NASA

As I near my 10 years living in the City of Angels I have had some minor television success. When I travel home to Connecticut (The Constitution State) I always run into friends from my past who are still doing what they were when I left New England Long ago.

Now I have had some people tell me they wish they could do what I am doing. Which is pursuing my dreams and not settling for a 9-5 career. Now stories of my adventures out in La La land have made it back home from time to time and they seem to get a little askew. The last time I went home I stopped into “The Ground Round” restaurant in Downtown Groton,Ct.

When I ordered my food a buddy of mine from behind the bar noticed me and said “holy shit Flats it’s good to see you man!” it took me a second to realize it was one of my old buddies from Pee-Wee football. The Groton-Mystic Youth Football League to be exact.

He leaned in and said” I think it’s so cool you ended up working for N.A.S.A.”

I was totally thrown off by his assumption but quickly realized that some how one of my adventures had been messed up.

He heard I was an astronaut. No lie. Straight up. He was at a party and heard “Jay Flats is a fucking astronaut”

Now the details can come clear.

A few years ago I played Neil Armstrong on an episode of ‘Expeditions to The Edge” on the NatGeo Channel. We re-created the 1966 Gemini 8 Space Mission which happened to be the 1st ever emergency re-entry into the Earth’s atmosphere.

I was tempted to tell him the truth but what the hell…I played it off and asked how things were with him?

We had a great time and he introduced me to his co-workers. Should I have told him the truth? Who knows?

I’m just glad I didn’t do a HERPIES commercial! Who know what news might be spreading about me!

The Thinker

To all University of Alabama fans who visited Hollywood last month: Walking around Hollywood with a shirt that says, “Alabama” is the equivalent of walking around Alabama with a shirt that says, “Fag.” You’re not impressing anyone is my point.

The best part about the Ultimate Fighting Championship is not the fighting. It’s the interviews. “I’m a martial artist developing my craft.” Yeah, you’re an artist alright. You managed to turn that guy’s face into a regular Jackson Pollack. That’s an art exhibit I’d like to see. “I love how the artist comments on the duality of man with his contrast of blood and snot.” These guys are full of shit. Do you know how delusional you have to be to consider compound fractures, asphyxiation and blunt force trauma, art? That’s like calling Port au Prince an architectural Mecca. By definition, yes it is an art form. It is an expression of one’s self through a practiced skill set. But technically, so is painting your house in dog shit. I can’t believe how popular it has gotten. People spend a lot of time and money trying to learn how to defend themselves with mixed martial arts. I think it’s a waste. You don’t need to know all the moves of a mixed martial artist to keep people from fucking with you. You just need the cauliflower ear. If I see somebody who looks like they got broccoli growing out the sides of his head, the last thing I’m going to do is start some shit. Cause even if he’s a shitty mixed martial artist…he thinks he’s an artist! Nuff said. That motherfucker is crazy.

Technology has taken all of the romance out of combat. So I’ve decided to take a side on the gun debate. I think we should ban all guns. But, at the same time, we should legalize all swords. If nothing else, it will make gang violence a lot more entertaining. “Everybody outside quick! The Bloods and Crips are fighting!” Think about it. No more innocent bystanders. I’ve never read about a medieval kid accidentally getting his head lopped off. Even the most incompetent swordsman will, at least, catch the shoulder of his opponent. Even the NRA people would be happy. All they want to do is defend their homes. What’s a better deterrent than a guaranteed katana blade to all those who trespass? The world would be a better place if everybody put down their guns and picked up a sword and I can prove it. I think we can all agree that everybody loves Star Wars. We’ve all fantasized about living in a galaxy far far away. Do you know why? Because of the light sabers, of course. Take the light sabers out of Star Wars and you’re left with Buck Rogers and nobody wants to live in that world of lame.

If the conspiracy is true that Jesus Christ was in fact, married, it would make sense to cover it up. It’s kind of hard to worship a messiah if you know he was constantly getting nagged for hanging out with lepers and whores.

I think the Miss Universe competition is fixed. The winner always comes from Earth.

To those people who don’t want to let homosexuals get married: Do you know who you are? You’re the guy who thought black people should have a different drinking fountain. You’re the guy who wanted to throw all the Japanese in concentration camps. You’re the guy that thought women shouldn’t be able to vote. Every generation has you and everybody looks back into history and thinks you’re retarded. You’re the guy who, many years ago, said, “Can you believe how much they’re charging for niggers these days?” You’re that fucking guy.

Chris Farley

As a kid growing up on all things comedy, I loved Chris Farley. I loved his explosive personality and the way that he was able to make most people laugh, most of the time. Even the most jaded prick I knew couldn’t deny the man’s likability factor. It was practically glistering. His brand of humor didn’t require a lot of thought, but I couldn’t keep a smile off of my face while watching him exert every ounce of his larger than life self to maniacally get a rise out of everyone around him. I thought his chemically-aided departure was a tragic way to go out early. It was a horrible, violent eruption that ended a beautiful person. The news was upsetting to Farley’s fans, such as myself. Devastating for those fortunate enough to have had a more-than-casual relationship with Chris. I think, by now, those inflicted to any degree have come to terms with the situation. There is peace and closure. So why the fuck does DirecTV want me to entertain the notion that Chris Farley is still above ground, dancing around in an undersized coat?

I do realize that I live in the United States of Consumerism. I pledge allegiance, to the brand…and so on; but do mega-greedy, obscenely wealthy, attention whore companies really have to grave rob celebrities in order to push their unholy product on the living? I cringed upon notice of this form of sub-advertising emerging from the Hollywood sewer a few years ago when the ghost of John Wayne was indirectly telling me to drink Coors Light. I think a more “living” Duke might have opted for room temperature horse piss. The Wayne estate was okay with renting out John’s retired good name. Oddly enough, they were also okay with the initial payoff and they were just fine with the years of royalty checks that ensued. That’s indicative of the reasoning behind such a morbid concept as a deceased spokesperson. Every time something like this occurs, the “we just want to honor their memory” facade is defensively offered, instantaneously. No one can be honest enough to admit that money is a factor, let alone admit that money is thee factor.

The insanity escalated to new heights in 2008. The well-intentioned folks at DirecTV took things a step further, while pushing society as a whole multiple steps back, when they answered the age old question: What could possibly be creepier than using a dead man to promote for the behalf of other peoples profit? Why, a dead child of course. Heather O’Rourke, the cute, sweet, and tragically perished twelve year old girl of Poltergeist fame was apparently summonsed from the spiritual realm to pitch Craig T. Nelson dialogue set-up. I consider myself a fairly decent human being, which is probably why I didn’t feel compelled to pick up the phone and promptly tell cable to get fucked. I was too busy trying not to lose my Cheerios. It just goes to show how low they will go, you know?

What’s next? Plastered caskets, covered in McDonalds and Energizer Battery stickers? “Is that a NASCAR vehicle? Never mind, it’s just John Goodman’s coffin.” As long as the “nothing is sacred, not even life and death” mentality is running rampid, why not go for the gusto? Authentic celebrity death rattle ring tones have serious market potential. It’s all done in admiration, right? After all, celebrities aren’t people, right? Heavens no. They’re machines, whose creation was funded with advertising dollars, built to persuade me to guzzle domestic beer while parked in front of thousands of channels worth of satellite television. Beer and TV? I get it. Use dead people to encourage me not to live. Well played, marketing scum.

This is, by no means, a new trend. The Farley spot serves as one of many sobering, disturbing glimpses into the black hole that is the corporate soul in this country. Seeing Chris’s memory take a televised sleaze bath was especially disheartening. Chris Farley never tried to sell us anything but himself. His passion was making people laugh, and he wasn’t in it for the money. Not even when he made stinkers like Beverly Hills Ninja. He made that movie for kids to enjoy and cried in private at the premiere. He cared deeply about his image and about what he lent his name to. He could have hawked some shit to us in his hay day, but he chose to take the high road. In more ways than one. Putting Farley in such a bizarre position is weird and foreign to his persona and is in poor taste. It’s as if to imply that if blessed with the breath to say one more thing to his family, friends and fans, Chris would take the opportunity to tell us about a free Showtime package trial. Let the man rest in peace. What’s that? Spade needs to get paid? Well, he is only moderately wealthy. Poor fella. What the hell. Let’s take a trip to make believe land. Chris Farley is alive and dancing. David Spade is a genuine friend and a respected, relevant comedian. Yay for delusion. Yay forever!

Meanwhile, back on Planet Earth, we are left with a trashy advert, an unendorsed endorsement, and a cash-eating weasel that deserves to be sentenced by comedy court to report to real prison. That way he can be purchased for a carton of Kools, then get mouth raped immediately after being ass raped. There is a certain symmetric justice to that plan. David couldn’t muster up the courage to attend best friend Chris’s funeral because it was “too much to deal with” emotionally. Yet, when it comes to pretending that Chris is still alive for financial gain, it’s time to suck up your emotions and honor the memory of your friend? Maybe if someone had cut Spade a check, he would have showed for funeral services. The dead have no place in commercial purgatory. How would David Spade like it if his career were portrayed? It has been dead exactly as long as Chris Farley has. Leave those that have left us, alone and leave the product peddling for the celebrities that are only dead on the inside.