It was June of 1959 that George Reeves, "Superman" of the 1950s television show shot himself in the head. "Faster than a speeding bullet?" Nope.

MSNBC: In the end, Dangerfield really did get respect

Rodney Dangerfield died Tuesday, October 5th at age 82. Rest in Peace Rodney.

Christopher Reeve died today.

***

"I'll give you $20 to kick him in the head."

The "him" in the offer was me and the offer was made to a stripper wearing enormous platform boots. We weren't isitting at the rack of the classiest of strip clubs by any means. I'm sure that for a fifty, this girl would have cut my heart out with a pizza slicer. Drunk enough that my eyes weren't fully tracking, I turned to my friend as he sipped his gin and tonic to laughingly tell him to go fuck himself. It was at that moment a patent-leather heel kissed the top of my head. I would have said something but the inebriation and the possible concussion stunned me momentarily, taking away the chance to say something. I looked at the smiling stripper and my friend merely looked at me, also smiling as he slipped her a Jackson.

My friend's eccentricity was acceptable as he was going through some personal turbulence. No serious issues... just the kind that seeing a stripper kick your friend in the head would alleviate. If slamming my head into a wall would make him feel better, I'd probably do it because I'm a good friend... and a fucking moron. We were on day three of a semi-bender, resolving personal and professional issues not through discussion or personal reflection, but through alcohol and drug abuse. Strip clubs merely peppered our journey around the city. "You guys are back again" one stripper said to us." I replied "what do you mean?"

"You were here last night."

I didn't believe her. I turned to my friend and asked him if we were there
the night before. He nodded yes. Fuck... I gotta lay off the sauce.

Next day: I groggily approach the day... fumbling for the remote which is somewhere
under the covers next to the home phone, the cell phone, and my glasses that
I accidentally left on as I fell asleep. Depending on how late I slept in, I
either watch the news or a movie on American Movie Classics. The excellence
of the AMC movie or the boredom inspiring mediocrity of the television news
inspires me out of bed. I grab a sugar-free Red Bull from my bedside beverage
cooler (word). From there I commute to the office twenty-feet away and plop
down into my sweet hand-me-down leather office chair. I turn on my computer
monitor and wait with anticipation as my applications load up. The computer
is like a portal into my immediate future. Emails requesting work, due bills,
fresh music and/or porn from BearShare.

Next night... who knows what happened. Woke up on a couch.

Next day's hangover kicked in as I rolled over in my bed and turned on the
wall mounted TV above my bed. A big, fat, depressed guy in a blue sweatshirt
appeared on the screen. Fuck, it's me. My new commercial came out hella early.
I hope I've dropped some pounds since I filmed that. A unique and depressing
way to start the day. My friend calls me up and says that he bought a lottery
ticket. If he wins the $157 million he promises that he'll buy livers and have
them cryogenically frozen for when we wear ours out. An occurence that could
easily occur within the next three weeks or so, at the rate we're going. I smile
at the possibility of two American tourists waking up in Brazil or some godforsaken
place naked in a tub full of ice with a note and a phone. The note reads "call
a hospital, your liver has been removed." When I get my new liver I'll
have it soaked in Glenfiddich prior to insertion to ease the pain and give me
a head start to the day.

Did I really write "hella?"

I gotta go: GOOCH:out

My Way News: Christopher Reeve Dies at 52