in front of the hall monitor. Where do you go to meet men after Jesus? How would you like to be the first guy Mary Magdalene dated after Jesus? How do you size up to the Son of God? It would be like an amateur comic on open mic night following Lenny Bruce, Bill Cosby and Dave Chappelle.

If you're Mary Magdalene and lost your husband, where do you find a man that even comes close to the caliber of Christ? Especially in France.

I suppose sex will always be a sin. I hope so. That way we have something to feel good about when we can't get laid. Sometimes I wonder if there is sex in Heaven and if there is how much do we have to tip for it?

I would be happy if Heaven was the one place where women didn't insist on turning the lights off before I took my clothes off.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Blogstream

Comics Life

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:11:26 GMT

If you want to be a writer you lead the Jack Kerouac lifestyle, hitchhiking and hopping freight trains across country. Been there. Done that.

A comic has a totally different path to success. You follow in the footsteps of the greats like Bill Cosby, Lenny Bruce, Robin Williams, Jim Carey and even Dave Chappelle. You work the clubs and go for laughs wherever you are 24/7.

Having a comic around can be a pain in the ass.

In my standup comedy days I was working open mic nights at both Comedy Stores, Hollywood and Westwood, as well as The Improv on Melrose where I would arrive in my ambulance and plead for the most opportune time slot by telling the MC I had just gotten a Code 3 and had to run off to save yet another life. Could I please do my 4 minutes next? Then I'd do my routine in full EMT uniform and race out of the parking lot with lights and siren blaring. Until Schaefer's caught me with their ambulance.

The big disadvantage of open mic night is you don't really know exactly when you're going up onstage. It could be in five minutes or two hours. That would drive most sober comics crazy. You always hoped the comic ahead of you would bomb badly. So bad that people didn't even care enough to heckle. I once had to follow Freddie Prinze high on cocaine and I've never seen anyone funnier. Yet when he went to sit down by the bar he was surrounded by people with no one talking to him. He looked so lonely.

I do miss being young and dumb enough to dream of fame. When you're young you figure you've got eternity to become famous. Then as you approach 40 you keep reminding yourself that Rodney Dangerfield was a paint salesman until he was 42. At least that's the story we aging comics want to believe. Once you're past 50 there's no point of reference.

If fame hasn't knocked on your door by 50 it's not even in your neighborhood.

I turned 57 February 12th. My life sucks.

To this day I still have problems watch comics perform. For one thing, not very many of them are funny. When they do bomb my guts are in knots, empathizing with that sinking feeling. If my first couple of jokes went over I would relax and take the time to deliver each line in the right tempo. But if there was silence right off the bat, it would tend to throw my timing completely off. It's not as if my standup days were only yesterday. I might be too old for dreams but the memories are working just fine.

I'm working on putting together an improv act, "Fortune Man". It's a parody on the psychic hotlines with speakerphones to the After World so anyone in the audience could talk to a dead uncle or JFK. Another comic backstage would play those parts. It's a work in progress. Perhaps it always will be.

I wrote a newspaper column, "Hollywood Daze", for a year reflecting on my life in L.A. trying to make it as a comic compared to the world I knew growing up in Chilton, Wisconsin. Recently I converted that column into blogs with the same title for the whole world to witness my dreams and failures. Ain't the internet just grand?

A comic's brain works differently. We always see the setup and punchline in whatever happens to us. Even if something bad happens I can still see how that work so well in a sketch. They often say pain is the Petri dish for comedy but if that were true, after two failed marriages, I should be the funniest guy on the planet. Sometimes I am but only briefly. And when no one else is around to witness my brilliance. Isn't it always that way? It's really quite simple.

Comics are funny because we're not good at anything else.

If you or anyone you know is still young enough to dream of fame as a comic I would make the following suggestions:
1) Don't think you're funny just because your parents are laughing. Trust me, they are laughing at you.
2) Don't think fame as a comic will score big with the chicks. Even the guy driving the Zomboni at a hockey game gets laids more than most comics.
3) Don't use your real name. That will make denying anything much harder later on.
4) Don't write your standup routine with your clothes on. If you look like most comics you're much funnier naked.

I wrote my best routines at Wreck Beach, the largest nude beach in North America.

I'm not against dreaming. Hell, that's all most married men have. But I am just getting tired of chasing the carrot. And the carrot keeps getting smaller.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff

World Humour

"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogstream

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Village Idiot

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:09:15 GMT

There was a time a hundred years ago or more when I believed whatever anyone said in a chat room or online conversation anywhere.

If we all wore nametags mine would read, "Village Idiot".

My life would have turned out so differently if I were born a good-looking guy. Or was rich. Or even smart. Instead I was the funny one that nobody invited to their birthday parties. The life of a clown. While I was the class clown in high school and had no problem cracking up my fellow students I would get extremely shy in front of anyone with a uterus. Especially if they were beautiful. I still have problems with gorgeous women. Not that I don't enjoy looking at them but it's the expression on their face when they catch me staring.

I wonder if George Clooney is shy in front of anyone. Any lady on the planet. Did Brad Pitt clam up in front of Angelina when he first met her? Is it normal to be somewhat of a clod in front of hot women? It is for me.

Life would be so much easier if I could just read a woman's mind. That way when she smiles I'll know if it's a smile that says, "I am being pleasant only so you don't hurt me." or is she about to ask me for help with her resume or her car? Is it ever a smile that reflects an interest in me? Maybe it's better I never know. Life is depressing enough already.

I've dabbled with a few online dating services. It inevitably comes down to one basic fact of life; beautiful women want beautiful men with tons of money and ugly women will settle just for the money. I have neither. What is a Village Idiot to do?

I suppose if God meant for me to have an active sex life he would have blessed me with both testicles. I can't tell you how many times that would have come in handy!

There's no question I'm a slow learner. No matter how many times I am spurned I still continue to give out my business card like they were hits of Ecstasy. Then when she doesn't call I convince myself that it's a waste of time to even flirt and vow never to hand out my card again or even strike up an animated conversation with a beautiful woman. Then the first time I run into some gorgeous nymph I fall back into making an ass out of myself. I don't think I'm alone in that. Why can't I see the reality of my life? I'm 57 years old, out of work, broke and living in the back of a '92 Previa van. What's not to understand?

No matter how much I write about this it always comes down to one reality; beautiful women excite me when they smile. When they breathe. How their hips dance slowly to a Latin beat when they walk. The sound of their voice passing through lips blessed by God. My heart skips a beat when they even turn my way. For just a split second I am George Clooney outside his Italian villa. I am Brad Pitt with Angelina on his arm. I am all men cool and then I am the Village Idiot again. The cycle repeats itself continually. Every day of the year. Every year of my life.

Men and women play the same games. The only difference is women are much smarter than us and play so much better. It's like comparing Anna Kornikova to a chimp with a racket. Getting rejected by a beautiful woman is disheartening but understandable. That doesn't make it any less painful. Just easier to cope with.

It's a wonder women have put up with us men this long.

If the genetic scientists can ever create a penis in a Petri dish we're all in serious trouble.

My name is Tom.

I am the Village Idiot.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Writers Demise

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:07:56 GMT

As a child in a dream I spent my free time in the forests tracking small animals.

I perused any books having to do with wildlife and it was only a matter of time before I became a biologist. Then I entered Mrs. Rybicke's sophomore English class and by the time I graduated from Chilton High School I was no longer a man of the forest. I was a writer with a new dream. Fame and fortune.

Somewhere along the way I failed. Failed as a writer. Failed as a dreamer. While a grad student in Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia I was expected to graduate in three years and go on to grand things. Perhaps even my own sitcom. What happened?

A common question I like to ask people is, "If you could do absolutely anything for a living what would it be?" You'd be surprised how many people are devoid of dreams. Sometimes I envy them.

I've been living in a van on the streets of L.A. for six years and one month. It is a world of the disenchanted and disenfranchised. A world of mad dreamers and disappointed survivors. Show business is not kind to the elderly. For me, at my age, the best I can hope for now is to die in my sleep by the end of the week. And yet every morning I wake to the sunshine blinding me through the windshield. I just can't catch a break. On the bright side my overhead is low. A bottle of Windex now and then.

During my standup comedian days I followed some of the greats like Freddie Prinze long before he shot himself on a couch. I don't have a suicidal bone in my body or I'd be swapping jokes with Freddie right now.

I can't even imagine taking my own life and I can imagine a lot.

Improv comedy caught my attention way back in 1980 while I was a grad student in Vancouver, Canada. We waited in line at midnight until they struck the set from that evening's play and then would enter and compete without any guidelines or rules. Improv was new and exciting. Then it drifted south of the 40^th. parallel and developed a code of ethics.

America claimed improv as its own and mutated all the fun out of it.

I'm not without any dreams. I still want to put together an improv act. "Fortune Man" would be a parody of the psychic hotlines. I would, of course, be Fortune Man along with other improv comics and audience members participating in mock seances, channeling and tarot card readings. A speakerphone to the After World would allow audience members to talk with a dead uncle or JFK . Comics backstage would be on the other end of the phone playing those roles.

I'm going to level with you. I started writing in blogs only after Bill Gannon from Yahoo suggested I convert a year long string of stories from my newspaper column into blog format after I applied for an editor's position. It took me two and half weeks to convert all 12 stories as well as writing four more, including this one. I never heard back from Mr. Gannon after numerous emails. Don't you just love prospective employers who just leave you hanging? I am assuming that Mr. Gannon either had a massive stroke or just isn't civilized enough to let me know where I stand. If I'm lucky it's both.

As I've said many times I wish I had grown up dreaming of becoming a plumber. There's far more security and better pay in that. Instead I grew up dreaming of becoming a famous comedy writer and comic. I expected to have my own sitcom, own property in Malibu and fly my own plane by the age of 30. Instead, at 57, I'm a bum in a van.

One monumental payoff from writing this blog has been the emails. Not only from appreciative readers but others from my past as well. My first wife, Jessie, whom I hadn't heard from in over 35 years, wrote me her version of how we met in a blog. She followed it the next day with a blog describing her second marriage. Jessie's turned out to be a better writer than me even though she makes her living as an attorney four blocks from the White House. Good for her. She deserves to be finally recognized for her creative brilliance.

Trust me, you don't want to live in a van anywhere in L.A.

I've woken up at 3:00 in the morning to find a crackhead sitting the passenger seat trying to steal my stereo.

I've had a gang of skateboarders break all my windows while I was sleeping inside. I've been in gunfights, fist fights and hooker fights. And that's just in one night in Echo Park!

Life goes on as I stand still. I'm a bum in a van.

The son that I raised by myself , Tyson, lives only 19 miles away yet he couldn't drive over to visit me on my birthday. I've never been very good at making friends while my son has some of the best people you could ever meet as close friends. The only joy in my life has been my four year old granddaughter but I don't see her anywhere as much as I would like to. Perhaps a common complaint among grandparents everywhere.

I don't envision writing another entry into this blog. I hope I've entertained and amused some of you and perhaps irritated a few. Hopefully those people won't learn where I park my van at night. It's fairly safe to say we all look for a piece of ourselves in everything we read. Maybe you've found a facet of yourself in something I've written here or in any of my other posts in this blog.

In the final analysis we are responsible for the decisions we make. I've been afforded an excellent education and should have made better personal and career decisions. I came from an era of hippies and bohemians who glorified the life of people like Jack Keroac. Today I sold blood just so I could afford the gas to keep driving over to the unemployment office. I sat for an hour with a needle the size of Michael Jackson's penis in my arm just for twenty bucks. Is this truly the life of an artist?

I left a small farming town in Wisconsin to chase my dreams West. Now, a hundred years later, my dreams have chased me into the back of a Toyota Previa with a blown head gasket. What happened? Ain't life full of surprises?

If you don't see another post in this blog I am in jail, dead or both.

Goodbye.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Jessie

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:06:33 GMT

Jessie

I had just completed my freshman year at UW-Oshkosh in 1971 and was eager to get back on the road hitchhiking anywhere. My friend, Don, and I set out for a trek west but never got any further than Denver. Don's father was a doctor who taught at UW-Madison's medical school and I guess he was just rebelling against an upper class upbringing. Although many other students said they wanted to join me in my next cross-country hitchhiking trip, Don was the only one who actually showed up.

To be fair, there was one other friend who accompanied me on a hitchhiking trip into Canada. We ended up hopping a "hotshot" (Nonstop freight train) from Tornonto to Montreal and I have to say I've never seen more beautiful scenery. The only problem with freight trains is that, because of the load, there is a constant forward and backward jerking movement which makes sleeping in an empty boxcar quite difficult.

The next time you're near a moving freight train, listen closely and you'll hear that distinctive sound of the cars banging against each other. No passenger train makes that noise.

It's also advisable not to pick a car close to the locomotive. If you go through any tunnels soot from the engine will make you look like a member of a minstrel troupe. With our legs dangling out of the open doors of the boxcar, we saw racoons playing in a stream, deer foraging in a clearing and people riding their horse drawn buggies. Trains cut throught the backwoods of the countryside and I hightly recommend them over driving or flying. You might, however, prefer not to hop freights.

It was the best trip I ever took because I met Jessie, the love of my life, on a cool night in Denver that summer. St. Andrew's church in downtown Denver, back then, allowed transients and the homeless to sleep on the church floor but the doors were closed at 9:00 PM sharp. If you came in late you only had the abandoned VW van in the backyard and sleeping space there was extremely limited. It still beat sleeping in the park. Don didn't have a sleeping bag so he brought this cheap, brown, flannel bear suit, which he would wear at night. The Denver cops had a habit of waking anyone sleeping in the park by rapping the soles of your shoes with their nightstick. For some reason they never hit Don's feet. I don't know why but the bear suit probably had something to do with it.

I'll never forget the first time I set eyes on Jessie. Don and I were broke, hungry and hanging out on a downtown street corner one cool evening when three teenagers approached us. Two girls and a guy. As soon as they pitched into their Jesus talk I became impatient. Don, being sociology major, was more receptive and continued talking with them. My mood changed dramatically when Jessie invited us back to their Teen Challenge headquarters for cake and coffee. Free cake? Praise the Lord Jesus! I was ready to be saved.

Now I'll bet all of you can probably look back at the moment you met the love of your life and recall the chemistry that percolated immediately. Jessie and I talked exclusively with each other at Teen Challenge that night and I was impressed by her intelligence, effervescent personality and that smile. A smile that said everything would be okay because she was in the room. A smile that even today is intoxicating. Finally Jessie said she had to leave if she was going to catch the last bus home. Although she was only 17 she had already spent a year at Grand Canyon University, a Christian college in Phoenix. She was spending the summer with her parents in Englewood, about four miles up Broadway from downtown. Her father, an ex-boxer and carpenter, had built a small house in the backyard for Jessie to live in. It was beautiful. We spent one summer together in that toy home.

It wasn't more than ten minutes before Jessie returned and said, with what looked like a mischievous smile, she had missed the last bus and asked me if I would walk her home. Of course I didn't realize how far Englewood was at the time but looking back it wouldn't have mattered. I wanted to be with Jessie from the moment I met her and would jumped at the chance to spend any time with her, even if it meant walking all night long. After more than 35 years later, I sometimes wonder if Jessie missed that bus on purpose. Only she knows.

Sometimes it's a bit embarrassing to look back at what you did as a kid. Don and I were doing our laundry at a downtown hotel when an actual resident there walked in to share the facilities. I whispered to Don that we should stage a mock fistfight right in front of this guy just to see his reaction. As Don threw me back against a white wooden door my hand flew back and to our surprise we discovered that it was painted glass. The upper half of the door shattered and Don took off running. I had to gather our clothes and on my way up the stairs I ran into the night manager. He asked me if I had seen anything and I told him two guys were fighting in the laundromat. When he hurried down there I ran out of the hotel and for the rest of the night whenever I heard a police siren, I was certain they were coming for me.

I didn't see Don for a couple of days. The next day I was crossing the street and asked a complete stranger in the middle of the crosswalk if he knew where I could get a job. He said they were hiring topographical mapmakers at the Federal Center. I took a bus out to U.S. Geological Survey and lied, telling them I had three years of Geology when, in fact, I had only one semester and topographical mapmaking was my weakness. So I crammed at the library for a few hours and barely passed the test a few days later. Within four days I was driving a pickup truck in the back hills of Buffalo, Wyoming.

It wasn't easy telling Jessie I was leaving Denver. She knew I needed a job but leaving someone that just ignited your life is never easy. She cried and I regretted ever asking about a job in the crosswalk. That night I met up with Don in the VW van at St. Andrews. He told me he had met a married couple in the park and they had treated him with nothing less than grand hospitality at their home. They had even said he could bring his me back with him. Imagine my surprise when the front door opened to their apartment and it was the same hotel night manager that I had lied to. What are the odds of that happening?

Buffalo, Wyoming in 1971 was a cowboy's paradise. Many of the residents owned horses and it was still customary to ride downtown and tie your horse up outside the store. I was a hippie with long hair and never felt like I belonged there. One day I was going for a walk when I noticed four or five kids standing around a white horse in their huge front yard. The length of the fence must have been two football fields long. They asked me if I wanted to ride their horse, even though it didn't have a saddle on or even reins to hold onto. The kids said when I wanted the horse to stop to just squeeze my legs. Now you horse-smart people know that squeezing your legs only makes the horse run faster. That was the joke on me. Now it's a shame cars can't stop as fast as horses. When we hit the end of the yard the horse planted its front hooves and I flew over its head and into the fence. I never thought those kids would stop laughing. That's cowboy humor, I guess.

One day I returned from the rolling hills of Buffalo to find Jessie waiting for me in the rooming house I lived in. She had hitchhiked in the middle of the night from Denver to Buffalo! Nobody does that but Jessie did. She was fearless. Always was. Three days later I quit the best job I had and hitchhiked back to Denver with her. That's what true love is all about, isn't it? You can't stand to be away from each other? After all these years I sometimes wish I had stayed in Buffalo because it could have been a career with U.S. Geological Survey. On the other hand, it would have meant staying away from the love of my life. Heart always trumps brain. No regrets here.

Jessie transferred from Grand Canyon University to my school in Wisconsin so we could live together in Oshkosh. Four months later we were married in Green Bay. Less than a year later we were divorced. I was an immature, unstable lunatic and didn't deserve the fine time I had with Jessie. She deserved so much more.

In 1994 I was traveling from Wisconsin back to Los Angeles when I stopped by Denver to see how the old neighborhood looked. That entire section of Englewood was filled with boarded up houses. It looked like a ghost town. I couldn't even recognize any of the homes and after walking up and down the street, finally guessed which one was once Jessie's. I knocked on the front door. Not that I really expected anyone was living there but wanted to at least give it a shot. Slowly my head turned left to the house next to me and I could see what was once a beautiful toy home in the back yard. A yard of trash and three foot weeds. After decades of neglect our toy home looked more like a corpse of what it once was. Seeing something from your past in such poor condition suddenly makes you feel a thousand years old. I wished I had never stopped.

I wished I could remember that toy home as it was in 1971. But it was too late.

Jessie didn't want anything to do with me after the divorce. Can you blame her? Then during my first year of graduate school in Canada she called to let me know she had remarried, moved back East and gave birth to a baby girl. I had been calling her mother just wanting to know she was okay. Feeling guilty for the way I mistreated her was killing me. She wanted me to know she was happy. But she didn't want to hear from me again. Ever. That would be the last time I would hear her voice. My Jessie's voice.

It's 2006. Jessie's parents have died. She's now a very successful and brilliant lawyer four blocks from the White House. Okay, I Googled her name out of curiosity. And then a couple of days ago I received an email from her informing me that she had found my high school class ring. She asked how I was doing. The animosity wasn't evident anymore and I hoped she had forgiven me for being a bastard a hundred years ago. Jessie will always remain the love of my life. Even if we never speak to each other again. Even if I never hear her voice. Or read her words.

I hope Jessie's happy.

Thank God for the Internet!

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Hollywood Daze/My Space

Fort St. John

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:05:28 GMT

An oil boomtown located over a thousand miles north of the Canadian border; Fort St. John British Columbia, in 1980 was right out of a John Wayne western. I soon learned that it was worlds away from anything I had ever seen before. It was, for the most part, more like the Old West of this country than anything I had seen in the 20th. Century. It’s not that they didn’t have indoor plumbing and television but that disputes would be settled in large bar fights every night and grudges were never held for long. Broken tables were leveled off with an ashtray beneath one leg.

Fort St. John was the only town I ever lived in that could legitimately boast of having more moose than cattle.

I had been accepted into the MFA program in Creative Writing at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver. The University of Iowa had turned me down and I thought a change of scenery might be helpful. It also didn’t hurt that UBC offered writing workshops in a diversity of genres while Iowa was interested primarily in novels, poetry and short stories. Okay, Kurt Vonnegut taught at Iowa and that would have been so cool but Canada was The Great White North and, in the long run, was a much better move for me.

Shortly after arriving in Vancouver I discovered that to get a student visa I would need $3500 in the bank, which I didn’t have. After talking with the Chairman of the Creative Writing Department, it was decided that I would attend the MFA program the following year, which gave me enough time to make the $3500. While sitting in the student union and going through the classified section of the Vancouver Sun, I found an opening for a cabaret D.J. in Fort St. John. When I asked a nearby student where Fort St. John was all they could say was, “Pretty damned far!” It was far indeed. Worlds away from Vancouver. A universe away from L.A.

Now I should mention here that while I was an undergraduate student in Radio-TV-Film at the University of Wisconsin in Oshkosh I had been fired as a nightclub D.J. My experience had been in radio where you don’t see your audience and then, suddenly in a club, I’m surrounded by people watching my every move. I was trying to learn more about the equipment the first night and the second night I found another excuse not to speak. I found myself stuck right in the middle of a mental block. After not talking for four days they decided to fire me. So going to Fort St. John for a job I had already been fired for seemed a bit insane. It’s not as if I had many options. Fort St. John didn’t care about work visas and everyone else in Vancouver did.

The drive from Vancouver to Fort St. John is one of the most scenic trips you’re ever going to take, especially as you near Jasper Park. If you drive into the city of Jasper late at night you’ll find stray elk roaming the side streets and alleys looking for a free meal. It is both surreal and exciting. In L.A. we consider ourselves blessed if we see a coyote eating a squirrel.

The Northland Inn in 1980 was a cabaret, bar, lounge, and hotel all in one. Let me just say it wasn’t exactly the Hilton but it was a job. As soon as I arrived I went straight to the elevated D.J. booth and talked on the microphone. It broke the ice and I went on to become the most profitable D.J. in the 75-year history of the Northland Inn. At least that’s what my boss, Hector, told me when he wanted me to stay.

A different stripper would arrive every Monday from Vancouver on their dancer circuit through B.C. and Alberta. I would play their music while they danced in the bar during the afternoon. Those strippers taught me how to play backgammon. If you’re living in the big city and used to professional strippers you might have been surprised by the occasional lack of talent. My son’s 14 year old rottweiler is a better dancer than some of them and he’s got bad hips. One stripper, though, used hand puppets in her act and I must say I’ve never seen Kermit quite so happy. It was a fascinating place to work. The cook and I made the radio commercials for the cabaret in the DJ booth and for a brief while we were both local celebrities.

My first night in Fort St. John I slept with a native Indian woman. No other woman would have anything to do with me for months after that because I was an outsider and didn't make anywhere near the money the roughnecks on the oil rigs did. Some of the local ladies would walk up into the elevated D.J. booth and let me do whatever I wanted to do with them in the booth but once the lights came up at the end of the night they wouldn't even talk with me. My life changed considerably for the better when I met a new waitress in the cabaret a few months later. Gypsy had long red hair, double D’s and a voice that could make a dead man hard. She was a gift from Heaven.

The guys working on the oil rigs would come into town every two weeks with a wad of cash and little time to spend it. There were only a handful of hookers in town but they made out like bandits. I knew all of them because they hung out in my cabaret. I just couldn’t afford them. Stupid me. I was saving for graduate school. If I had it to do over I would definitely have spent the hundred bucks and gone for my personal favorite; Tweety. She at one time even offerred me a discount rate of $99.95.

Now in 1980 hockey wasn’t that popular in The States. Canadians, on the other hand, are the only people who actually love hockey more than sex. If you had a game show that combined both it would be a ratings gangbuster up there. Once, during a break in the cabaret, I was standing around a small group of locals when the conversation turned to Wayne Gretsky, who was still playing for Edmonton at the time. I asked who Wayne Gretsky was and you would have thought I had asked who Jesus Christ was! If you want Canadians to know you’re an American act dumb about hockey.

All the apartment buildings in Fort St. John have small posts with an electrical outlet at each outdoor parking space. With temperatures dipping very low every night you would be able to get your car started in the morning unless you had a heater installed in your engine block.

The cabaret played hard rock until I arrived at which time the manager felt disco would be more profitable. The roughnecks, in town for only a few days, continually threatened me if I didn’t play rock. Who dances to the Doors? I even had to be escorted to parties by bouncers because it wasn’t safe outside the cabaret after hours either. Although those guys off the oil rigs complained, most of them loved to dance to disco. They just would rather die than admit it.

After Gypsy and I had dated for a couple of weeks I ran into her ex-boyfriend. Tim was notoriously violent and was best known for breaking off a beer glass on the edge of a table and then ramming it into someone’s stomach. One night, in a moment of insanity, I approached him with an attitude and started a fight. He said he would be waiting outside for me and then both cowardice and common sense set in. I was to blame for starting the fight and later I told him just that. He walked away but soon the fact that I had backed out of a fight spread around town. Now everyone wanted to fight me.

Duke had partied with my other friends in the small hotel room I lived in. He picked a fight with me and for the rest of the night cabaret patrons would offer me advice on how to win a fight. Some of them said they would wait for Duke in the parking lot. Since Duke was one of the few Blacks living in Fort St. John at the time I could see this was getting racist real quickly. I couldn’t let the fight get outside. At the end of the night and as we walked toward the back door I asked Duke to look at me. When he did I hit him as hard as I could. His head snapped back at an odd angle and for a moment I just stared at what I had done. Then I hit him three more times and it was all over. No one picked a fight with me again. The threats for playing disco never ended.

Most of the city streets in 1980 were unpaved and so it was considered only common courtesy to remove your shoes as soon as you entered someone’s home. To this day I can still remember going to parties and seeing 50-75 pair of shoes in one huge pile at the front door. All this time later and I cherish the memory of all those shoes. That and the last time I saw Gypsy in the shower. It’s funny what you choose to remember.

The TV show, “Northern Exposure” reminds me so much of my experience in Fort St. John. Located right off the Alaska Highway, Fort St. John had much in common with the fictional Cicely. The people were genuine and sincere. Unique and fascinating. It was a time and world I miss often. To this day I wonder what ever happened to all those fine people.

I get email from Gypsy now and then but getting her anywhere near a shower is just another dream. For now.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Hollywood Daze/My Space

Fort St. John

The Sunshine Coast

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:04:18 GMT

If you don't think you're ever going to see The Pearly Gates then you might as well check out The Sunshine Coast of British Columbia because it's the closest you'll ever get to Heaven.

It's a 45 minute B.C. ferry ride from Horshoe Bay in West Vancouver to Langdale and you won't see a single ugly piece of scenery the entire trip. I first visited Sechelt on the Sunshine Coast while a graduate student at the University of British Columbia in Vancouver, which, incidentally, boasts the biggest nude beach in North America, Wreck Beach . It's right on campus. That's not why I applied to their Creative Writing program but it didn't hurt. The family of my girlfriend at the time, M.R. Paine (Don't ever call her Mary or Ruth!) owned a beautiful, rustic vacation home right on the beach between Sechelt and Halfmoon on Redrooffs Road. It's so scenic it even looks good on Mapquest!

M.R.'s father, Dr. Joseph Paine, died three or four months ago. That man could tell a story better than a drunken sailer and I couldn't have loved him more if he were my own father. (Actually, I wasn't crazy about my father but that's another story.) Doc represented the finest qualities of the Canadian spirit. Let me tell you something about Canadians, just in case you've either never been there or just spent a couple of weeks fishing in The Great White North. Many Americans I talk with think Canadians are a lot like cast members from "Northern Exposure", slow and knaive to the ways of the world. Let me tell you they're quicker than a Wyoming cowboy on Red Bull. Perhaps the reason I love B.C. so much, and especially the Sunshine Coast, is the people remind me of the Wisconsin neighbors I grew up around. And that's paying a might big compliment to anyone.

The locals on the Sunshine Coast find it entertaining to pick out the tourists as they first step foot off the ferry at Langdale. The tourists are the ones staring at the eagles flying overhead. I've been vacationing there for over 20 years and I still can't help looking up at these majestic birds. Sometimes I wonder if those eagles are laughing at me more than the locals. I just can't keep my eyes off of them. I mean the eagles, although the locals don't look half bad either.

Sometimes even Heaven has a few reality checks. Whenever I vacationed up there I always enjoyed tossing back a few pints at a local pub, The Wakefield, which unfortunately, no longer exists. I just heard from the Sechelt Chamber of Commerce that the entire section of waterfront was purchased by a developer and they have begun construction on 30 new homes. I guess that's progress on The Sunshine Coast. I met a local man, barely old enough to drink, there the last time who asked me if I wanted to meet any local women. My enthusiastic answer probably had something to do with the four pints of ale but I would have been eager even if I was sober.

I drove my van a couple of kilometers south towards Gibsons and stopped outside this huge house sitting atop a hill. The kid suggested I wait in the van until he could talk with the women first. This made sense to me so I pulled over to the shoulder and turned my engine off. And I waited. And waited. Suddenly the ale was having its effects and I wished I hadn't left the pub. Now I rarely drink and can't remember the last time I was drunk so I definately didn't need a Canadian DUI. It was probably no longer than 30 minutes but feeling more like hours when I decided to get back home. I turned the van on and tried to pull onto the road. My back tire started to spin in the muddy shoulder and it was obvious I was going nowhere soon.

As I stepped out of the van the R.C.M.P.'s cruiser's flashing lights lit up and I knew the jig was up. . Startled and drunk I fell against my van. The officer asked me if I had been drinking and it was impossible to lie to anyone that courteous. He asked me why I was parked there and so I told him about the kid who was going to introduce me to some local women. He laughed the same laugh as when they catch me staring at eagles. At that point he looked up at the house and asked me if I knew what that place was. He told me it was a Crack House. In Sechelt! It's like finding out there's a brothel in "It's A Small World"!

I still email Laurie McConnell, the webmaster at BigPacific.com, the site covering all of the Sunshine Coast. I continue to beg her for any creative work up there but being an American without a work visa it's doubtful I'm going to be working up there anytime soon. If you're curious what the Sunshine Coast looks like go to BigPacific.com and click away. Use your imagination. Picture yourself getting off the ferry at Landale and seeing your very first eagle. Ignore the laughing.

Like everyone else buying lottery tickets I have my big dreams. Lottery dreams. Buying water front property halfway between Sechelt and Halfmoon Bay is on the top of the list. The very top. If I don't win the lottery perhaps my comedy career will finally take off and I can afford to live there although I stand a better chance getting hit by lightning......with a winning lottery ticket tightly clenched in one hand.

If you're looking for a spectacular vacation in a land that takes you back to a better time consider the Sunshine Coast of British Columbia.

They might as well build Pearly Gates right at the ferry landing in Langdale because for most of you that's the closest you'll ever get to Heaven.

As for me I'll keep buying lottery tickets. It doesn't matter if it's Super Lotto or Mega Bucks. Winning either one means I'm heading north to Sechelt. Until then I'll continue writing about my dreams in

Hollywood Daze.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Hollywood Daze/My Space

Big Pacific

Augst Makes One Year

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:03:12 GMT

It's August.

A year can be a long time.

365 generations of fruit flies are born and die in a year.

That’s, coincidentally, is also the number of husbands Brittany Spears goes through in a year.

It's also how long I’ve been writing Hollywood Daze.

I don’t know what’s sadder. You fine people taking the time out of your busy day to read this blog or 365 fruit flies "kicking the bucket".

It’s the last few days of a Wisconsin August and it hasn’t yet dipped below freezing yet. You readers back in the Midwest would consider it downright balmy. In L.A. it’s considered cold outside if you can’t fry eggs on your hood.

We live in such different worlds. For the past year I’ve been writing about life in L.A. compared to the Chilton I remember. Chilton as I’ve wanted to see it. Perhaps needed to see it. But what is Chilton really like after all these years? I'm sure many of you reading this have hometowns that have changed dramatically since you lived there. If it wasn’t for all the blogs I wouldn’t know about such events as the 5KCheesehead Run in Hilbert. Now where else in the world can you see thousands of Cheeseheads running for a good cause? I can’t help but wonder what the sight must look like from an aerial view. A long, weaving and bobbing yellow snake winding and pointing towards a distant finish line.

August is the month in Hollywood to watch sitcoms being taped. I’ve been to at least a dozen of them and I recommend comfortable underwear. You'll be sitting for at least 5 or 6 hours. The scripts are crisp and the actors fresh out of rehab. If you ever come out here in the fall make it a point to take in a sitcom. It’s free. Take some show biz memories back home. Meet a few stars. Just remember what I have said before; actors are much shorter in person and movie actresses are never as beautiful in person as they are on the big screen. If they were beautiful in person they’d be hookers. Never forget that.

I heard through the grapevine there were a couple of blog readers this past year who were upset over certain comments of a religious nature I might have made. Let me clear this up. I have nothing but the utmost admiration and respect for all religious convictions. It’s our nature to question everything. Tax our minds. Our imagination. After all, if God didn’t trust our judgment He wouldn’t have created Free Will and the Spice Channel.

I hope this blog has both entertained and amused most of you this past year. (I only hope the others never learn where I live.) I wish every one of you all the best. No matter where you live or where you came from.

Everything has a Beginning and an End; except, unfortunately, for taxes and Rush Limbaugh.

This month marks a full year of blogs and I feel I have bored you enough. I can still be reached at Hollywood Daze

just in case any of you owe me money.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Hollywood Daze/My Space

Hollywood Tickets

July 4th.

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:01:29 GMT

In Hollywood you know the 4th of July is just around the corner when the L.A.P.D. starts running their public service announcements in movie theaters and on television imploring people not to fire their guns into the air. They won’t admit it, but I suspect some of these same cops, bored and angry at working the holiday shift, are firing their service revolvers into the air at the same time. Perhaps only down the block from the gangbangers firing their guns into the air. It’s one of the few times when the good guys and the bad buys aren’t firing at each other.

All the city and county parks are filled on the 4th with large Mexican families and a few poor White people. The sweet smell of carnitas and beans fills the air. Metal tubs of Corona (Beer of choice) in ice are next to every picnic bench. Drunken men in cowboys hats try to stay on their feet long enough to play soccer with family and friends. The White people bring their portable TVs so they won’t miss out on any of the holiday high speed car chases. The cops chasing another stolen car.

This is a holiday when celebrities leave the city and tourists flock to Hollywood and the Walk of Fame. Some of the tourists will never be seen again. It’s the 4th. of July in L.A. One important lesson I’ve learned from living in L.A. is that bad friends can bring a whole lot of trouble into your life. Bad neighborhoods can kill you. After my son graduated from high school and moved out I fell into this really depressing funk. So I started to hang out with the wrong kind of people in Echo Park. That’s where the movie, "Training Day", was filmed and not the best place to be if you want to avoid running into trouble. If the police aren’t stopping you to ask about your friend in the passenger seat the gangbangers are threatening you to cough up information as to your other friend’s whereabouts. Sooner or later you begin to think and act like everyone around you. One night a crackhead stole my wallet and before the night was over I was involved in my one and only gunfight. Bad neighborhoods can make you crazy. Very crazy. Sort of like a long weekend in Fond du Lac.

Conversely, hanging out in the right neighborhood can make a career out here. You’re just got to capitalize on any opportunity. Jamie Kennedy was a tenant of mine when I managed an apartment building across the street from The Hollywood Bowl. He had already made the movie, "Scream", and was on his way to stardom. Fame didn’t corrupt him in the slightest. He was kind to my son and friendly to everyone in the building. I wish now I had used him. Used him ‘til it hurt. He could have helped my career but I thought using him might look unprofessional. How stupid was I? As I look back there are so many more celebrities I should have used. Freddie Prinze, Sonny & Cher, Dick Clark. Even Sinbad. I should have said anything to them. Made a ton of promises. I could have my own sitcom by now if I had just been a bit more corrupt. Growing up in towns like Chilton can be a handicap. Without knowing it, you develop something of a moral compass. If you’re not careful you just might become a good person.

Here's a final thought out of the blue. I don’t think God has call waiting. I wonder just how many messages He has missed from me. How many times have I prayed and He was busy on the other line with someone more important? How many times have I prayed for a winning lottery ticket? Beach front property in Malibu? Less hair loss? So many things. So many prayers lost on hold. If only He would just get Call Waiting. Imagine how different the world would be.

It’s July and the summer’s half over. How many times have you been to the lake? Caught fireflies in a bottle? Gone fishing on a whim? Eaten fish on Friday? Go visit your home town before you can't recognize it anymore. Drop me a line at

Hollywood Daze

and let me know how it went.

The clock is ticking.

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Hollywood Daze/My Space

June Weddings

Thu, 15 Jun 2006 23:00:19 GMT

A June wedding is to die for. At least that’s what they say. Why do so many couples prefer to "Tie the Knot" this month? Sociologist Keith Farrington of Whitman college in Washington State measured the changes that occur each month in 31 social indicators, such as marriages, divorces, hiring, firings and suicides. Surprisingly, December, long thought to be a month ripe with suicides, was one of the least stressful while June ranked either first, second or third in stress in 18 of the 31 categories. So why get married in June? Call me cynical but I suspect even the most romantic of us doesn’t want to waste a good month like June on a marriage that’s probably doomed from Day One anyway.

I graduated from St. Mary’s Elementary School and Chilton High School in the month of June. Both times barely. I also graduated from UW-Oshkosh in June. I married twice in other months, both which ended up in disaster. It’s not that I didn’t try to get married in the cherished month of June. I did. I really did. I just couldn’t find anyone who would waste this month on me. You save June for that someone special.

Hollywood is, for the most part, Milwaukee in withdrawals. Imagine yourself blindfolded in your car out in the garage with the engine running for say…a couple of days. Suddenly a lunatic strung out on methamphetamines starts tossing firecrackers at your gas tank. That’s L.A. If the air doesn’t kill you someone else will. So why do I stay here? Where else can you watch a celebrity buy condoms?

Stars are everywhere and then suddenly they're not. Some of you might be planning summer vacations for June. It’s beautiful out here this month, especially down by the beaches. Huntington Beach is my personal favorite. It’s the birthplace of the thong. The good news is that L.A. mosquitoes are far and few between and only a tenth the size of Wisconsin mosquitoes. The bad news is some of them carry the West Nile virus and you might be going home in a body bag. Look at it this way. At least you won’t be getting air sick on the way home.

Hollywood is truly the show biz capital of the world. You could run into a celebrity on any street, in a grocery store, a race track or out buying condoms. Be prepared for a bit of a shock, though, because stars never look the same in person as they do in moves or on television. Not even close. You might have trouble recognizing them at first. I know I always do. Here are just a few guidelines that might come in handy should you find yourself face-to-face with a star:

1) Famous movie actresses are never as beautiful in person. As absolutely gorgeous as Nicole Kidman is on the big screen, a friend of mine saw her at a mall and mistook her for Carl Reiner. I met Barbra Streisand, without any makeup, in a Westwood yogurt shop and to this day anything in a cone sends me into cold sweats. (She was, contrary to tabloid fodder, very friendly to everyone in the shop.)

Rule of thumb: Famous movie actresses are famous because they’re beautiful on the screen. Not in person. If they were beautiful in person they’d be hookers.

2) Famous actors are much shorter than normal people. Not Munchkin short but shorter than your average Wisconsinite. So if you’re close to six feet tall or taller and try approaching a male star shouting enthusiastically while waving your arms over your head in circles, there’s a good chance you’re going to get this look on their face that just screams, "Please don’t hurt me!" I got that same exact expression on both Martin and Charlie Sheen’s faces. I ran into Charlie Sheen in a Culver City gun shop and was surprised to find out he wasn’t much taller than a kid’s broomstick. One of his Nikes was held together with duct tape. True story. I tried to comfort Martin Sheen, whom I met in a movie theater a couple months later, by telling him I had met his son in a gun shop but that seemed to scare him only more.

3) Don’t ask for autographs in public restrooms. While this will infuriate most stars it might put you on the unwanted Christmas lists of others. A neighbor of mine was still getting Christmas cards from Liberace six years after his death!

They say people are the same everywhere. Who ever said that has obviously never been to L.A. If people were the same everywhere there wouldn’t be any reason to vacation in Wisconsin. Sure you have the county fairs, getting drunk in a beer tent and pigging out on Johnsonville bratwursts and corn on the cob but in the end it’s you people that make Wisconsin well worth the trip. It’s you people that I miss the most about home. I'm sure it's what everyone misses the most about their home town.

Have a fantastic June. I heard it’s a month to die for.

Now if any of you fine ladies out there are interested in marrying a comedy writer there's always next June.

I can always be reached at

Hollywood Daze

For more comical info on the writer of this blog go to: WorldHumour.bravehost.com

Tom Neuhoff
World Humour
"Funnier Than You"

Hollywood Daze/Blogger

Hollywood Daze/Yahoo 360

Hollywood Daze/My Space