A Very Special Sept. 11 Post

All of us have a memory of that morning. We remember where we were, what we were doing, who we were with. It's just that some of us were in more important places doing more important things with more important people than others. And that's what makes America great.

Damn the terrorists. Damn them for what they've done to the world. Damn them for what they've done to our country. And damn them for ruining a day that by rights should have counted as a personal triumph for Yours Truly.

The sun was just beginning to rise on a clear So. Cal day, and so was I. Many of you are aware that I practice Transcendental Meditation. I was sitting on a beautiful straw mat monogrammed for me by the wonderfully tiny fingers of the renowned Tibetan mat weavers. Or maybe they were Indian. Or Chinese? Whatever, I mail-ordered it.

At any rate, I had already reached an advanced state of consciousness within 5 minutes (I still believe this is a record for any Western Hemisphere native) and began to levitate off my mat. Maybe something was in the air that day, because I was able to get about three feet in the air. If you've ever achieved Total Levitation, you know that after you get 8-10 inches off the ground it's hard to keep ascending vertically and you begin to drift. Well, I'm 3 feet in the fucking air, just meditating my ass off, and I start veering left a bit, then right. I'm trying not to blow it and I'm doing mantras double-time trying to get over to the chaise next to the pool, where the kitchen help leaves my decaf/biscotti. Sure enough, I get myself heading in that direction. Michael you magnificent bastard, you're really cookin' now! I say to myself. You better fucking believe "I Get Around!"

Fucking doorbell rings.

End of meditation.

I'm in a monogrammed silk kimono (that cost $850 by the way), lotus position, and I'd overshot the chaise. I drop ass-first on the edge of my swimming pool, one leg in, one out, bruise my ass, rack my balls, and get chlorine all over my custom kimono. No doubt the Jap rag is gonna bleach out. The silk is shot for sure. Well fuck me, huh?

Who, you may ask, in the living fuck is ringing my doorbell at 6 fucking AM on Tuesday?

John Ants-in-his-Pants Stamos. That's who.

I'm thinking Christ on a crutch...Can't he ever call at a civilized hour? I'm thinking If this fucking gyros monkey's wife wasn't so easy on the eyes I might have put Saget on the fucking congas and said the hell with it! So I'm just about to put my size 11 shoeless joe up his goofy greek ass, but I can tell he's got a bee in his bonnet abourt something. "Have you heard the news?"

"What happened?"

He stops antsing around and just gives me that patented sly shit-eating Stamos grin. Then it starts to sink in.

"Oh FUCK yeah!!"

Stamos puts his bongo whackers in the air and we connect for a thundering "high ten" so vigorous that for a second I'm hoping I didn't hurt those marvelous moneymaking manhandlers of his.

You see, Stamos and I had been bidding all summer on all the leftover Smile bootlegs online. Been a fucking cottage industry since the mid-90s when every piece of shit wannabe "indie" band and their press toadies were claiming to be "influenced" by The Worst Record The (Old) Beach Boys Ever Made. The same group of rabid dickweeds had been selling them to even bigger dickweeds for ridiculous prices. First of all, that's a lot of fucking dinero not making it into a certain Voice of a Generation's wallet. I'd been bitching about this to the new boys and Stamos says, "Check out eBay," and the rest is history. Or should have been. I mean we're still riding the lip of the Big Kahuna known as "Kokomo" and these fucknuts are swooning to some stupid "Parks Van Dykes" piece of garbage "album" from the old group that didn't get released for a damn good reason: it sucks.

At any rate it wasn't even making me any richer, that's for fucking sure.

On the morning of Sept. 11, with the help of a Voracious Group of Barracudas called "L.A. attorneys" and a Virtuoso Greek on Bongos called "La Stamos," Yours Truly, Mr. Love, had succeeded in acquiring the last extant copy of the Smile bootleg not already on some fat fuck's cheap-ass memorex cassette!

At last--I had won! Now the public clamoring for the Beach Boys would have to deal with the new Beach Boys, on my terms. Fuck that old shit, once and for all! Man, I was so psyched I almost huffed some loukaniko right then and there.

And then the terrorists came and pissed all over my parade. So much for my little celebration!

What have we learned since that day, as a people, as a nation?

Obviously, as far as I'm concerned, not a fucking thing.