Greetings Mouthketeers:

In the 80s I was a pop star in the United Kingdom—for about twenty-two minutes.  I was lucky to be the first signed (living) solo recording artist on Numa Records, a label owned by the interestingly talented, Gary Numan, and run by his parents.  Do you remember Gary’s song, “Cars?”  (BTW, if you clicked on the first link of this posting, you’ll see my name isn’t what it is today.)  Being the first opening act on Gary’s “Berserker Tour,” my job was to perform about five songs—to taped backing tracks—and warm up the crowd.  This was right about the time when Boy George was coming into his own, and before George Michael broke away from Wham!  There was absolutely no Madonna in sight.  Anyway, all of the degrees from Harvard and Yale combined could not give me the street smarts I earned by performing in front of Numan’s fans.  Why?

Surprisingly, my poofterish outfit wasn’t an issue (my costume consisted of a turban, harem pants, pointy shoes, a Henna’d red Chinese Goat fur coat and a pair of Ray Bans), and my voice was in great shape.  I studied classically for fifteen years—including some at the Manhattan School of Music Preparatory Division, so I wasn’t concerned about talent.  Screw it, and screw my act.  I wanted to live to see the 1990s.  

I’m not sure what the English audiences do today, but if they hated you in the 1980s, they literally threw glass beer bottles at you to shut you up.  (And I guess as the first performer out on the stage, Gary wanted me to save him from a cut or two.)  You got that right.  Glass thrown.  At You.  If those blokes don’t like you, they try to kill you. (I’ll take the abuse at the “Apollo Amateur Night,” over the beer bottle incidents anytime, wouldn’t you?)  In fact, there were some arenas where the stage was built as high as the first mezzanine so that the peeps in the orchestra couldn’t make a beeline for your booty.

Once I learned I could potentially be a live target for the tartan set, I slipped into Plan “B,” which was survival mode.  I decided I wouldn’t suck, and even though my single was the first non-successful one under Gary’s stable of “stars,” when it came to performing, I had no other option but to be excellent.  I wanted to freak them out to the point where they wouldn’t know what hit them, not me.  As I jolted from stage right to left—as if I was a piece of pansy popcorn just about to pop—I’m very proud to say I never ever got a beer bottle thrown at me.  Never.  My luck wasn’t due to the fact the crowd loved me, my good fortune was the end result of my decision to lead them, not let them eat me alive.  It was at that moment I knew if I just simply did my thing with conviction I could only hope to be a winner (provided I worked my ass off and prepared.)

Why do you care about this story?  Mouthketeers, as we’re all living in an era of struggle, I want you to remember this tale because as you go through life, own up to becoming the absolute best at whatever you do, and sign a personal contract with yourself, confirming that mediocrity is not an option for you.  If you play your cards right, you will never get a beer bottle thrown at you either.  No fear of beer.  No fear of failure.  Just have a great time.  

What do you drink on a hot summer day?

Peace. 

The Mouthinator.  

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

If you’re a true Mouthketeer, you already know I live in Connecticut; and when I first moved here (from NYC), I was amazed how friendly everyone is to each other—that neighbors wave to strangers.  My dog Rufus could be taking a dump and low and behold while I’m pooper-scoopering it up, the Nutmeggers are waving at me as if they’re saying, “Don’t worry, we’ll clean it up for you” or “Hi, let’s share some scooping tips with each other”  Weird?  Uh, no.  That’s their way of socializing. 

If they are “kind by day,” why are these same people “dark as night” when they’re commuting?   No air kisses on Metro-North.  People want anonymity, and I can’t blame them . . . which is why I’m utterly shocked these same riders don’t say anything when the drunks and the kids kick, scream and vomit during the entire trip to Grand Central Terminal. 

What the hell point am I making?  We’ve all been on a train, on a bus or on a plane, when there’s one person who oversteps the unofficial boundaries of silence in public.  Have you ever been on a subway and all of a sudden a smelly Doo Wop group runs in your car, begging for money, screaming “The Book of Love” or some ditty of that ilk in your face, guilting you into giving them money?  OK.  Some people have odor problems and most don’t make their fortunes on Wall Street; however, just because beggars need cash, doesn’t mean they have the right to hold me hostage . . . musically.  The next time a street performer who looks like Wayne Newton, sings, “When Sunny Gets Blue” off key, I will wash their mouth out with anti-bacterial soap, and test them for the Swine Flu. 

My fantasy is the next time I hear someone invade my space I will tell them to shut up.  To all the super-self-engaged people who pump up the volume when they talk on a cell phone so we can all hear them speak, you can all kiss my ass because you are gonna be challenged by me to keep quiet.  You got that right.  It is “commuter payback time.”

In closing, have you all seen the fantastic ad campaign for the State of Michigan saying, ‘We live—give or take—25,000 mornings, so why not spend some in Michigan?”  That ad further confirms we are all here for a fleeting moment; and if that’s the case, then we need to be more selfish of our time and become more vocal when people chip away at our hourglasses without forewarning. 

Have you ever been to Michigan?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

It seems as if there is another pandemic alert:  The Swine Flu.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m scared.  Excuse me for asking, but whatever happened to Mad Cow Disease, and the Bird Flu?  Did the Bird . . . Flew?  If I remember correctly we were supposed to die of those diseases right?  Or was it the West Nile Virus?   

I’ve lived awhile, and it seems to me the more and more we live the more we live through outbreaks and diseases.  However, nowadays, we have way too many media outlets vying for attention and ratings to tell the story.  If you’re not media savvy, you might think the Swine Flu story is getting bigger and bigger and bigger—like a Godzilla or King Kong movie.  But if you look closely, the story stays the same—played out . . . over thousands of outlets.

When Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage,” I doubt he was talking about CNN, NBC, ABC, FOX, MSNBC, CBS, and PBS.  If he was referring to these conglomerates, perhaps his quote would have morphed to, “All the world’s a media circus.” 

Here’s a refreshing thought:  Instead of the media shoving fear down our throats, why don’t they offer simple, reassuring advice about Swine Flu, such as, how do you get it, how can you avoid getting it, and how do you treat it once you get it?  Instead, all we see are pictures of people walking around in masks—reminiscent of some Michael Jackson music video.

Again, don’t get me wrong.  I think it’s terrible we have to live through these diseases.  Let’s not diminish the fear over Cancer or AIDS or Autism or whatever; however, let’s not look at “fear” as a disease too.  “Fear” is a useless word.  It’s like a pimple.  Let’s stamp out the fear about the Swine Flu so we can go back to being scared shitless over the economic downturn. 

SSSSSSooooooooWEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE! 

Seriously, God bless those who have died from this pandemic.

 Do you get the flu every year?

Peace. 

The Mouthinator.   

The Mouthinator Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Hope your weekend went well.  I’m refinancing my mortgage with Countrywide, and I’ve determined they’re sceezy, which is why as soon as I complete this blog, I will begin spelling their name without an “o,” if you get my drift. 

Last Saturday, I celebrated my one-year anniversary in my cutesy, cottagey upper middle class home in a very nice part of Connecticut.  In fact, the county I live in is part of an area called, “The Gold Coast.”  Why then, did Countrywide’s nasty appraiser, appraise my little abode 130K less than what I paid less than a year ago?  OK, we’re in a recession.  I get it.  But there ain’t any foreclosed homes in my hood and property value is a little less, but not a ski-slope less than many properties in this country.  Even with adding central heating/air conditioning, a new boiler and a soon-to-be waterproofed basement and renovated bathroom, the facacta appraiser—whom I shall name “Nameless”—shamelessly compared my house to the “Newark, New Jersey” area of my town. No offense to Newark, but Newark isn’t where I live.  (Mayor Booker, we LOVE you!!)

The trouble here is my mortgage broker is in Los Angeles, Countrywide is in Massachusetts, and Nameless is way out of town.  You got that right.  No one, except my fabulous real estate broker, Ms. Anne Forland, and me actually know what the hell kind of town I live in.  So Anne came to the rescue.  Proactively, Anne pulled MLS comps on houses, which compared to mine and sold over the last few months.  She helped the mortgage broker make the case to reinstate my refinance package.   Every broker in this country should learn from the “Anne Forland School of Customer Service,” because she has gone the extra mile here to help me out. 

Now to the Countrywide scam part:  If the new comps still do not satisfy Countrywide, then it seems as if I can qualify for a loan under President Obama’s Stimulus Package, where the government will automatically appraise my home for over 100K more than what Nameless says my house is worth—sight unseen—and then I’ll get the loan . . . with guess who, COUNTRYWIDE!  You got that right.  Countrywide, the bank that is ready to turn me down is still going to be the lender backing my refi under the Stimulus Package.  Oh, and did I tell you Countrywide is my lender now—on the original mortgage?  What country am I living in, Countrywide?    

Countrywide:  Here’s the scoop.  You are lousy people who don’t know what the hell you’re doing. You push paper amongst yourselves to keep your jobs.  You hire appraisers who are scamming your customers because you don’t want your clients to refinance and pay less that what they’re paying now.  If you think that I’m gonna sit down and let my big fat ass get fatter because you’re dicking me around, you do not realize the mouth power of the Mouthinator.  

The Mouthinator is in da house, and da house he lives in will get the mortgage refinance rate he signed up for.  BTW, “thank you, President Obama.  You are doing a fabulous job, but please, please, puhleese don’t give any more bucks to Cuntrywide .  . . (oops, Countrywide), because they sucks . . .

Holler.  I rest my refinancing case.

 Do you have any cheesy bank stories? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator.     

The Mouthinator Finance

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Do men have “senior moments” sooner than the ladies?  I don’t know about others but I certainly blank out and stare into space more often now . . . and it ain’t because I have spring fever either.  Honestly, it’s because I’m exhausted.  You don’t see any woman losing their minds in public, do you? 

I’ve come to the conclusion that a man’s senior moments are really “senor moments.” (Get it, “men?” “senor?”  Here’s a big shout out to all my Latino friends out there.  Hola!), and this blog entry is dedicated to all the hombres, homies and homos who have nothing going on between their ears anymore . . . until today!. 

Here’s how it plays out for me: There I’ll be, focusing on a project or watching a show, and all of a sudden I will have a senor moment and drift away.  I will feel as if I’m swimming in the Bermuda Triangle and see a black hole. I will feel as if I’m a dead person.  Then I will ask a question, and someone will say, “You just asked the same thing ten minutes ago.”  Well, excuse me.  This blog isn’t about multi-tasking, it’s about multi-membering and there are certainly no judgments here!

If men fog out faster, women lose their patience.  Hmmm. Come to think of it, I lose my patience more quickly these days too, so what does that mean I am?  . . Let’s not go there just yet.  J

Instead of cities and towns injecting Fluoride into our water system, they should pepper H2O with Ginkgo Bilboa, which I recall (yeah, right), is the herbal stuff claiming to help you sharpen your memory loss.  I’m a big fan of fish oil; of Glucosamine/Chondroitin/MSM (this stuff lubricates your joints and make you feel as if you 13 again); but honestly, I don’t remember anyone memorizing their grocery list anyway, so if I forgot the Cheez Doodles or the cucumbers, sobeit.  Anyway, I forgot what we were talking about in the first place, so on Monday, let’s try and pick up from where we left off. 

Me Tired.  Me no remember yo name. Me say it’s time to get a life. 

What would you rather forget?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Uncategorized

Greetings Mouthketeers: 

Am I the only one who feels hijacked by my electrical devices?  Way back, when people didn’t have any, no one missed these contraptions.  Besides the TV, laptop, stereo, and perhaps the IPod, the cell phone is the only piece of equipment I absolutely must-have in my life. 

It’s the number one really important device I think we own.  Not because it also morphs into an email or Safari system, because it’s smart, and it helps us order movie tickets, makes sure our kids are OK and allows us to say good night to a friend in a different time zone, amongst other things.  You really need it . . . so much so, I predict in a few years (OK, maybe a decade), “they” will have invented a way to embed a version of the sucker in your ear lobe . . . and if I were them, I would call it the “phone chip.”

Did you hear me? I did say they will figure out a way to embed  the phone chip in our ears, (aka “celling it to our bodies”), and it will be much cheaper to produce because you won’t need so much hardware to make it work.  By having the phone chip, we’ll all have instant access to 911, 411, 311, 0, 212, 888, 900, etc., etc.  And of course, the government will find a way to fine us for turning on our ears . . . Uh; I mean our chips, when we’re in an elevator, on a train, in a restaurant and on a plane. 

Isn’t chatting to whomever on a cell phone—in an elevator car—the most obnoxious act created by man?  Have you ever taken a trip to the tenth floor with two or three people who are all yapping on their LGs?  Who are these kats talking to?  Unless you are going up to heaven, can’t you people wait until you get off on seventeen before you open up your traps?  And for God’s sake, lower your voice!  You aren’t funny and we really don’t care how your blind date went last night. 

Why is the Motorola V3 Razr still for sale?  Isn’t that thing a dinosaur yet, along with the eight-track tape?  Do you remember the ad campaign, “Hello Moto?”  When it first came out, I thought “Moto” was a doll made in Japan, and I must’ve been the last person to realize it was a kewl way of saying “Motorola.”  Well, adios-ola Motorola.  I’m gonna getz me an embedded phone chip in my ear lobe. 

If it’s “anti-Jewish” to be tattooed, do you think the Mitzvah Mavens will ban the use of the phone chip?  Honestly, if Jews didn’t have phones, (in whatever shape or form), Bell Telephone would go bankrupt.  And if we all can’t speak on a Moto, I guess we will all go back to chatting in person . . . or better yet, communicate the old school way:  emailing each other.   What a great way to communicate.     

Fade to Blackberry.  Ugh.   How would you tell an ex you’re breaking up with them?  Text message? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Technology

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Happy Earth Day!  We all should be helping to preserve our environment today, but sadly, we are still obsessed with trash.  What’s up with all the controversy surrounding celebrity blogger, Perez Hilton, and Miss Cali, who had it out during last weekend’s Miss U.S.A. Beauty Pageant?   Puhleeeze, this story is soooo old; I’m getting a yeast infection just blogging about it.

Apparently, Perez—a judge in the Miss U.S.A. Pageant—asked Carrie Prejean, Miss California, if she believed in gay marriage or something of that ilk.  And Perez didn’t like her answer.  Let’s cut to the chase:  This Miss Try-to-Be U.S.A. is no Wannabe Miss U.S.Gay.  You got that right!  She doesn’t believe in gay marriage, doesn’t like men who swish for a living, and doesn’t seem to like Perez Hilton, who has been milking this story since the weekend.  When asked why he was calling the dyed blonde contestant (who looked as if she wore NuvaRings for earrings) names, he boasted, “Because I’m not running for Miss U.S.A.  Because I can.  Because I’m controversial.  I’m Perez Hilton.  I don’t have to be nice!”  (And you wonder why straights hate gays?)   Poor Perez was beginning to believe his own PR.  And why was he speaking in slow-motion during the CNN interview with Reggie Aqui?  We know he’s Cuban-American, but was he afraid the viewers didn’t speak English?   

The lines between the news and entertainment are very fine in this country.  The last time I watched, Miss U.S.A., it was “light” entertainment, not Charlie Rose.  Who wants to listen to the latest news/traffic/weather from a beauty pageant contestant anyway?  You wanna catch a bikini malfunction or watch a big buxomed babe twirl a baton, not listen to chitter-chatter about gay marriage on date night.  Yawn.  Because it seems as if news and entertainment are now glued at the hip, should we expect to see Katie Couric in a thong and Anderson Cooper in a leather harness—just to get higher ratings?

The bottom line is when my Mouthketeers and I want to embrace serious subjects, we turn on NPR, read the NYT and switch to PBS.  It’s getting pretty sad when America is beginning to get their news from tweets or twats on Twitter.

Time to wash my mouth out with soap.   Where do you get your news? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Have you all seen the stupendous Susan Boyle, singing her heart out on the show “Britain’s Got Talent 2009?”  I am absolutely outraged how the media is spinning Susan’s back story.  First, who gives anyone the right to judge Susan Boyle’s looks?  And second, what does America know about beauty?  The last time I checked, American women have pumped their boobs up to look as if they are life preservers, plumped their lips up to look as if they are pillow cases, and stretched their faces apart to look as if they are rubber bands.  OK, Susan has a double chin and curly hair.  Honestly, if you look closely, Susan slightly resembles the absolutely gorgeous, Sheena Easton. 

America, don’t you dare analyze Susan Boyle any longer.  Ask yourself, “Why on earth did I get suckered into believing those lip-synching loonies Madonna and Britney Spears have any talent?”  If I see Madonna asking Susan Boyle to sing a duet with her, I’m gonna run naked through Times Square singing, “Sugar Walls.”

Here’s something you might not know:  If you’re a classical musician and want to audition for a seat in an orchestra, you must play your fiddles and your flutes behind a screen.  You got that right.  The judges don’t see your face.  They simply listen to how beautiful you sound.  If your sound sucks, you’re out.  Think about this:  Put Susan, Madonna, and Britney behind a curtain and ask them to sing a cappella (without musical background).  Who wins?  

America, there are ‘Susan Boyles’ all around us.  There are people who really have a lot of talent, but don’t want to spread their legs to get noticed.  If we can vote a Black man into the White House, we can buy Susan Boyle’s upcoming CD, because Susan has reminded us that talented people deserve to be heard. 

Do you sing in the shower? 

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator entertainment

Greetings Mouthketeers:

You might have heard of the movie, “The Red Shoes,” and frequented “The Red Door,” but I bet you’ve never seen my red notebook.  Well at least I pray you haven’t seen it, because it’s my dermatologist’s book of me . . . naked.  In it I’m stretching, squatting, high-step kicking, and practically back bending.  These are positions, which go way beyond a Paris Hilton home movie, and takes cinema verite to a whole new level. 

So, I’m not an amateur porno star, and I’m certainly not rehearsing for my close-up on YouTube.  You see, Melanoma runs in my family (I had a small piece of it a few years back), and as a precaution, my doctor commissioned a total-body photographer to snap these pics so my skin team (ST) can compare moles from the past to the present, and without a pause, zap them away if they have changed a bit. 

Last week I had a skin exam.  There I was, naked again, and strapped to a gurney while my ST studied every nook and cranny of my body for the umpteenth time.  It’s really awkward to have a parade of peeps checking me out when I’m exposed; however, after two decades of going through this, I’ve just now come to believe these people are not talking about me behind my back(side).  Until now. 

You got that right.  As my big butt was blowin’ in the wind, my doc told me the medical photographer who compiled my family-jeweled photo album way back when was arrested a few months ago for keeping some pics for his own enjoyment.  (Not my pics, silly . . . an undercover cop’s photos.)   

So there you have it.  Just when you think a medical expert is a robot, not thinking about you in any other context but a patient, you learn he’s a perv.  Thank my lucky stars I am not a woman because if I had a front as big as my back, I would be a gynecologist’s dream.  Even though I heard about the pervy photographer, I still won’t over-analyze why someone would become a foot doctor or a proctologist.  At this point, I will run, not walk to get another colonoscopy, but if the doctor keeps me on the table a little longer than he should have, I’ll just give ‘em an autograph and ask for a discount. 

The answer is blowing in the wind.  Have you ever had a colonoscopy?

Peace.

The Mouthinator. 

The Mouthinator Pop Culture

Greetings Mouthketeers:

Today I’m going to help you turn your sadness into happiness.  Do you remember when the late and fantabulous Tammy Faye Bakker Messner always used to say, ‘you can always make lemonade from a lemon?’  (I’m having a senior moment again.  I think that’s the way the phrase went, but not sure.)  Anyway, my friend Joanie sent me pictures of a garbage truck turned apartment, and finally, I realized what Tammy was sayin’ all along.  She wanted us all to turn our ‘inner truck’ (our roadbloacks) around for a better tomorrow.

Let’s take Tammy’s advice to the next level.  Coming from experiences where at times I was broke and played the victim, I figured out a great strategy that not only helps me sleep at night to this day, but spares me the panic attacks. 

The strategy is this:  First, figure out what is the worst case scenario for you, such as, having to go into foreclosure, having to sleep on someone’s couch or having to move into a homeless shelter.  If you can determine what your absolute rock bottom moment is, you won’t continue to free fall, and you will begin to turn your luck around. 

If you’ve lost your job, unless you’re getting a year’s severance, get another one immediately.  Any job.  Let the money roll in.  The last time I checked, money is the same form of payment whether you’re a garbage collector, professor, doctor, hooker and a waiter.  No one is telling you to sling hash in a greasy spoon forever, but busting your ass at an IHop for awhile will at least take your mind off of your problems and bring in some cash.  

On the foreclosure front:  It’s really is awful to be in that situation, and if you can’t turn that problem around, toughen up.  Save the tears for a human because a house doesn’t breathe and won’t miss you when you’re gone.  You’ll miss it, especially because you made that place look like Disneyworld, (hence the Magic Kingdom picture above), but that doesn’t mean you won’t own another roof somewhere in the future and make it a sanctuary too.  I promise you.

Find your inner truck, turn on the ignition and drive. 

Hey, do you have a unique Lemonade recipe you’d like to share?  ‘Lemonme’ know, and RIP Tammy!!

Peace.

The Mouthinator.  

The Mouthinator Pop Culture