How To Create Your Twitter Handle in Two Easy Steps

So this spammer  person on Twitter with the very legitimate sounding name of Fulton604 started following me. Like a trenchcoat-wearing dark alley hoodlum who says, "Psst! Hey, buddy" kind of following me. Fulton604 is following 1,299 people, but only has 67 followers. I wonder what that means.

Actually, it makes me want to change my name to Plexus437. It sounds so cool. Like an alien space ship / area code mashup. Or, HEY - I know. This will be a new thing like How To Create Your Twitter Handle in Two Easy Steps:

1. Take the make or model of your first car.
2. Guess how many Jelly Bellies are in this Elvis portrait:

Put the two together and you've got your next Twitter handle! Mine would be Datsun18. No wait! Datsun19.

Fulton604's last tweet wants to know if I'm an older guy looking for a hot girl to take out and treat me right.

Why, yes. Yes I am. How did you know? Was it my masculine first name that made you think I was male? Was it all my twitter messages about adult diapers and cryogenic head preserving that clued you in to the fact that I'm "older"? And who isn't looking for a hot girl? You are SO smart. You're my hero, Fulton604. I wish I was just. like. you.

Then Fulton604 broke my heart. When I checked his Twitter page a couple days later, it was gone. GONE! I panicked. Where was I going to find "easyurl" hot girls now? I hyperventilated as I felt my new twitter buddy slip right out of my hands. I cried. I sobbed. I bawled.

Then I got this email:

 

Whew! I thought I'd lost him. And Velva? Yeah, that doesn't sound sexual or anything.

       Follow me on Twitter!

Goat Thing of The Day

 

(seen at the Surfing Goat Dairy on Maui)

Teh Keyboard HAtes Me, But What Cn I Do Abou Tit?

I have a drinking problem. No wait - that's not it. It's a typing problem. My "the"s always come out "teh" and I keep losing Ts to the subsequent word, like when I'm trying to say "about it" or "thought it", it always comes out like this:

abou tit

though tit

What IS that, a Freudian slip? What is my obsession with tits? Oh sure I'll catch one now and again and correct it <--- including this one right here.

So if you are a blogger and I've left a "tit" on your blog somewhere in the comments section, I'd like to apologize right here and now.

Yeah, I've probably dropped some "tits" everywhere. How embarrassing, the thought of leaving them stranded like that out in the blogosphere. I've been typing since high school, when I had a typing class - boy THAT class sucked big you-know-whats. The teacher was awful. Here's how awful she was: It was a TYPING class and the VALEDICTORIAN of our class couldn't get an A out of her, virtually smudging his perfect 4.0 (except we had these things called AP classes whose grades counted one point higher than a normal class, and I'm sure he got As in those and thereby graduated with more than a 4.0, which should theoretically be impossible, but since when does any school district run on logic?)

So this "tit" thing. Does it somehow imply that I'm a sex addict, like Russell Brand? Or Bill Clinton? Or, whatever the female equivalent of that would be? Samantha Jones, I suppose.

Or maybe it's less disturbing than that and I'm merely dyslexic. Because I also often type "your" as "yoru", and you'll also notice that my "tits" are actually formed by swapping the "t" and the space, right? Right?

Hey, did you hear the one about the dyslexic who walked into a bra?

So anyway, with my previous post eluding to Megan Fox's upper quadrant and now this, one might think my blog has taken on a new theme. That's right - It's Boobs Week at Nanny Goats in Panties. Tune in next week when we'll hear Nanny Goats say: "So I was in Stockholm the other day with Olga, the Traveling Bra..."

All right, this ends our show for today, thank you for coming. Exit doors are on the right. Also, for the men, we have forehead-dabbing cloths on the tables out in the hallway to help you recover from all this "tit talk". For those needing further assistance, you will find cold shower accomodations down the hall - just follow the signs. Please leave in an orderly fashion and you may now turn your cell phones back on. And don't forget to stop at the gift shop counter on your way out for your free key chain or whatever crap they're giving away out there.

Ta ta! (or is that Tatas?) Sorry, okay, I'm really done with that now.

Goat Thing of The Day

One of my blogbuds, Cheri, of Insignificant Ramblings was at the Sequoia Zoo, up in Eureka, California, where the goats have issues. Like this guy, who thinks he is a flamingo.

Or a drumstick.

Necklace? What Necklace?

Entertainment Weekly has this page called "News Style & Notes Hunter" where readers allegedly see some fashion item on a celebrity and then write in asking where they can get the same thing. Because people can't dress themselves without emailing a magazine inquiring about fashion and then waiting 3-6 months for a reply, at which point said fashion advice is no doubt, no longer fashionable. But I'm veering off the road here.

A woman wanted to know where she could get the necklace that Megan Fox wore in the Transformers sequel.

 

(click to enlarge - all right, i know how that sounds, but it's not like i said 'click to augment')

OK, the last thing I'm going to notice here is her silly necklace. Am I right, people?

Goat Thing of The Day

I'd like to thank DG of Diary of a Mad Bathroom for sending this one into NGIP...

 

(what is that, a backpack?)

Now if only I knew which website this came from so I could properly credit it....Hmmmmmmm.... I don't suppose any of you know? Oh never mind, I'll figure it out later, after I've located my garage.

We Have No Waiting (Or a Sense of Humor) at Checkstand #1

So I'm at the 15 Items or Less line in the grocery store. Safeway to be exact. Checkstand #2 to be even more exact. I realize I'm standing behind my neighbor. He's an old guy who I've seen several times around the neighborhood who always seems a little out of it and every time we meet, he has this glazed look on his face like he has no idea who the hell I am. So I decide not to embarass myself in front of everyone around me by saying hello and re-introducing myself for the umpteenth time only to be followed by little or no awkward conversation. And when I say he's my neighbor, I mean that he LIVES NEXT DOOR TO ME and if he can't be bothered to remember me, I can't be bothered to be remembered.

He's unloading his basket. And unloading. And unloading. I'm about to start counting his items to see if he's over 15 (because I'm impatient and bored, and I needed to be needlessly riled up), but before I could count past three or so items, some lady with the telltale green apron and name tag says to me, "I can take you over here on Checkstand #1. So I  saunter over to Checkstand #1.

Mid-saunter, I brush up against a tall stack of Entenmann's chocolate cakes, setting some of them askew. The man who has followed me to the newly opened Checkstand #1, wearing a business suit, helps me to straighten them out. I figure, we've worked together now, I should say something. Being the comedian I think I am, I say something like, "Boy, I almost went over the 15 item limit there - ha ha ha!"

He didn't even acknowledge it. All I could hear were the crickets as I waited for the belly laughter from my audience of one. My invisible Critic From Hell swooped over and enveloped me with his black cape of comedy doom. Oh the horrors!

I suddenly felt very lonely as I was transported back to my youth and remembered when the self-labeled "cool kids" looked down their noses at me to make me feel like dirt, whenever I tried to be funny. They'd toss their perfectly feathered hair away from me as if I were some crass idiot. The snobs.

My freshman English teacher chastised me on paper when I wrote a silly essay, trying to turn a dull assignment into something fun. I was taught at an early age that writing is not fun. It is a chore to be taken very, very seriously. This isn't a creative writing class, young lady.

So anyway this guy in the grocery store...it bugs me that this guy helps me with the boxes, leading me to believe that it was socially acceptable to speak to him, and then nothing? NOTHING? What the hell?

I walk out to the parking lot and drive home trying to figure out what went wrong:

Did he think I was some crazy lady who talks to strangers and would be waiting for him outside to ask him for money?

Did he not get the joke?

Did I misinterpret his trying to help me and instead it was just that he's really anal and he couldn't stand seeing the cake boxes askew and had to fix them immediately?

Maybe he didn't even hear me, but was afraid to ask me what I said because then I might get all familiar on him and try to accost him outside for money. And what's his problem always worrying about storefront panhandlers, anyway?

Or maybe the Grocery Karma God in the Sky was getting back at me for not saying hello to my neighbor. In fact I'm a total hypocrite for complaining about the guy behind me not working with me, when I can't even say hello to a guy I share part of a roof with.

Goat Thing of The Day

Thanks, June!

In Other News...

My book review for The Brightest Moon of the Century by Christopher Meeks has been published on Curled Up With a Good Book. You can read it HERE if you wish.

Thank You Letter(s)

A big THANK YOU to Sherry of My Loonyverse for these two beauties!

Well, I Never!

A wise man once said, "Some things are done. And some things have things done to them. But you can never please all of the people all of the time".

I learned that from my cross-eyed uncle when I was six years old and I never forgot it. I'd have it tattooed on my caboose if I didn't think it was such a stupid idea to do so.

But that's not why I called you here today. No, today, I'd like to share with you a list of things that I've never done in my forty-three years of life:


I have never murdered anyone. (At least not over money - I do have standards.)

I have been to Jerusalem, the capitol of many religions, but I've never been to Washington DC, the capitol of many Americans.

I have never seen a single episode of Survivor. Or American Idol. Or Law and Order.

I have never seen a ghost, a UFO, Big Foot, or a Chupacabra. (What am I doing wrong, exactly?)

I've been to Grand Cayman, but I've never been to the Grand Canyon.

I have never given birth to a child. (An ostrich maybe, but I was young and I needed the money!)

I have never kissed a girl (not that there's anything wrong with it.)

I've eaten brains and I've eaten alligator, but I've never eaten a Reese's Peanut Butter Cup.

I've never broken a single bone in my body. (But I did acquire my first scar through an injury that occurred eight minutes after I was born. To give you a hint, this was before they put mittens on newborns, and I scratched the crap out of my face. Wait, that wasn't much of a hint, was it.)

Lastly, and you probably saw this one coming:

I've been to Paradise, but I've never been to Me.

Goat Thing of The Day

Do you have erectile dysfunction? I'm sorry to hear that and I have nothing for you, but what I do have is the solution for all that tall grass you may be suffering from. If you don't own a lawn mower, why don't you just RENT one?

 

picture lifted stolen "borrowed" from Rent-A-Ruminant

That's right, at Rent-A-Ruminant, you can rest easy knowing a bunch of goats are chowing down on your back forty.

Thank You Letter(s)

A big bleating THANK YOU to Anna of I Hate Pink who recently awarded me the Kreativ Blogger Award, not to be outdone, or corrected by, the Outstanding Speller Award, which I did not gett.

Also? I would like to thank Preston of Me and the Blue Skies for Appreciating Nanny Goats in Panties with lots of linky love. Thanks, Preston, you credit report dot com guy crushin' on thing, you. Preston is currently celebrating his 1 year blogging anniversary (or as some blog nerds call it, Blogiversary) by running a Big Sampler Box Giveaway (I think the official name is "Out of the Box Sampler"). Click HERE to enter.

NGIP Has a Sit Down with Award-Winning TV Writer Russ Woody

[Warning: this post is rated PG-13 for language, but not because of me. I just got my 1 year chip and I'm not about to fall off the wagon. No, the foul language is spoken by somebody else. I am merely quoting them.]

So, there I was, at some nameless coffee shop in Studio City, stalking celebrities sipping my big-gulp-sized no-foam octo-shot two-percent extra-hot white mocha latte when who should walk in but Hollywood TV sitcom writer extraordinaire: Russ Woody.

"Oh my God," I exclaimed, "you're Emmy and Golden Globe Award winner, Russ Woody!"

"Erm...", he said.

"I LOVE your work!" I said. Because that's what you should say to all Hollywood people who are "in the Biz" - not "You're Mad Dash: Underground Detective! I love you!" - never tell them you love them and never ask for their autograph. Just tell them that you love their work and then they'll ask you if they can buy you a coffee.

And here's another tip: always say YES. Even if you're still working on an octo-shot something-or-other, because then you can brag about it later. At ninety-seven verbal miles per hour.

If you didn't already know, Russ Woody has written for (and produced) such TV shows as Murphy Brown (which is how he got his Emmy), Cybill (which is how he got his Golden Globe), Becker, Mad About You, The Drew Carey Show and on and on - you can see it all on his imdb page. He attended high school in my hometown, Sacramento, California, graduating from Bella Vista High in 1974 (if any BV grads want to holla). During his college years, he worked on a show some of you SacTownies may remember called Weeknight, with Harry Martin.

Also? He babysat Stan Atkinson's kids.

I just happened to have finished his recently published novel, The Wheel of Nuldoid.

"Look!" I cried, yanking the novel out of my book bag. "I just happened to have finished your recently published novel, The Wheel of Nuldoid. Hib nobb del noid! Hib nobb del noid!" I may have giggled and unsuccessfully stifled a snort.

He gaped at me. Probably because he didn't remember me from the book signing I obsessed for weeks over had looked forward to. "We met at Time Tested Books in Sacramento. Remember? Remember?"

"I remember," he said, taking a step back.

I pulled out a chair. "Here, sit here with me. I'd love to interview you for my blog."

"Goats and underwear or something?"

"Oh my gosh!" I gushed. "You remember!" You can go ahead and gush. You just can't tell them you love them. Or ask for their autograph.

I looked up at him expectantly, offering up my best rendition of a winning Nanny Goats in Panties smile. His shoulders fell and he said, "Can I buy you a coffee?"

"YES." I said. See how that works?

So while he went to order our coffee, I whipped out my camera. Then I pulled out my handy-dandy digital voice recorder, (you know, just in case I run into a big-time celebrity that agrees to be interviewed for Nanny Goats in Panties), turned it on and barraged him for a couple of hours.

For all you parents of young adults out there, The Wheel of Nuldoid is a fantastic and funny story about a society of quarrelsome creatures who operate the the Wheel of Nuldoid at the center of the earth. The Wheel is responsible for the earth's rotation. A group of young humans stumble upon these creatures and find themselves on an adventure to the center of the earth with a crystal from the surface that is urgently needed to maintain the Wheel of Nuldoid.

Since the story is also one of political and cultural satire, adults can enjoy this book as much as kids. "You can write to kids," says Russ, "but if it's fairly honest in the structure of the comedy, it's funny to both. Like Charlie Chaplin's movies, I love them, my kids love them. I think you can write a lot smarter for kids than people think you can."

The Wheel of Nuldoid is self-published, partly on the advice of his agent and other writers. "You only get something like seven percent of the gross and you often have to pay for your own publicity and you get a pittance up front, unless you're a big name. But if you can garner interest in the first publication, and maybe even a second, then a publisher will know it has some legs and you can get a better deal after that." But he believes that self-publishing is the "wave of the future".

"The stigma of self-publishing is that your book hasn’t gone through editors, but I’ve done a lot of television which would put book writing to shame when it comes to notes. I gave it to a number of harsh readers. The bastards."

He explained that, to him, the book is about dissent. How a functioning society needs dissent. How this country was founded on it and the quarrelsome creatures in the novel represent that dissent.

Then I told him to shut up about the book already and give me some scoop about being a television sitcom writer. I wanted the dirt on Ted Danson, that no-good so-and-so. But all he could tell me about Danson is that he is a sweet guy who befriended Russ's dad when he became ill with ALS (Lou Gehrig's desease). Russ's dad began visiting the set of Becker and Danson came over one day, introduced himself, and at some point began playing with the keyboard that helped Russ's dad communicate when his speech deteriorated. Others, especially men in the cast and crew took great interest in this device and would type out "Fuck", "Shit", "I want to eat your p---y", and other fun-filled phrases.

Russ's dad was also treated to a special side entrance to the set that only Kelsey Grammar and Ted Danson were allowed to use. And at the end of the season, after the last show had wrapped, the cast began chanting "Woody", "Woody", calling Russ's dad over to the set to join them for that season's cast and crew picture. As the group parted to make way for Russ's dad, Russ watched him get waved in to the set's living room couch to be seated between Ted Danson and Hattie Winston. Russ was relegated to the floor with the rest of the staff.

"OK, OK," I said, "so Danson's a nice guy. I get it. What else ya got?" Let me just say right now that when you say "YES" to coffee, you might want to limit that affirmation to a couple of espresso shots per hour. It can make one a little jumpy.

Russ mentioned that when an actor doesn't like a particular joke, they can "tank" it, by speaking in monotone, or  "absolutely fuck up the joke. Cybill Shepherd is a name that comes to mind," he said.

I'm not sure what he meant by that, so I tried a different tactic and here's what else came out of his mouth:


On TV Writers in L.A.:  "You can throw a rock in any direction and hit a television writer. And then they'll bitch about it if you do."

On David Milch (Deadwood, Hill Street Blues, NYPD Blue):  "Taught at Yale, didn't finish high school. He's one of the most brilliant writers I've seen in my life. Crazy? Great guy, but crazy. When I first met him, he was walking out of his office and I said, "Nice to meet you." and he said, 'Listen, I'm going down to take a piss. I've only got one testicle. Do you want to see it?' And that's just who he is."

On The Wheel of Nuldoid: "Opposites are next to each other on the Wheel, showing just how close genius and insanity are to each other."

How Emmys work when a group wins: "Everybody gets one and they walk you backstage and they're all blank. And then three or four weeks later, they send you the little round piece with your name on it and you just take it apart."

How Golden Globes work when a group wins: "One person gets it. That's the free one. And then it costs $500 [for additional ones] - they sell them to you."

On his awards: "I use it a lot for publicity. I understand why people are enamored with it. Winning those things is fun, but I don't take the idea of winning them very seriously. You do yourself a disservice when that stuff becomes important to you. Some people base their net worth on what kind of car they drive, or how big their house is.... So that's why I had it mounted on the hood of my car."

It was only a matter of time before I got to ask this:

NGIP: Do you like goats, or do their eyes freak you out?

RW: I've never been with a goat, if that's what you're getting at. If I were around a goat, I would try to stay on good terms with it. I did raise a lamb once, when I was a kid. It's name was Frisky. The next time we went to visit Frisky's owners, guess who was for dinner.
 
I asked him if he had any advice for writers. He spoke of the value of the "vomit draft", where you just get it down as fast as you can without stopping to edit too much. He also tells young comedy writers to "Write the first draft on paper, when you get to a joke, put variance to the joke out to the margins, write it a different way, try alternatives. Come back in an hour or the next day and you can see which one works right away."
 

By the way, The Wheel of Nuldoid could become a movie someday. Russ has had a couple of meetings with production companies about it already, one of which is very excited about it. One idea that is currently being pitched is for the story to be animated. "For animation, you can sell the story idea, whereas for live action, you need a whole package" (director, actors, etc.).
 
What’s next for Russ Woody, you ask? You must be a mind reader, because I asked him the very same thing. Maybe YOU should have interviewed him if you're so smart.

After taking some time off to work on the publication and promotion of The Wheel of Nuldoid, he's going back into television. He's mulling over two recently picked-up pilots. One will star Patricia Heaton (of Everybody Loves Raymond) and is similar to the movie, Little Miss Sunshine, and the other show is called Sons of Tucson. He told me that both are single camera shows, which he prefers. Whatever THAT means.

[Editor's Note: At press time, his people were in talks with ABC's people (for The Middle, the one with Patricia Heaton), so there's a good chance he's going to wind up writing for them. You know who else is going to be in The Middle? That janitor guy from Scrubs.]

He also wants to revise the book he wrote about his father and get it published. Meanwhile, two other novels in "vomit draft form" are on the back burner waiting for his attention.


We left the coffee shop and in true stalking fashion, I followed him to his house. When he got out of his car, he seemed surprised to see me. I laughed diabolically and told him that I loved him and asked for his autograph and did he have any coffee in the house...

OK, that's not exactly what happened. Upon his invitation, I went to his house to pick up a press kit and while I was there, he showed me a creature of Nuldoid that he was working on...

 BEFORE and AFTER

Then he showed me his personal museum where he houses such memorabilia as John Lennon's glasses...

Sorry about the reflection, hey I'm a writer not a photographer. 

Now if I saw this thing while driving on the  freeway?  Totally would have nailed it.

and Harrison Ford's boots from Raiders of the Lost Ark...

one of FDR's shirts...

some tasteful political memorabilia...

and lots of other stuff that if I showed you any more, I'd have to charge admission.

What a fun tour! And a nice guy.

So, if you're sick of watching your kid open that blasted Harry Potter book again, or if you're sick of having to read it to him, you can get The Wheel of Nuldoid via this link on Amazon.com. Or if you're in the L.A. area, you can get it at Book Soup in Hollywood, or Portrait of a Book Store (inside Aroma Cafe) in Studio City. If you're in the Sacramento area, you can find it at Time Tested Books and Avid Reader.

If you want an autographed copy, you can buy the book through the Wheel of Nuldoid website and request an autographed copy. In other words, it's okay to ask for his autograph and it's okay to tell him you love him.

Follow Nuldoid on Twitter.
Follow Russ Woody on Facebook.



Epilogue (for those who don't know what's real and what's not...)

FYI: I was yanking your chain about how I met Russ Woody, but I really did interview him and yes, he really did say all that stuff in between the quotation mark thingys.

Crime and Punishment: The Middle School Years

If my mother's ashes weren't scattered out to sea somewhere, I could ask her a few things I've been wanting to know. Like, who did she vote for? Did she believe in God? Why the hell did she marry that lying-ass idiot fourteen years her junior after she divorced my father? And most importantly, what the hell did I do that prompted her to make me write this?

(click to enlarge)

(click on pic to enlarge)

The nameless "SOME PEOPLE" is probably my sister. I don't know whose wedding this was. I don't even know when this was written but judging by my dubious outrage, the ridiculous self-righteousness, and my parent's divorce in the early 1980s, I would say between 7th and 9th grade (circa 1977-1979).

So when I get to Heaven or the Great Whatever, the first thing I'm going to ask her is: "Did you read my essay with a sense of justice served by my punishment? Or did you laugh your ass off at my expense?"

Useful Website of the Day: RunPee.com

If you're like me, you can't make it through the whole movie without having to pee and while this is not a problem at home with a DVD that can be paused at your convenience, this can be a stressful event in a theatre. You never know the right time to go because what if you miss something? What if that elusive kiss is finally planted while you're down the hall relieving yourself? What if that key piece of information is delivered while you're in the little girl's (or little boy's) room? And don't you hate it that YOUR theatre is the one farthest from the dang bathroom?

That's why you need RunPee.com. With RunPee.com, you can find out beforehand, the best times to pee during the movie. That's RunPee.com. Because a Bladder is a terrible thing to hold.

Thank You Letter(s)

Thank you, Sparky, of My Thoughts Exactly for dropping this awe-summm bomb on me the other day: