Last night I watched a film called “Modern Romance” starring Albert Brooks. Well, I was watching, eating, and reading all at the same time. The movie was kind of lame so it didn’t really grab me as total immersion material, only as background noise/glimpse into early 80’s drug use material (ludes! Who does those anymore?)

Anyhow this movie is from 1981 and also stars Kathryn Harrold who is looks like a fish and is really skinny. Bruno Kirby is in it too and wears a black leather vest and is really skinny. All the skinny people in this film are just skinny, not enhanced skinny like they are in the movies these days.

Which gets me to the real point (finally.) There is a scene early on where Albert and Kathryn are in bed that grabbed my attention for like, two minutes. This is because, Albert Brooks has a hairy back. I have new appreciation of Albert Brooks all of a sudden. I never really thought of him as, well, hot. Maybe he was considered hot in 1981? I kind of doubt it.

The thing is, I really LIKE hairy backs. I remember the first time I saw a hairy back and that was on Robin Williams in “Moscow on the Hudson.” I’ll never forget that scene where he was in the bathtub with his girlfriend and all that hair. I was fascinated, revolted, and turned-on at the same time. I was pretty young then, and Robin Williams is almost too hairy. Now, I just think back hair is very nice and I am not ever revolted by it.

So all morning I have been trying to think of anyone on the big screen that has back hair. I can’t think of anybody! Is back hair uncool? Are guys plucking or waxing their back hair? Or are hairy guys just keeping their shirts on? I never typed “back hair removal” into a search engine before today.

Help me, people. Please tell me George Clooney has back hair and I just never noticed it before. (Yeah, right.) Maybe Michael Palin? He seems like someone who would have back hair and not shave it. Hmmm. Maybe I saw his back on one of those travel shows he did and it’s just now coming back to me. Must see if they have those shows at the library.

Oh, how I wish we weren’t such a weird country where men really do love fake breasts (they do in San Diego at least) and where men don’t like hair on their backs. Or maybe I am just trippin’ and have just not noticed any hairy backs since 1984. But this is doubtful.

I read somewhere once that every person stops their emotional development at a certain stage of their childhood and they remain emotionally at that age for their entire lives.

I’m fairly sure this is true of most people and I am totally sure that it is true of me. I just can’t figure out if my emotional development stopped at age eight, or age thirteen.

It doesn’t really matter, I am pretty much a child. As long as I can feed myself and protect myself from a storm, I guess that it is OK to be an eight year old in a thirty-nine year old body.

I went to Disneyland yesterday. The land where people like me (emotionally retarded freaks?) feel happy and at peace with the world.

I love Disneyland. It is beyond all reason. I always loved Disneyland as a kid, and when I grew up and they added Downtown Disney with all it’s bars and restaurants and a cocktail was only a Monorail Ride away, I loved Disneyland even more. When I am at Disneyland, the eight year old and the thirteen year old inside of me get to rage in the open air.

“I’m going to ride the Matterhorn THREE TIMES” I scream to no one in particular. When, the first time, the ride breaks down right when I am about to board, I get a look on my face like I am going to kill someone. “Does this happen often?” I ask the dirndle skirted kicker offer. “All the time,” she says, smiling torturously. Bleeping eighteen year old – who does she think she is?

It all works out in the end though and I ride all the rides and run around and eat pretzels, pizza and fudge. There are fireworks and swing bands and emotionally retarded people everywhere.

I get to be a brat at Disneyland, too. After dodging one too many SUV sized strollers, I get a bit pissy and the thirteen year old comes out. At closing time, heading for Downtown Disney, a crazed woman comes toward me at a high speed with a giant stroller with a seven year old and a four year old in it. (I am estimating the ages, but you get the idea.) “JESUS!!!” I say. “WATCH IT!!!” I am doing this purely to screw with her – it is midnight and she is pushing 200 pounds of stroller and children. “YOU WATCH IT!!!” She screams back, totally stressed and aggravated. Hee hee.

What is up with all the strollers, anyway? No wonder kids are so fat – they get pushed around in the comfort zone until they are nine. I am serious. I thought strollers were for babies, or at least no-one older than three.

But me being me, I wish I could get pushed around in a stroller. And since I am only eight, perhaps I will get my wish someday.

We are speeding through May and will soon be hitting June like a hammer on an egg. What is happening to time? It seems to me, that time is accelerating. I am in sales, and that means “fourth quarter sales.” Before we know it, fourth quarter will be here, October sky and thoughts of Christmas sales.

But for now, I have June. And Bookexpo.

Bookexpo is the big book trade show in the U.S. I love it. Books are announced and rights are bought and sold. All the big publishers have parties. For many years I have gone as an employee – this year I go as an author. How cool is that? I can totally relate with a nodding and shaking head when the other authors talk about how hard it is to make money in the publishing world.

Bookexpo was always held in Chicago until a few years ago, but in recent years it has been in New York and Los Angeles. I love Chicago, and it is the best city for Bookexpo. Mostly because of the food. This year Bookexpo is back in Chicago, so I’ll get to eat Greek in Greek Town and German at Bergoff’s. These are rituals for me when I visit Chicago. I’ve been to trendy places like Blackbird, and I’d choose Moussaka at the Greek Isles over any trendy place, any day.

I discovered Chicago because of my job. The first time I visited Chicago, it was for a wine tasting and I worked there with my boss. We ate bratwurst at Berghoff’s and hung out at blues clubs. Somehow I always made it to work the next day. I’ve been back many times and it always seems to involve bratwurst and blues. Chicago has it going on. I’ve been to enough Bookexpos in Chicago now, that the city will always smell like new books mixed with mustard. It is a delightful smell. This year Bill Clinton will be at Bookexpo, and we will all pray for a future. Bill Clinton, Bratwurst, Blues and Books. What more could you ask for?

Ah, Phoenix. It’s kind of crazy that so many have migrated there. A strip-mall wasteland. A river runs through it, or at least some canals do. I saw one. It had water in it. But how? And there are something like 100,000 homes suppose to be built in the next ten to twenty years in that humongous sweltering valley.

Someday there will be houses from Scottsdale to Santa Monica, all in the low $200,000’s. Oops. Excuse me. In Scottsdale and Santa Monica, the houses will remain a bit higher. Let’s say, from Buckeye to Banning. Those will be the affordable homes.

This is already happening. Is California (or, the extension of California, Arizona) that big of a draw that people are willing to live in the pit of hell to own a home?

It’s all very confusing to me. But let’s move on to another topic.

I was having some dinner at some relatives of one of my relatives house on Friday night. We all helped ourselves to some chicken, fried potatoes, and corn on the cob, and then I sat, as instructed, “where ever you want to sit.” Which was in the living room on the L-shaped couch. There was a show on the TV and Dick Van Dyck was a private eye with a bizarre white hair-do. (Was that a WIG?)

Anyway, I was eating my dinner and one of the relatives of my relative was sitting next to me. I took a bite of corn. It was soggy and disappointing as I am a corn connoisseur and very hard to please in this respect.

My seat mate looked up at me, holding his corn. “I grew this corn, in the backyard.”

“Really?” I asked. I was genuinely interested and even forgot that the corn was soggy for a second.

“No,” he said. “I was just razzing you.” (Or something like that.) “Oh.” I said. Some minutes of silence ensued.

“Actually, this corn is from Colorado.” This came after I had completely forgotten about the corn-in-the-yard comment, and was busy watching Dick Van Dyck SING in that weird wig on that private-eye TV show. Was that a hit show at some point? I am so out-of-touch.

“From Colorado? Really?” I said. “I would have thought it came from Iowa.” What the hell was I talking about? More silence. The Colorado Corn was proving to be Curiously Crappy.

“Actually,” he said after a bit more time, or another Dick song, or what seemed like an eternity at any rate, “the best corn comes from Minnesota. The corn in Iowa is mostly grown for feed.”

“Wow.” I said. Though at the time this seemed a most lonely and bizarre conversation, chances are good that I will remember the details for the rest of my life. Therefore, I will be able to hold my own when the corn topic might arise in one of these Western States. For this I am eternally grateful.