Chloe:
I absolutely adore your Nicole Kidman impression!  I love it so much, I kind of wrote a sketch for you: It's entitled "Nicole Kidman Goes to the Movies" and it's a spoof of her somehow surreal spots for AMC cinemas.  (Like, where does her overcoat go?  And where does she get that drink, 'cuz she didn't walk in with it, right?).
Chloe, I'm gifting it to you.  You can use that sketch on that TV show you work for.  It's all written out, in script form. You can find it right here, on this blog page.  It's just a matter of filming it.  You can do it!  You've got three weeks 'til the next show.  It's yours.  If you use it, you have my blessing: and now you have legal proof in this very missive that it was okay.  Of course, you can write your own version; but to be frank, I don't think you could make it any funnier than I already have.  Just a fact.  And I'm not gonna bushel basket myself.
Mazel tov!
Oh, and could you do me a favor?  Could you forward the following document to your employers for me?  Appreciate it!
Ciao
XOXOXXO
​Chris

Notice: Contains sexual material, including but not limited to: self-fellatio, locker-room talk, foot-fetishization (male), jock strap maintenance.

Does Everybody love him?  Did everybody love him?
I did.  For a good couple of months.  I had no idea who he was until he hosted America's Favorite Quiz Show (I know it's my favorite!).  Wait, what?  A professional football star who's so smart he could host Jeopardy!? (!??!!!):

Wait, what, he won as a contestant too? A quarter of a million dollars for charity?
Be still my beating heart! 
Alex Trebek was easy on the eyes; but now the show was proposing hiring this adorable, puppy-faced (actually, more equine faced; befitting a Sagittarius) stud to come into my living room five nights a week?  Wait, who does he play for?  

I MUST KNOW MORE!!!

So, I did a little research.  He's the super-star quarter-back for The Green Bay Packers.  He's from Chico, California.  He's single.  (But you already know all this...I didn't).  Then he started his Jeopardy! hosting stint and he had me at: What is the first word that came out of his mouth? for $200.  I don't know what was bedroomier...his bedroom eyes or his bedroom voice.  It was all I could do to concentrate on the clues.  I was sweating more than the contestants.  And, wait, what?  He's got a SENSE OF HUMOR too?  I picked up the phone and called Jeopardy!  "Make him the host right now!"  He's more into mustache play than Alex was; oh, the possibilities!
He seemed too good to be true!  Prescient words, it appears.

So, I wrote a couple of blogs.  One was about some famous Sagittarians. In my newly smitten state, I included Aaron who is a December Sag.  Then I wrote another blog wherein I created a sitcom from scratch.  It's set in Green Bay, Wisconsin so naturally it would include the Packers.  And naturally it would have to include Aaron, who, it seems to me, is a natural.  Not just football player; but performer/actor etc.  Athletes, for whatever reason, often are. I was even thinking about Aaron's episode for the show: Everybody Loves Aaron.  In it, Aaron comes to the general store looking for a pair of snow-shoes.  They have snow-shoes; but everyone is so enamored of Aaron, they keep finding ways to keep him in the store.  The gay son, drops by and pretends to work there.  He tells Aaron he needs to take his measurements for the snow-shoes.  Something like this:

COLTON: Mr. Rodgers--
AARON: Call, me Aaron, please.
COLTON: (Aside) Can I call you 'tonight'?
AARON: What?
COLTON: Aaron, I'm going to need your foot size for the snow-shoes...(he hoists up a Brannock Device, one of those clunky metal foot measuring apparatuses).
AARON: Sure. Size 14.
COLTON: Damn! (Drops the Brannock Device which clatters LOUDLY to the floor).
AARON: Excuse me?
COLTON: Oh, ah, Damn! I think we're out of size 14.
AARON: Could you check in the back?
COLTON: Of course. 
AARON: Do you have those fitted snow-suits, like for skiing?
COLTON: No, but we can order one for you.
AARON: Cool! Do you have a tape measure?
COLTON: Ah, I think so...(he opens drawer and rummages, pulls out tape measure) For what?
AARON: My measurements; for the snow-suit.  I want it really fitted, like James Bond!
COLTON: But I'm not a tailor...
AARON: But you can measure me.  Let's see...we'll need inseam, out-seam, waist, chest, neck, thigh circumference, hips, shoulders, buttocks; pretty much everything.
COLTON: (Grabbing a pencil and jotting it all down) Head size?
AARON: Well, I want a hood, so, yeah. Do you have a dressing room?
COLTON: No...why?
AARON: So I can get undressed.  You know, for the measuring!
COLTON: The pencil SNAPS in two.
AARON: (Removing pants) That's okay.  I'm not shy...

But now these delightfully hilarious and ribald shenanigans can never happen Aaron.  And I'll tell you why...
Well, first of all, this show doesn't currently exist, other than a script.  Secondly, if it ever did get produced, you'd probably be retired from the Packers; so, it wouldn't make much sense, unless, you famously retired and stayed in Green Bay; which I highly doubt you would do.  Also, you now have a bit of a credibility issue going on, since you admittedly misled a lot of people about your Covid vaccination status.  And you only "kind of" apologized.  You never said the words, "I'm sorry," or "I apologize."  This has created mistrust between you and the people that look up to you. That includes me.

The measure of a man is what he does with power.  -Plato

Aaron, you have every right to hold your opinions.  You have every right to remain unvaccinated.  However, you do have power.  People listen to what you have to say because you are who you are.  To quote someone else; with power comes responsibility.
I don't listen to The Pat McAfee or Joe Rogan shows.  I don't know what their political viewpoints are.  But from what I can sort of glean from my peripheral observations is that they both suffer from toxic masculinity (formerly known as "Macho Shitheadedness") I may be wrong.  I've got to do a little research.
So, I did a little research.  Very little.  It only took me about fifteen seconds of "The Pat McAfee Show" to figure out he's a, and I hate to use this word, it's a little judgy; but fuck it, I was judged by enough jocks in my school days--douche.  Yeah, seems like a total douche.  And I could tell watching you, Aaron, watching him, that you felt the same way.  I got the feeling you were "faux-broing."  (Registered, TM, Copyright, Pat Pend, All Rights Reserved).  Faux-broing is when a guy of superior intelligence and temperament pretends he's not because he's in the presence of macho shitheads, for whatever reason.  It's a sort of intellectual slumming, I suppose.
I don't think I have to mince words, regarding Joe Rogan.  He could be a poster boy for the typical Douche: 

Okay, we get it Joe.  You can do the splits.  And you can fellate yourself, supposedly.  Well, if a guy claims he can fellate himself, then, he's certainly tried.  And you claim you can; but...haven't.  Of course you have Joe.  Otherwise, you wouldn't have brought it up, so to speak.

I wonder if Pat McAfee can fellate himself.  I'm sure he's tried.  Of course he has.  Every male on the planet has given it a go.  And don't tell me you haven't, fellah.  Would women perform cunnilingus on themselves if they could?  I think we can all agree most wouldn't.  Women aren't all freaky, like teen-age boys.  
I overheard a conversation in a bar once.  A gay guy was talking to his friend.  I caught this snippet: "...I don't know," he said, shaking his head, "I just can't deal with blonde pubes right now..."
I'm losing track Aaron.
No, wait a second.  About the term "douche bag."  I'm a bit confused as to how it's come to mean, more or less, a particular type of male person.  Loud, boastful, aggressive, self-involved, full of themselves, showy, obnoxious, misogynistic dude.  Douche bag as an insult was first used to denigrate women.  Which makes sense, since it's a device that women use; the implication being that the woman is a little "loose."  Shouldn't the term, as applied to men, be "dick bag"?  Or maybe, "ball bag"; since men come equipped with their own bags?  Or maybe "enema bag" with it's implied reference to the asshole?  Or maybe we could get away from bags altogether and come up with something else; how about "Alpha-Mess"? (Copyright, registered, TM, Pat Pend. All Rights Reserved in perpetuity, forever and ever Amen!).

You don't need those guys, Aaron; with their locker-room trash talk and trashy towel-snapping and athlete's feet and ill-informed scientific data and auto-fellatio. You don't have to faux-bro.
Host Saturday Night Live.  I mean, you certainly have not been cancelled by Cancel Culture.  You're immune.  You're a football hero.  You are an All-American-NFL Superstar Quarterback.  You can do whatever you want.  Start developing TV shows!  How about ​My 225-Lb. Life?  Or Chillin' In Chico?  Or Aaron R. The Science Czar!
Or what about a line of intimate sports gear?  A collab with Calvin Klein underwear!  Do you know what a killing you would make? (Also, did you know people will pay Big Money for used underthings?  Well, they will.  It's on Ebay.  It's a thing...just sayin').  Which makes me wonder...people really would pay big bucks for any of your personal items.  Do you ever worry about locker room thieves?  Like, perhaps even your own teammates pilfering your pants or filching your flip-flops or lifting your loofah or jacking your jock?
Not to get off topic, again, but I couldn't help but wonder about your dirty under-things.  Is it wrong to wonder about dirty under-things?  Probably. But baby, if it's wrong, I don't wanna be right!  So, seriously, sort of...what do you do with your worn socks, athletic support items (jock straps, cups et al. etc.) grass stained gaiters and so forth?  Do you stuff them in a musty duffle bag and take them home and wash them yourself?  Or do you leave them on the locker room floor or throw them in a hamper on wheels for some locker room flunky to take care of it for you?  And how carefully vetted is that flunky?  Do you know what locker room flunkies do with soiled items?  Well, if gay porn is any indication, you don't wanna know.  Or maybe you do.  I don't know you like that.

That is an actual commercial that was actually scripted, filmed and aired on national television.  And then it was yanked.  Gee, I wonder why?  
So, anyways, Aaron...
I guess that's it.  I will say though, that even though you're still in my metaphorical dog house, I still love you.  I will find a way to get you on Cheeseheads, my imaginary sit-com.  So, in the mean time, Sagittarius...just keep your opinions to yourself. And stop hanging out with Alpha-messes.
Anyways, I blame the NFL for the whole kerfuffle.  They should simply mandate Covid vaccines for all employees and require proof of vaccination.  Shit, if I had to prove I was vaccinated to go see Dear Evan Hansen, then you can do the same to go to the Super Bowl.  Otherwise, our love's in Jeopardy!, baby.

So, Farrah called me one Saturday and said, "Chris, we need to talk..."
"Oh yeah, I promised I'd write a blog about you..."
​"What could you possibly have to say about me that hasn't already been covered on E! Entertainment television and in the pages of Rona Barrett's Gossip magazine?"

"Well," I responded to her, "I could ask you who that kid is; and if it's a boy or a girl because I really can't tell..."
"I think that's Lee Majors' daughter..."
"You think?"
"That was a long time ago.  It was the '70's--"
"But--"
"Look, I don't want to talk about him.  I want to talk about you."
"You do?"
"Yeah, I'm tired of talking about me."
"But--"
"Look, just meet me at Kate Mantilini's in an hour.  Bring your skateboard."
"I don't have a skateboard."
"You can borrow my roller skates."
"Didn't Kate Mantilini's close like ten years ago?"
"Just use your imagination Chris; or that special vaping pen that just arrived at your door.  Bye!"
There was a knock at the door. I went to it and found an unmarked box on the stoop.  I brought the box into the house and opened it.  Inside was a vaping pen with a note attached: "Drink Me!"  So, I opened the pen and drank the vape juice.
The next thing I knew, I was on the roof of the Capitol Records building wearing nothing but a Speedo and a pair of roller skates.  A Roller Boogie party was in progress, hosted by Cher.

After doing a couple disco 'rounds I pulled Cher aside.
"Where's Farrah?" I asked.  I took a drag on my vape pen and let out a huge phat cloud that floated past the spire.
"What is that?" Cher asked, more interested in the vape pen than my query. "Is that like a mini-hookah?  Let me try that!"  
I handed her the pen and she took a drag.  "Wow!  Bubble gum!"
"Cher," I said, "I've got to get to Kate Mantilini's.  Farrah's waiting for me--"
"Can I come?"
"Sure," I said, not so sure, "I guess..."
"Let's take the short cut--"
"What short cut?"
"The Rain-blow Bridge Express!"  She produced a vial of pink powder with a tag that said,"Sniff Me."  We both took a toot and then we were racing across a giant sequined over-pass, headed West.

So, over the bridge at light speed to Los Hillios de Beverly.  We took the exit ramp at million miles an hour and then Cher was asking the valet to park our roller skates.  "That's okay," a young Tom Selleck smiled, "you can wear them in..."
The hostess, a young Connie Chung, greeted us with menus.  "Right this way, Miss Fawcett is waiting for you..."
"Uhhm, could I get a jacket or something?  I feel a little under-dressed..."
"Oh, you're fine," Connie said, "we're a very laid back establishment!"
"Well, I don't want chest hair getting in my soup..."
"Oh, okay, I think I might have something in the coat-check..."
She returned with a full-length fur coat with a train, marabou trim and elaborate crystal bead work.  "Mr. Liberace left this behind last week."  I put on the coat and Connie escorted us to the table.  Farrah looked up from a Pink Lady and tossed her hair.
"Finally..."

I pulled out Cher's chair.
"Oh, a gentleman!" 
She sat and began looking over the menu.
"Well, don't say 'Hi' or anything, Cher--"
"Oh, hi Farrah.  Sorry, I'm just really hungry. Roller Boogie really takes it out of you. Do they have waffles here?"

"No," Farrah said, "but they have French toast; however breakfast is over."
Cher chuckled.  "I'm Cher, bitch.  And why are you being so bitchy Farrah?  What's the problem?"
"They cancelled Farrah Shampoo, darn it!"
"Girl, how many shampoos have you pushed, anyways?"

Before Farrah could reply, however, Pink Lady and Jeff passed by the table and did a number.

"Now that's entertainment!" Cher proclaimed.  "Hey, Farrah, remember that time you were on my show and we did that bit about being mannequins?"
Farrah looked into space. "No...no, I don't remember..."
"Well, let me refresh your memory..." Cher removed a crystal ball from her purse and we all gazed into it:

"Now that's entertainment!" I cried.
The waiter came and took our drink orders.
"I'll have a grasshopper, please." I said.
"Another Pink Lady for me," Farrah sighed.
"A bottle of Cristal," Cher chirped.
The waiter, a young Tom Selleck, lifted his head from his pad.  "We're out of that Miss Cher--"
"Find some."
"Very good, Ms. Cher"
"And make sure it's nice and cold."
He departed and Farrah looked into space again.
"He seems really familiar..."
"You were in Myra Breckenridge together.  And a Dubonnet commercial."
"What's Dubonnet?"
"I'm not sure," I replied.  We consulted the crystal ball again:

Farrah frowned.  "I'm not a little old lady!  And who's 'Myra Breckinridge'?"
Cher shrugged. 
​"Well,"  I 'splained, "Myra Breckinridge is a character from a book that was made into a movie starring Raquel Welch.  You and Tom were both in it, Farrah.  Along with Mae West and Rex Reed--"
"The movie critic?" Cher asked.  I nodded.  "Who the hell would want to see him in a movie?"  I shrugged now.
"I don't remember..." 
​Farrah was like, totally spacing out, like her character Holly in Logan's Run.

"Think Farrah," I implored, "think hard!  It was 1970.  You'd only been in Hollywood for two years...you were on The Dating Game​!"

"What was the movie about?" Farrah said, her lip trembling.
"Rex Reed plays this guy named Myron who gets a sex change and turns into Raquel Welch--"
"Okay," Cher said, "stop right there.  That is idiotic."
"I remember now..." Farrah said, downing the remainder of her Pink Lady, "...yes, I think I remember now...there was a camera and Tom Selleck was there, and John Huston and the lady from 1 Million Years B.C., and David Cassidy..."
"No, Farrah, that was when you were on The Partridge Family..."
"Yes, that's right...you see, we all took a vow that we would never talk about Myra Breckinridge again.  Like it never happened at all..."
Tom Selleck, our waiter, returned.
"Do I know you?" he asked Farrah.
"No.  Not in the least."
"Very Good miss person I don't know." He proceeded to open the champagne bottle and fill Cher's glass. "May I take your orders now?"
He looked at me.  I looked at Farrah.  "Gee, I forgot my wallet..."
Farrah reached in her purse and produced a large wad of Monopoly money.  "Don't worry Chris, it's on me."
"Ladies first!" I enthused.

Cher ordered the French toast (no questions asked) with boysenberry syrup.
Farrah ordered granola with wheat germ oil and honey.
"I'll have the creamed herring with apples and onions to start," I said.  Eyebrows went up.  "When in Rome!; the Boston Clam Chowder, natch...and as an entree...I'll have the 'Bombay Madness'!"
"I thought you were in Rome," Cher quipped as she filled our glasses with champagne.
I looked around.  I couldn't get a bead on things.  I mean, I know I was trippin' balls; but the threads on the peeps just weren't addin' up man!
"What year is it anyways?"
"Year?" Farrah asked, "what's a year?"
"Uhhmm, the time it takes the Earth to go around the sun..."
Cher licked her lips.  "We don't tell time like that here, in LaLaWood."
"Can you turn back time?"
"Well, yeah," she replied.
"Do you have a calendar?"
"Well, Farrah and I both have calendars; but there aren't any dates on them; just hot pictures of the two of us!"
"Well, how do you schedule things?  Like your TV show, and when it airs and all that stuff..."
"I don't know," Cher said, "you just think it and it is.  Like, if I have a doctor appointment, I just, like, go to the doctors."
"But, what about--"
Before I could complete my sentence; Connie Chung came up to the table and whispered in Cher's ear.  "Sure, of course!!!" Cher enthused and leapt out of her chair.  Before you could say, "Ob la di-Ob la da" this happened:

Cher returned to the table.
"That was terrific Cher; so anyways...about this space-time continuum--"
"Let it Be Chris.  Let it be."
​So, I let it be.  Then the food came and we feasted.  Creamed herring never tasted so good!  As we ate our desserts (Farrah: Fresh Strawberries and whipped cream; Cher: The Ultimate Dark Chocolate Cheese Cake on a Stick; Me: Frozen, Chocolate Bananas on a Stick; but we shared...) I couldn't help but wonder--
"Chris," Farrah said, wiping a dollop of whipped cream off her nose, "I was wondering..."
"Yes Farrah?"
"Would you let a toy company make a make-up center out of your head?"
"I would!" Cher exclaimed.
"I wasn't asking you Cher..."

I pondered this question.  Seriously pondered it.
"Why would anyone want a styling head of my mug?" I asked.
"Say you were so famous, people would pay to watch you buff your bunions; then a toy company comes along and offers you a shit-ton of cash to use your likeness..."
"Hmmmm.  I don't know.  I mean, what would happen to all of my heads after kids got bored with them? Would they end up in a land-fill?  I'd worry about my heads.  Would future archaeologists find one of my heads and assume I was some kind of god?"
Cher threw her hair back and laughed.  "Who gives a crap?"

"I do..." Farrah whispered.
"I mean, like, where have all the Farrah heads gone?" I said, unthinkingly.
A tear trickled down Farrah's cheek.  "Long time passing..."
"So, it's a 'no' to the styling head.  But I could go for a Chris action figure!  G.I. Chris; but then I'd kind of wonder
​about--"
"When will you ever learn?" Cher said and finished her champagne.  "Lighten up people!  Let's go skate this meal off!"
She picked up her crystal ball.
"You know," I said, "in the future Cher, you become a big time dramatic actress..."
Cher scoffed. "Get out..."
"No, really, you star in your first movie with Meryl Streep!"
"Merle who?"
"Look!" I exclaimed and waved my hand over the crystal orb:

Cher scratched her head.  "Isn't that the kid from The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes?"
I nodded.
"What about me?" Farrah asked.  "What happens to me in my future?"
"Well," I said, after clearing my throat, "you kind of become a movie star and then go on to be an even bigger TV star and you too are considered a great dramatic actress; but then you meet someone and get distracted..."
"Who?!?  Who do I meet???"
"Ryan O'Neal."
Farrah frowned.  "That jerk from Love Story?"
"Ah, yeah..."
"Let me see!" She grabbed the crystal ball and waved her hand over it.

"I don't believe it," Farrah said, "he's not my type."
"Well, don't say I didn't warn you."
Cher put the crystal ball in her purse.  "Does Ali McGraw become a serious dramatic actress?" she asked.
​"Ahhh...the jury's still out on that one...and Farrah," I opined, "you played way too many victims.  You went to some super dark places..."
"Whatdaya mean?"
"Well, I think your forte was really light comedy...Cher, give me that ball back--"

"Like, I want that commercial to be a sitcom, right now!  I would way more watch that, than Laverne and Shirley!"
"More shampoo," Cher sniffed.
"Who are Laverne and Shirley?" Farrah asked.
"Long story," I replied.
"Chris," Farrah asked, her mood brightening, "have you ever been interviewed by Barbara Walters?"
"Well, it hasn't happened yet, Farrah and if it hasn't happened yet, I don't think it's gonna..."
"I have!" Cher laughed.
Farrah, with a lisp, said: "If you were a twee, what kind of twee would you be?"  She and Cher really yucked it up.
Farrah asked: "Chris, if you were a tree, what kind of tree would you be?"
"A birch."
She nodded.  "Nice.  Stripes.  What about you Cher?"
Cher sighed.  "A sequoia.  Can we go now?"
"What about you Farrah?  What kind of tree would you be?"
"A magnolia, I think.  Or or a mimosa; even though they're invasive..."
"Farrah," I said, "the only thing you could invade is our hearts."
​Cher stood up. "Oh brother..."

So, we wound up on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, me and Cher, on roller-skates and Farrah on her skateboard.  After a while, Farrah stopped us in front of the Vine Cinema.  "It's too flat here," she said, pulling her hair back with a scrunchie.  "I feel like something more challenging..."
"Well, let's go to Silver Lake--"
"I want something more challenging than L.A.  I know!  Let's go to Frisco!"
"That's an eight hour drive," I whined.
"When," Cher huffed, "will you ever learn Chris?  This is LaLaWood..."  
She led us into the cinema.  What's Up Doc? was just starting.
"Hey," Farrah said, "isn't Ryan O'Neal in this?"
Cher winked at me and then the three of us held hands and leapt into the movie screen.  The next thing I knew, we were barreling down Lombard Street, taking the hair-pin turns at dangerous speeds.
"Life sure is full of twists and turns, isn't it?" I asked, of no one in particular.
"Yeah, if you actually go and live it..." Cher answered, of no one in particular.
"Hey Farrah," I said.
"Yes Chris?"
"When you went on that ski trip to Austria that you won on The Dating Game, did you and your date..."
"What?"
"Get some noop-noop?"
"We had a chaperone.  And separate rooms..."
"Farrahhhhhhhh...?"
She smiled.  "Let's just say he could slalom like nobody's business.  And the Wiener Schnitzel was delicious!"
​​She tossed her head back and laughed as we hurtled across the Golden Gate.

Why do humans give other humans awards?
Okay, wait a second.  Am I starting to sound like Andy Rooney, late of 60 Minutes?
I keep hearing him in my head lately, as I write these blogs...

Or maybe I'm hearing Joe Piscopo, doing Andy Rooney on SNL:

I mean, do we like Mr. Rooney?  Or do we think Mr. Rooney was a tool?
Does he ask too many questions?
I mean, how can you write an opinion column if you don't ask a few questions?
Carrie Bradshaw asked a lot of questions; and she's "cool"; right?

Her, "I couldn't help but wonder...s" were always followed by a dialectical query.  And I can't help but wonder if I'm being as annoying as Andy and Carrie.  Click the "Like" button if I am!
Anywhoose...
That little golden man with the laurel leaf is on a trophy I received in the 70's.  Yes!  I am an award-winning language artist from what is arguably one of the most shallow; but still literate decades of the 20th century!
I AM A WINNER OF AWARDS; THEREFORE I AM.
I am an Award Winning Person.
More questions...
Why do we give awards to one another?  Like, why trophies?  And why are the trophies we give and receive so universally tacky?  Here's a typical athletic trophy; one that seems to me, is quintessentially American:

I'm sorry; but that is just butt-ass fugly.  Most are.  Fugly and tacky.  Like, who designs these abominations?  I mean, the ugliness of the trophy industry would make most people, I think, want to lose.
The tropy I won in 1978 for "Language Arts" is quite diminutive.  It stands about five inches or so from the bottom of the base to the top of the laurel wreath.  I'm sure sure that football trophy is at least three or four feet high.  And what does that say about the relative importance of the Arts and Athletics in our culture.  U.S. culture, anyways.  But you know, I'm glad my little trophy is little(!). His size and simplicity gives him a certain elegance, I think.  He's somehow escaped fugliness.  Definitely a case of less is more. He doesn't have a name.  He's never had a name, since 1978.  I think I will give him a name right now, because he's been part of my life for forty-four years.  "I dub thee, Sir Lawrence of Laurels!"
Yes, I've had little Larry for forty-four years.  Quite a few of those years were spent inside a box up in an attic; but he's still with me.  Why?  I couldn't help but wonder how he survived all this time.  Literally, how he managed to stay upright on his base, on his little plastic tippy-toes.  He finally broke off his base only last year.  You can see the little globs of model glue on his tootsies.
And, I've never been quite sure of the term "Language Arts."  Isn't that just "English."  Like, reading and writing and vocabulary and grammar?  Did it mean I was a good speaker?  I mean, I was good with language; but grammar?  Forget it!  I remember classes on sentence diagraming.  I hated it!  It was like trying to impose math on to words.  And me and math got along like Tom and Jerry.

Why would a sentence ever need to be diagrammed?  It doesn't.  When in life, outside of a class, were you ever called upon to diagram a sentence?  You weren't.
But back to the ugliness of these trophies.  Who designs them?  Apparently someone with absolutely no sense of design.  Actually, the design above is relatively tasteful compared to what I guess would be considered in some circles the "deluxe" model.  Get a load of these babies!

The folks at Acme Awards Co. didn't get the memo that bigger isn't necessarily better, I'm thinking.
Now, the classic bowl or cup with engraving on it is a nice choice.  Always a classic.  Something that can be discreetly displayed and also serve as receptacle for snack foods.

Classical and athletic figures without all the frippery are also nice choices:

Trophies that also work as sculptures.  I guess it all comes down to taste.  And I think simplicity is always best when it comes to these things.  And what could be more simple than a medal?

That is, of course, a Nobel prize medallion.  Perhaps humanities (Humanity's?) highest accolade.  But why?  I mean, Alfred Nobel invented dynamite.  Was dynamite really a very good contribution to humanity?  How many people has dynamite killed?  How many acres of the natural world has dynamite destroyed?  How quickly has dynamite helped facilitate global warming?  How many coyotes have been lost due to misuse of dynamite?

And what else has Sweden given us?  The Volvo. ABBA. Meatballs.  IKEA.  IKEA Meatballs. Strindberg (the poor man's Ibsen). Bergman (the director whose films everyone pretends to enjoy). Actually I love Ikea.  The first writing desk I ever purchased was from Ikea in Burbank.  And boy was that a bitch to put together!

Looks pretty simple, huh?  Four pieces.  That bitch took me all night to get right.  

Sweden has given us a lot of actors.  A lot of Skaarsgaards.  I can't keep them straight.  Mostly actresses.  A couple of icons.  Ingrid Bergman.  Greta Garbo.  You know, the fascination with Garbo escapes me.  She wasn't that pretty and she wasn't the greatest actor.  

She did a lot of moping.  She was world-weary.  World War One weary.  Maybe she caught something I can't see.  I don't know.  She was nominated three times for a Major Award: The Oscar (TM/Copyright/Registered/Pat.Pend.)  She never won it.  She received an "Honorary" one.  Hmmmm.  Should that really count?  Although I must say, the Oscar is definitely one of--if not the most--elegant of trophies.

At the risk of being blasphemous; I have to say I do think it looks a bit like a "marital aid."  I couldn't help but wonder if one has ever been used as such.  And if so, by who?  Whom? Is that wrong to wonder about?  You know, you hear stories...
At least the Nobel Prize is actually made of real gold.  I think Oscar is at least gold plated.  Little Larry Laurel is plastic, coated in yellow chromium, I suppose to approximate gold.  The Olympic gold medal is made out of silver, coated with gold plate.  The silver is silver.  And strangely, the bronze medal is mostly copper.  So, an Olympic "gold" medal is only worth around 800 bucks or so; which if you ask me, is kind of a rip-off.  The Nobel medal is worth around 10 grand.  Now that's dynamite!  Personally, if I were to win a "high end" award; I would want it to be platinum.  Or rose gold.
Which brings us to awards that have cash prizes.
The Nobel has a cash award of 1 million dollars, give or take.  Perhaps that's why this prize is so coveted.  I think it's a good thing.  A lot of Nobel prize winners are not particularly wealthy, so the million dollars would go a long way towards helping them in their humanitarian endeavors.
Olympian medal winners do not receive cash prizes; but, they're more likely to secure endorsements after winning; which can be quite lucrative.  Is snow-boarding advancing the human cause?  Perhaps.
Back to design.
The Super Bowl trophy is kind of cool.  Very moderne.  Made by Tiffany and Co., no less.  Who knew?  It's worth about 10 grand (sterling silver).  

You know, I'd bet there are like waaaaaaaaay more gay men in the NFL than you'd think.  1 in 10?  Try 4 in 10!  Just a feeling.  But I digress.
Other awards that are surprisingly pleasing to the eye:

The People's Choice Award. Not Sandra.  Although she is sort of an award...for movie-goers!  And she's very (not surprisingly) pleasing to the eye.  Here she is with an armload.  But how does one win one?  I'm a person and I've never been asked to nominate any of my "choices."  Who are these people and how are they making their choices known?  Is this award connected to People magazine?  Sandy's are well deserved.  She even accepted her "Razzie."

She's the bees knees.  The Razzie Award, unfortunately, lives up to it's name.

So, you'd think that the Oscars would be a go to ceremony simply for the prestige factor.  But how many people go there to pick up their "swag bags" that are often worth upwards of 200,000.00 dollars?  If that's not a cash prize, what is? 
And what about the Golden Globes.  At first they were a joke.  Then they were a go to excuse to slum and get tanked and I'm guessing, more swag bags.  Then, it started to be taken sort of seriously (as a marketing tool, anyways) and now it's flat out awarda-non-grata.  Tom Cruise sent his Globes back; like an over-cooked steak.  When Tom Cruise is willing to let go of an award all bets are off.
I had a friend in my younger days; through grammar school and into junior high.  His name was Mike.  Mike was a jock and he was also a bookworm and he was kind and he was good looking.  He was almost too good to be true.  We talked once of going to Paris together; but even as we were having the conversation, I knew it would never happen.  Our friendship was unlikely and the older we got, the more unlikely it became.  *SIGH*  Now, I'm sure, being that he excelled at so many things he received a lot of trophies during his school days; and probably beyond.  He's married now, with kids; and I can't help but wonder if he's hung on to those trophies.  Are they in his attic?  Or maybe they're on display in his house.  In a cabinet maybe?  Maybe, like Barbra Streisand, he has an "awards nook."

Shouldn't we all have an awards nook?  Or is an awards nook tacky?  Mike's trophies are more than likely in a refrigerator box in his garage.  Not Barbra's!  I mean, what else is she supposed to do with them?  They have to go somewhere.  I don't know...I think if I had all those awards I'd donate them to a college.  You know how all these colleges have celebrities archives.  Like, my alma mater has Bette Davis' stuff; and she didn't attend the school!  Babs should send her stuff to Yale School of Drama or some such.  Juilliard could open a little museum or something.  Is an awards nook tacky?  I must ask the question again.  No...not per se.  But maybe going and sitting in it in a color coordinated gown is...?
Which brings us back to Little Larry Laurel Leaves.  I couldn't help but wonder...why had I hung on to him for most of my life?  I guess because I'm proud of him.  I guess because he represents something that somebody recognized in me long ago and is now, finally, coming to fruition.  He is a symbol of promise, I suppose.  Promise in me and the promise someone recognized.  So, maybe that's why we give one another awards.  To show support and encouragement and the hope that the recipient will continue to go on doing good things. No matter how long it takes.
So, having won The Sir Lawrence Award, am I now entitled to present myself as "an award winning" writer?  Why not!
And that goes for everyone.
If you've ever won an award...for anything...no matter how insignificant you might think it is...think of yourself as AWARD WINNING.
Because, you know what?  You won an award.  And you have the trophy to prove it.

Artwork by Grace Marquez Studio

Why not?  And, apparently I'm not the first to have the idea.  MAD magazine did a two-page musical version back in the day. I must've read this and it got stuck in my subconscious:

You can buy singing JAWS sharks online (see below).  They made Carrie into a musical that many thought was an absurd idea.  Now, its score is considered a classic of sorts.  It's had revivals.
Am I really serious about this?
Well, at first I wasn't; but then I started writing and kind of got into it.  Then I thought: "Hmmmm...this is ridiculous; but kind of good...maybe...."  So, who knows, maybe I'll finish it.  That is if I don't get sued by a certain director. And a certain composer.  And Universal Studios.  And Bruce the Shark.
Anyhow, here are the first two scenes.  If you hit the "like" button, I just might write some more. :)

That's about all I can say at this point.  I hope and pray it's a better year than 2021, which was arguably worse than 2020.  I wish all of us the best of luck and health and maybe a miraculous dose of common sense; which the world seems to have lost, as of late.
I mean, when people actually believe that JFK Jr. is going to return and then actually go to Dallas to see him, all bets are off...

I gotta say, John-John didn't age too well.  I woulda thought he would've hooked up with a good face cream at an early age.
But I don't want to dwell on that...
I have a little ritual I do every New Year's Day.  When I get in the car, I turn on the radio, and the first song I hear is going to set the tone for the year.  I'm not gonna say, predict the future; because that's a little too fate tempting.  Last year the song was Rod Stewart's "Forever Young."  Now none of us can be young forever.  But we can try to stay young at heart, right?  So that's how I took that one.  Rod's about to turn 77.  This is him today:

I would argue that Rod, at 77, looks better than John Jr. at 62.  Apparently Rod did invest in a good skin cream.  He may want to rethink his hair.  But, what the hell.  It's the hair-style he's had since he was a kid and maybe that's what keeps him forever young at heart.  We should all be like Rod.

​This years song was "One Thing Leads to Another" by The Fixx.  I turned on the radio just as they were singing the title. Then I snapped the radio off.  That was enough.  The rest of the song is kind of dark; so I'm just going with the title.  One thing generally does lead to another.  And sometimes those things can be good.  And sometimes those things can be bad.  Sometimes they can be both.  As long as all those "things" lead to a good one.  That's the stance I'm taking on that message from the Universe.

Now, this is not what I would've imagined the sleeve of that 45 would look like.  And you know, it very much puts me in mind of the cover of the first edition of my first novel:

Mystery upon mystery!  Is the Universe sending me yet another encouraging message?  Yes she is!  I mean, I've never seen that single sleeve until today, and I mean...it's kinda spooky.  The lead singer is in the exact same position (more or less) as the kid in the red swimsuit.  I'll just leave that right there.
So, I've been blogging pretty steadily for the last year or so; much to the chagrin of my other writing.  So, I gotta get back to that.  I will still be blogging, but with less frequency; and of course, if the muse hits me with a frying pan and I just have to say something.  I will at least be doing one or two blogs a month (some will simply be video postings); and hey, if you want more content, let me know.  I know people are out there reading this and these blogs do have comment sections and you can contact me at various places on the interweb-machine.  Also, I'm writing a musical version of Jaws.  I've pretty much completed the first two numbers: "Hungry" and "Swim With Me In the Moonlit Sea." I'll post them in a few days.

We all know the song "Let It Be" by the Beatles.  When I find myself in times of trouble, Mother Mary comes to me...speaking words of wisdom, let it be...
Well, sometimes Mother Mary does come to me.  She's thus far never spoken any words, wise or otherwise; but she has appeared.  She appears in patterns on trees sometimes.  She's appeared in the striations on a reflective glass window of an office building once.  One time she appeared on the side of a clothes dryer I happened to spy through a window in Seattle.  It was clear in moving the machine, the enamel paint had been scraped from the metal; and there, in what was left behind, was Mary.
I hope in 2022 and beyond that Mary will come to you.  She is a symbol of hope, whether she has anything to say or not. I think she is the Universe and what's good in it.
​Keep an eye open.