Savor the magic...

You know what makes me happy? Yes, pie. That goes without saying. But what makes me happy beyond the obvious is the feeling I get when I'm watching a master working @ his/her craft.

*Britt Hume doing his little-publisized pro-bono work as a motivational speaker.

*Anything from the REO catalog.

*Speaking of catalogs, memo to my wife: Page 32, column 2, Delta SkyMall (2008, q2 edition). The thing pays for itself after just one fondu party, honey. No more rentals. I've thought this through.

*Donny Osmond replacing Pat O'Brien on the only must-see-tv left, "The Insider". I mean, c'mon.

Still, one moment...frozen in time forever...stands out..........

Let me paint the scene: July, 1998. Venice, CA. A hint of julep and despair wafting in the breeze. And working...nay....OWNING the stage in a way harkening back to such seminal moments as Donny Most's signature performance in his misunderstood (and unfortunately, uncredited) work -- a chilling reminder of our collective mortality as "parole officer"-- 1996's "Pure Danger" (in which Most STOLE the film from co-stars C.Thomas Howell--also the film's director-- and Terri Ann Linn...only to return it...WITH INTEREST).

Or who could forget Dolph Lundgren's haunting embodiment of passion and brooding poignance as Lt. Nikolai Rachenko in 1989 uber-film, "Red Scorpion"?

Both pale in comparison to the spectacle to which the world bore witness that day. Keanu Reeves is, was, and will always be Tevye. Johnny Mnemonic was but a glimpse what "Stretch" (as those of us whom are fortunate to call him friend refer to him) has to offer our nation...and the world.

For those of you for whom the stars did not align that magical evening by the sea (and also near Lincoln Discount Tire: now with one convenient location right there in Venice), know that you are the lesser for it.

Now, on with the pie.

The Guy at the Gas Station

First, allow me to apologize for being gone so long. The Merchant Marines isn't a life for everyone. And as it turns out, it wasn't for me, either. Turns out, mostly it's just sailing around (though I'm still waiting to see the "sails"; it's really just a big, smelly engine, kids, no matter what the brochure says).

Anyway, where was I? Oh, right. The gas station.

So anyway, I pull up, cuz the sign says $3.42, but not just that...but "ALL TAXES INCLUDED". Well, as many of my loyal readers know all too well, Uncle Stu had a misunderstanding with the IRS awhile back, and it seems I'm in arrears to the tune of $38,493.40 (plus daily compiled interest. Anybody got a calculator?).

So seeing that sign got me thinking: I buy at least a fill-up, and I win three ways:

1. Full tank of gas

2. 50% off the chalupa/dog combo meal

3. No tax bill to the tune of $38,523.74 (I found my calculator as I've typed this)

Luckily, I had all my paperwork in the car (along with most of my valuables, including my priceless Merle Haggard-autographed chaps and my "Best of Adrian Zmed" EP). I presented this to the man(?) behind the counter, and smiled a winner's smile.

Long story short, it was all a big misunderstanding. The bad news is, loitering can be enough to tip the scales of Lady Justice on you, if it's your ninth offense (or, I assume, higher).

But the chalupa/dog combo deal was still in play.....so Ol' Stu is smilin'.

Welcome to 06. Now stay away from my pie!

All:

Recently I was reminded of a story my Uncle Earl used to spin. Often near a campfire, but always with a creepy flashlight below his face. You see, Earl was manic depressive, and was all too often off the meds. And when he journeyed too far from his chemically-induced world of safety and diminished personality, he could go "funny". And I don't me "ha-ha" funny. I mean "find him on the porch with a 20-year-old National Geographic in one hand, a shotgun in the other, and wearing nothing but a goofy smile" kind of funny.

Anyways, what was I talking about? Oh, yeah. Pie.

Good rule of thumb, break-room users. Never, EVER leave pie in the fridge. Especially home-made, succulent pie like the kind I had just two short days ago. The kind of pie that makes it all make sense. The kind of pie that almost makes Kenny over in accounts receivable tolerable. The kind of pie that transcends food and moves straight on to Americana.

And then it was gone.

I didn't eat it.

Somebody (or someTHING) else did.

And so I say again: Keep your hands off my pie.

Update:

Soon, you'll be able to download your BlackStuart (copyright pending!) RingTones right here. You asked for 'em, you got 'em, America.

You want to know what I don't like?

Well, apparently you do, if my fax machine has it right.

O.K., America. You win.

Here's what I don't like.

But first, a story.

Anyway, there I was, one crisp spring early afternoon, minding my own business at local eatery "Taco-Tico" (a regionally-renowned one-stop-shop for every imagineable culinary voyage). As I was savoring the third bite of my Sgt. Slaughter Kid's Meal, I caught something that disturbed me then, and haunts me now.

"A dog?", I queeried to myself at first.

"Perhaps one of those adorable fake ferrets that roll on that ball-thingy? You know what I mean!" (which was odd, as this was an internal dialogue).

"Billy Barty?"

No. It was none of those.

It was rodent that was roughly the size of a Buick LeSabre.

And if that weren't enough, it had emerged from the same general vicinity as my Fun-chalada.

Which brings me back to my original point: I HATE THE ESTATE TAX.

There.

Satisfied, America?

Behold: The Power of Fudge

More to come, as ths will likely be one in a long line of rambling, non-sensical nonsense. And redundantly so.