Baby Boomers are the poor man's Echo Boomers

But only when it comes to narcissism.

Trust me, the Baby Boomers are find a way to take credit for this.

Remington Steele is the poor man's Moonlighting

Three things...

1. Going with a David & Maddie photo wasn't as satisfying as I thought it'd be.

2. I'm working on a higher concept entry, and it ain't taking. So you get this.

3. This is how my mind works when I have gas. (I'm very sad I had to share that with you.)

Brooke Adams is the poor man's Karen Allen

I've been running low on the creative cash lately, so I've had to suck it up and get a temp job. I've worked here off and on since Dec '04. You know this company. I believe it is the largest financial institution in the world.

No, the irony is not lost on me.

There is something fundamentally wrong with this company. They keep hiring me, and like the abused, rural housewife that I am I go back to them. I work for the top executives, booking their appointments, taking calls, playing a lot of Free Cell. Hell, I've worked for the CEO of this company. I should never, ever, under any circumstances, be within 100 yards of anyone of authority and power. I am a moron. A moron who loves Free Cell, and can't check his email because of their stupid firewall.

This isn't meant for me, so I spend every bit of free time I have creating projects that will get me where I want to be. One step forward, two steps to stolen office supplies (mostly paper). Funny thing is I have friends (also morons) in "the industry." On the one hand I'm very happy for them, on the other it's like I'm now the kid from kindergarten that no one talked to because he ate his boogers and never wore matching socks.

Don't get me wrong, there are good times. I haven't had to work here for a quite a few months. That was very nice, but that was then and this is now.

Anyway, I suit up and head out very early, sit under the unhealthy flourescent glow and soak up the stale air for a few hours, then trudge back home with the other happy mass-transiters at the end of the day. My life is bliss at this job.

But I got's to do it. Like I said, cash from the creative stuff is running low, and the Poor Woman doesn't want to be a 40-year-old waitress. (she's not 40, nor has she ever really waitressed [no matter what she tells you about some restaurant job in Hawaii] so I don't know what she's getting so worked up about)

Anyway, all is not lost. I've written a little 5-minute TV show which shoots in a few weeks, enter it into a little contest (I'llonly tell you what it is if it's accepted), and we'll see what happens. And no, it's not about Free Cell.

Maybe a commercial job will drop down like sweet residual manna from heaven. Until then, I leave you with the lyrics to a song by one of my favorite cats, Ethan Lipton. He's over there, to your right, in the links. Check him out. Go see a show, buy a CD. He's got a third one coming out. So, without further ado...

I got a place to go in the morning (goin' to work)
I got a place to go when I rise
I got to get up early and wash my body
I gotta look real sharp and smell real nice

And everybody there loves my opinion
And we tell some funny jokes at the meetings (with the bagels, yeah)
I've got a place to go, and no one that I love goes there too
I got a place to go, it's all my own
Nobody else can do my job like I can
Hey, I'm a man!
I know where everything is on my desk

And we all roll our eyes at the memos
And we sing a Happy Birthday song once a month
On "Happy Birthday Tuesday"
I got a place to go in the morning (goin' to work)
I got a place to go when I rise

I got a place to go, and even if I'm tired or feeling blue
They let me stay, collect my pay, because I'm one of them
Oh it ain't the glamorous life of a pirate, yes I know.
But at least I got a place to go.


This stopped being about Brooke Adams and Karen Allen a long time ago.

Neil Diamond is the poor man's Barry Gibb

In the spirit of yesterday's post, I want to say thanks to Babs.

Now when's that next movie with Ryan O'Neil coming out?


BONUS: For the African-American soft-rock duet you've been craving, I give you Endless Love. I guess Barbara was too deep into her Yentl phase to work up a duet with Mr. Tom-bo-lee-tay Say-de-moi-ya.


Hey. Jambo, jumbo.
Way to par-tay oh we goin'. Oh, jumbolah.
Tom-bo-lee-tay Say-de-moi-y
Yeah, JUMBO JUMBO!

There's a very embarrassing story as to why I know these lyrics. It involves 8th grade orchestra, my viola, and an ill-advised Lionel Richie medley concert.

Actually, you pretty much just got the gist of it.

We've Got Tonight is the poor man's Islands in the Stream

I'm very sorry if either song got stuck in your head. They've been living in mine for over a week. Hence the lack of posts.



I swear, I've got half a mind to wipe that smirk off of Kenny's...uhhh...face-like area.

OCD is the poor man's ADD

Because I'm sure ADD patients have better drugs.


P.S. - I have OCD. I must. I spent entirely too long looking for the best picture to represent OCD, and I still could find one that made me happy. This one sucks.


I'm going to go alphabatize my socks.

Alarm clocks are the poor man's 7AM Construction

I think my clock is wrong. You see, the jackhammering began at 7:02 this morning...which leads me to believe my clock is 2 minutes slow.

The Poor Woman and I moved to this little corner of soon-to-be-gentrified Brooklyn because our last place got a bit noisy.

I know. It's NYC. It's noisy. I have no problem with noise. I expect it. But our situation was a little different. A bar moved in below us. At first we thought it was a great thing. It seemed like a fun little neighborhood bar, no frills, pool table in the back, decent food, great beers, etc. This was in the winter time.

Around March, Bloomberg made it illegal to smoke indoors.

So as it got warmer, drunks started hanging outside, in front of our door, or under our windows.

Drunks are not very discreet, or interesting, conversationalists.

At first it wasn't so bad. We'd call the bar and ask them to tell the idiots to keep it down, or something. It was a small problem, and seemed to be easily taken care of.

Then summer came. And a back patio.

All of a sudden our little problem ran well into the wee morning hours. And here's the thing: there were never more than about 30 loud, drinking, smoking, laughing-at-stupid-storytelling people out there at a time. Honestly, I'd rather have a hundred people out there. At 100, it's just noise, but with 30, you hear bits of each and every conversation. No picnic, that.

And once June hit, the bar thought it was alright for this to happen until 2, 3, 4am each and every night.

Long story short (too late): many talks were had with the owner and bartenders (we knew them all). We got a curfew out of them...which was never enforced. Cops were called. It'd get quiet for a little while then go back to normal. Community boards were met with. Someone would puke on our front door.

After a year and a half of fighting for the place where we lived first, our landlord sold extra space to the bar so they could expand. We knew where we stood in the grand scheme of things, so we figured it was time to move. We found our current place just a few blocks away, and lived in relative peace until around 3 months ago. The lot behind us had been sold to make way for a 14-story condo.

I dunno. I'm too tired to be a grumpy old man about it. It's all kind of funny now.

Alarm clocks are for pussies.

Where do poor men come from?

Sometimes I'm asked where I get my ideas. OK, I've actually never been asked that. But today's post comes from a good friend of the PMV, Mr. Moe Berg. (His blog, Simon Metz, can be seen in the links column)

Here’s what he had to say:
you've got to help me.
i'm trying for the life of me to find the name of a "that guy" - a character actor who can only be described as the poor man's jeffrey tambor.
he's been in a ton of things, but because he's "that guy" i have no idea where to start looking.
i know this is a terribly vague description of the guy and i can only hope that you, who does this sort of thing so well, will know who the fuck i'm talking about.
after re-reading this email, i believe i may be having a stroke.


MB's email has two things which catch my eye: flattery, and a genuine concern for his personal medical condition. So I'm on the case. Here’s my reply:
The very first person who pops into my head is Stephen Tobolowsky.

Let me know if that's close.


In a flash, MB responds:
close. not him.
more jewishy. slim. shorter than tambor. eye glasses.
help me poor man. you're my only hope.


But before I can reply, he's got it:
call off the dogs!
george wyner.

He later adds:
this all started because i saw mr wyner yesterday at a local sushi place. the guy with which he was dining must have been a regular at the place, because he was making extended small talk with the waiter and closed by proudly exclaiming "...but this time i brought you a celebrity!"

These three guys are all excellent actors. They each have a million credits between them. They may never be Oscar-nominated (my money's on Tobolowsky getting a nod first), but they each got chops! Do yourself a favor and rent a movie with one of them in mind. Or pressure ABC to release "The Ropers" on DVD. It was my first exposure to Jeffrey Tambor...if you don't count that episode of "Three's Company" where he played the dentist.

P.S. MB also spent a little time with David Foster, and confirms my theory that although he may be killing modern music, he does have a salty sense of humor.

Josh Groban is the poor man's Michael Buble???

I've got a theory, and since you're here you might as well read it.

The target demographic that we keep hearing about, men who are 18-35, is wrong. I think it is housewives, aged 45-65. That's the only way I can understand the success of these two guys.

After doing a little research, I've found they are both the product of uber-producer, David Foster.

Simon Cowell has nothing on this guy.

David Foster has done more to destroy modern music that anyone else in the world. Turn on any "adult-contemporary radio" station, and 99% of what you hear will be the product of his demonic doings. He is a very bad man. If we as a global society are going to find our true potential, we have to do something about this. Heck, if we're serious about flushing Osama out of hiding, then blare Foster's ouevre all across the mountains of Afghanistan.

If David Foster wants to serve mankind, he should use his music for crime fighting, not entertainment.

Somewhat related: there are commercials on TV for Broadway shows which are written to satisfy a particular audience (much like David Foster's Grobuble music). For example, there's a little show going on right now called, "My Mother's Jewish, My Father's Italian, And I'm in Therapy." The commercial for this almost always follows a Gobule one. Now, I'm gonna judge a book by it's cover on this one. No matter how much this show bills itself as an "uproarious" one-man tour-de-force, I'm convinced it is the work of a hack, pandering to L.C.D. tendencies. What hasn't been covered before here? I'm also convinced everyone who leaves the show laughing, mutters the phrase "it's funny because it's true" at least twice.

I'm not Jewish, Italian, in therapy, gay, lesbian, Irish, etc. I've got nothing against any group, but I'm gonna cash in on this hack-play trend with a little project of my own. "My Gay Little Jew from Yonkers, And His Penis Friend: The Musical."

I'm working on the score right now. David Foster, call me.

Heathcliff is the poor man's Garfield

Yeah. The wit well is running dry.

So over the weekend I'm trying to get an important document to print (and another one to scan). Nothing's happening. I try all sorts of combinations of quick fixes. Nothing's happening. I'm not a dolt. I like to think I have the compuuter savvy equal to a 7-year-old child. Those kids are bright, but the hand/eye/deep thought development isn't all there yet.

I research whatever the problem may be on the internet. I look up software patches/updates on the company's website. I reinstall everything.

Nothing's happening.

Mind you, I can't just call customer service, because warranties have expired and I'm not paying that big ol' corporation to have some punk speak down to me because I can't get my stupid printer/scanner to work. I will find a solution on my own!

After almost an hour and a half the Poor Woman (you're starting to understand the context which she is called this now?) asks if I tried unplugging the printer and plugging it back in.

I grunt.

I try it.

Of course it works.

I'm sure there's an IT guy in every office, in every government, in every business, in every space exploration program, in every stock exchange control room, etc. who's sole job it is to unplug their respective machine, and then plug it back in.

So what happens when an IT guy is on life support? Will he reboot if we unplug him, wait 15 seconds, and plug him back in again?

Location 1 must be the poor man's Location 2

I can't honestly think of a good reason for this one. Click on the picture and you will see our new backyard. It's gonna be condos. Fucking awesome.

If you look at the #1, you'll see where thirty or so steel beams used to reside...until about 7:16 this morning, when two workers found it absolutely necessary to DRAG THOSE FUCKERS twenty feet to the right.

Their noble work shook the earth, and the sound of those metal behemoths getting scraped, dragged and then crash down on one another was not nearly as soothing as the BEEP BEEP BEEP BEEP of the fucking excavator doing the dragging. (Ripley's Believe it or Not Fun Fact: Contrary to popular belief, construction equipment doesn't just beep when moving backwards, but whenever they fucking move at all.)

As of this moment (7:35AM), there is no one on the construction site.

Please send your best ideas for construction site sabotage to HOBODINNER at GMAIL dot COM.

NSFW: Jim Spagg was the poor man's Robin Byrd

We're gonna do things a little differently today on the PMV. We're gonna start with text and end with the pics. BE WARNED - you may not want your co-workers to see this. Especially that nosy bitch, Gladys.

The story today is about how I have a magnet for crazy. Officially the full moon is tonight, but last night...

I'm on the subway heading into the city. I've got my ipod plugged in. I'm in my own world. I'm an island. From out of the corner of my eye I see movement. Like the idiot that I am I glance over at the source and make eye contact with a karate-chopping crazy man. How do I know he's crazy? Well I figure there aren't very many invisible karate fighters on the F train, and if there were, 6pm is about the time they'd be on break.

So this guy was chopping and dicing, adding the occasional kick. Unfortunately, for .0004 of a second I indeed made eye contact with him. In Crazy Land, that means he's obliged to accept my karate challenge, no matter how much I try to give off the "dude, do whatever you want to do, just do it away from me" vibe. So he postures for a while, and I turn down my music, in case his attack comes with an audible warning. Thankfully, someone else sat in the seat he vacated, and he was back in his corner talking to what I'm guessing was an Hispanic transvestite with a pencil-thin mustache. They share a bottle of grapefruit juice and converse. I think. Communication was happening, but I was trying to retreat into my safe place and not listen.

He must've known that I was mentally keeping tabs on him, because when he got up to exit at his stop, he stood awfully close, walked away, and then shoved his hand in front of my face (as if to slap my nose). As soon as he did that the doors closed, and the train lurched on. Well that fucker showed me, alright.

Nothing much happened on the way home. Oh, except the guy sitting right next to me decided it was an excellent time to throw up on himself.

I have a magnet for crazy.

As for today's post...

Jim Spagg was a staple of Portland, OR public access TV. He danced around in a cape. He lip-synced (lip-sanc?) novelty songs from the 50's. He talked about how people just needed to lighten up. He did all this naked...or mostly naked (see: cape).

The man was an artist, a "muffdiver" (his phrase), a Marine and trickster. Had his show been in NYC, he would be world famous. But Portland public access just doesn't have the cache that New York has. Which is unfortunate.

Jim died in 2004. As goofy as he was, he was a swell guy...with a little dick and a big heart.





As Jim would say, Happy Doodles!

Ann Wilson is the poor man's Stevie Nicks

My first car was a red, 1981 Mustang. No, don't be jealous. 1981 was the year Ford decided to make crappy Mustangs. Sort of a hybrid of the Mustang and something sensible, like a Honda Civic (hatchback of course). Anyway, I bought this for $1,900 back in 1988. It was a good car. It was a crappy car.

I'm not mechanically-minded. If you read yesterday's post, you know my affinity for math, so suffice it to say I'm more of a right-brainer.

Some things I learned from my 1st car...

4-cylinder engines suck.
I have no idea how to re-wire anything, nor should I ever be allowed to.
But I can fix a flat tire.
Don't allow more than one friend to sit on the hood. Metal bends, but does not always bend back.
Your manhood is judged by your working knowledge of your car.
It was still better than my 5th car. That thing was a deathtrap.
My dad and I once installed new brakes on my car. Which means I handed him tools while he worked. I usually handed him the wrong tools.

My uncle is like that, very handy. I take after my grandfather. The man was a complete loss in the tool shed, but he was a fine actor. Seeing as how I'm an actor, I'm cool with the way things turned out.

The radio in my first car had an 8-track player. Cassette players ruled the day, and if you had money, you also had a CD player. I had one speaker that worked, the others kind of came in and out. As has been discussed, I shouldn't be around wiring of any kind. Since I had zero 8-track tapes, I bought a cassette converter from Radio Shack to play the tapes I did have.

Heart's Greatest Hits was one of the tapes in steady rotation. I was into 70's rock at the time.
Other tapes I had were all of Peter Gabriel's solo stuff, Crowded House, Boston, some local Houston bands, Sting, Jane's Addiction and loads of mix tapes.

I ended up trading that car in for a better car (i.e. one in which the roof wasn't in danger of falling on my head). On the way to the dealership, my car broke down. They had to tow it to the lot. My trade-in value plummeted.

I sincerely wish I knew how to fix cars, but deep down I know I'm always going to have to spend the money and take it in.