Best of my blog

Commercial Break: David plugs himself with a poll, suitable for all ages.



Pre-order my e-book for only $10 and start 2018 dyspeptically right!

Yes, friends, the e-book of the blog is coming February 1st, 2018, and you have the option of pre-ordering NOW.  You luckybitches!

This will 1. Show me how much you care; 2. Help with the print edition (the cover of which is shown here) 3. Get YOU a reduced price special edition of the paperback when it rolls out Spring 2018.

{The print book will be available on (fingers crossed) Amazon, Barnes and Noble and other fine booksellers who have the taste and discernment to recognize my comic genius, or who at the very least are subject to the bribery/extortion/kidnapping-while-in-possession-of-an-old-rusty-refrigerator-that-still-has-its-door-attached-a-picture- of-their-kids-and-a-ticket-to-Niagara-Falls spectrum of behavior.

Inbound marketing, in other words. I hope this makes sense.}

My publication is in the form of a Pillow Book.

Yes, siree, a Pillow Book! The first, most famous Pillow Book (a kind of diary filled with aphorisms, clever stories and pungent commentaries on social life) was written by Sei Shōnagon during her time as court lady to Empress Consort Teishi during the 990s and early 1000s in Heian Japan. I’m kind of embarrassed to remind you of something so “common-knowledge”! Go on, roll your eyes, I deserve it!

Well, anyway, as many of my friends spend virtually all their waking hours in court, the similarities between Sei Shōnagon and me simply couldn’t be more obvious! I’m always thrilled to carry on a tradition!

I was also macrobiotic for a while, which basically means you eat Japanese food wherever you live and pretend that that’s better for you.  And I’m a trained and certified shiatsu therapist, which is a traditional Japanese type of energy massage.

Holy Rice Balls!  I’d better stop before I have to fire myself for being over-qualified!!!

Just don’t get the idea that my book has anything to do with Japan.  It doesn’t.  Not in the slightest. In fact, this blurb has more info to do with Japan than my entire e-book, which is to say, any content at all about Japan.  OK?  Moving along.

(No offense, but—are you always this high-maintenance?)

Both the print and the e-book will contain new, rejigged and painstakingly fluffed versions of your favorite posts from the past four years, and, with no good deed going unpunished, exclusive new content just for YOU!

This is you: “Oh, stop! Oh, STOP, the dyspeptic humor is just so—! Oh, my RIBS—!”

You’ll also get a checkout code entitling you to 30% OFF any item in my Snatsch ‘n Foofer online store, valid until 2019.

Look, just do it, OK?

» Here’s the link, if you didn’t work out you could actually click on the book cover image above.

A rather long poll

While we’re at it, take the poll (see above) and give me FREE advice!

Happy New Year to all my friends and followers – you’ve truly made 2017 bearable.  Let’s hang out more in 2018.



blackNODATE Signature


I’m sorry that extended quality time with J♥e has interfered with my blog updates. Well, actually, I’m not sorry at all, who am I kidding?


When is a cigar not a cigar? When it’s– J♥e.

From our iconic mid-century LA compound.
January 27th, 2015.


My thoughts go out to you, sad little readers who’ve been waiting with bated breath for another update regarding my totally narcissistic, useless life of Caligula-style debauchery.

Fact is, I’ve been spending some highly-confidential quality time with J♥e at our LA compound.

As you can imagine, I relish this yearly opportunity to take a Los Angeles-sized break from my usual inner-city Toronto hell-hole routines: doula then undertaker to baby roaches; pulling on another hideous, shredded cashmere-polyester-mix GAP sweater for warmth, and desperately trying to restore the urine-colored bathtub to anything approaching white using a toothbrush and a can of Ajax.

You think I got these chapped hands from skiing at Gstaad?  Think again, groveling toadies!

As are the chimes of Big Ben to a Londoner,
thus is tradition to J♥e and I in the eternally sunny, almost oppressively perfect Butch Cassidy-Sundance Kid rewrite that is our existence. And it’s no different during the precious spiritual—by which I mean completely focussed on animalistic man-sex—retreat spent in our modest—by which I mean dialed back from palatial to merely luxurious—LA machine-for-living.

We always start by giving Juan and Juanita a surprise staycation, which I like to announce by screaming “la migra! la migra!” while stomping  around in my vintage SS boots and slamming a few doors. My word, how we laugh, “we” meaning “I”!   

Once the illegals have accidentally locked themselves in the downstairs panic room, J♥e and I put our cell phones on vibrate, close the electronically-powered vertical blinds, throw some tastefully-greyed driftwood on the Xanadu-sized fireplace and order in.  It’s gonna be a quiet two weeks!

With these tender hijinks, year after year, begins our cherished ritual of spiritual renewal, with the occasional break for a round of pervy, rules-free naked olive-oil wrestling.  It’s a life-balance thing.

turkish olive oil wrestling Google Search

pervy, rules-free spiritual renewal creates quite a stir with the neighbours!

Also, it’s important to maximize our remaining time here before the entire mid-century structure crumbles in cinematic slow-mo off the cliff-edge. But hey.

That’s the intoxicating level of existential terror that keeps us coming back to Manson country!

We have several fave activities
during our brief but erotically-charged catch-ups. “Eye-gazing” is number one, and many thanks to Jorge, our part-time bromance coach, for this technique.

You could probably try it with your frumpy, Goodwill-clad partner some evening, once you’ve finished scraping the congealed Kraft Dinner residue off the plastic tableware.  But I doubt it will have the same effect without the exorbitant fees.

Anyway, eyes are the windows of the soul, or something, and we—that’s J♥e and I if you didn’t pick that up on the first mention—spend a couple hours each day, eyeball locked to eyeball, and J♥e says the utterly black void he sees through my windows is very soothing after a tough day on set.

First bro to break contact gets to “bottom” for Juan, which adds a little extra frisson.

Sorry to be so TMI. It’s the way I get when I feel the subterranean rumble of subsiding foundations.  Mister Devil-May-Care, that’s me!


Dialed back to merely luxurious and crumbling off the cliff edge:  life in the slow lane.

(Evernote reminder to maid:  “Hey, Enchilada! How’s the PTSD?  LOL!! Just goofin’ around, Grape Picker!!

“Listen, this trip our world is all about sourcing wholesale collectibles – recently spotted 40% off marble fruit paperweights at Jonathan Adler, also stoneware vases inexplicably covered with 3-D breasts.  WTF, right??

“To anticipate your objections, these days even the Pope has a couple of those on the mantel! Yes, siree, Ms Francine Vatican Herself!!  And if that doesn’t convince you, two words: electrified fence. Capisce?

“P.S. – I lost the eye-gaze challenge! Again!!  I know, seriously??!  Am I a li’l freckle-faced rascal or what?  Am I?  You know I am!!!!

Ciao, amiga!”)

But lest you think that life is all piña coladas and expensive spirituality in our kastle-by-Koenig, let me tell you something.

While you turn three more shades of chartreuse from envy!

It’s not.  Far from it!

Though I bet that’s something that never occurred to you. While you were thinking it was.  All those things.

What was I saying?

Oh yeah. We, too—that’s J♥e and I—have our small yet impeccably man-scaped problems which obviously far outweigh yours. For example, I recently started to obsess about whether he’s secretly disguising some male-pattern baldness with discreet hair weaving—

—but I promised I would let that go.

When I wake him up every night at 3 AM to settle the question once and for all he calls me OCD in a really testy voice, and in response I throw an abalone shell or other similar knick-knack against the polished concrete mantelpiece, then fake-cry.

He has gradually begun to ignore this, and thanks a bunch, Jorge, for that technique, too. Nice work, bromance coach.

Then there’s the body hair issue.  As you can see, J♥e is rigorous about nuking every last follicle till he’s smoother than a Vatican choir-boy, which ups the eye-candy but means I keep sliding off his chest. Clamber, slide, clamber, slide. Jesu, Maria! It’s like trying to perform frottage while scaling a glacier.

Which pretty much sums up bromance in general.

That’s my status update—call me blogged, Facebooked and tweeted!

While J♥e finishes his cigar, I’m going to take my morning constitutional on Wilshire Boulevard with our Yorkies, Macy and Saks. Those toxic LA breezes help clear the cobwebs, and, bonus—free chemical peel!—while I, with my astonishing gift for 24/7 visibility, whip up a wee bit of a stir in my fishnet tanga.

And let’s be frank: If those little yappers get thrown under a stretch Hummer, oh well, they get thrown under a stretch Hummer.

That’s just life in the slow lane.  Ciao, bello!

(Attention Ge♥rge Cl♥♥ney:  Please don’t start imagining this whole piece is intended to shame you, or that I’ve wasted even one more second thinking about your chiseled jawline. Or the sweet-pervy nothings you might be whispering in my ear right now, none of them about restraining orders.  All is forgiven if you’ll just answer. C’mon. What would Rosemary have done?  That’s right. Answer the phone, baby.)


This post first appeared in January,  2015.  
I'm repeating it here, updated and revised, as part of my 
"best of my blog" series.