My friend from London called me late last night and was completely wasted. Like, out of his gourd. We were discussing meeting up next month in Italy; the guy, who is unmarried, works for the government and has, like 34 weeks off a year, or so it seems. I call him “the icon.” One month he is in Australia for rugby, the next in Singapore for Formula One. A bird in every port, as Michael Caine would say.

Last September, he met me in Minneapolis for a Vikings game. From London. And this July he is coming in for a weekend of Mets baseball. “Living the dream,” as Vince Vaughn said in “Old School.”

But anyway, he called me as he was staggering home, six hours of pints and shots in Essex down and he seemed to be trying to talk himself out of going into a KFC, the in-a-pinch substitute for a curry. I was laughing so hard and kept saying, “America has spoken!” into the phone, which is a great Patton Oswalt bit about the KFC Bowls, where the ghost of the colonel crams turkey, stuffing, gravy and corn all together in one container. It forces you to eat like an animal, in other words. Oswalt refers to the menu item as, “a failure pile in a sadness bowl.” And I agree.

Apparently, the night had gone well for my friend and then poorly and then well again. I lost the story at one point, but was able to recapture it when he began to further ruminate on the pros and cons of KFC. He couldn’t seem to think of any cons. Pros were, “it’s open” and “fuck it, I’ve eaten worse, mate.”

Having seen this man doggedly take down a burnt sausage in a pissing rainstorm at an away in Charlton, I can readily attest to that statement. That night, he set upon that soggy encased ground meat medley like a lion on an ibex with clubbed foot.

Suddenly, last night, he said, “hold on” and I heard some commotion in the background. Not sure if you can identify the sound of capitulation, but last night it sounded like a mound of antibiotic-stuffed flesh hitting a dirty vat of oil.

If you could have one superpower what would it be? Would you fly like Superman? Have x-ray vision? Or just be massively powerful and help good triumph over the Yankees…I mean, evil. That would be so amazing, right?

Still, when a friend posed the question to me, which I think he regarded as a layup, I thought long and hard about it before I came up with an answer, one that I will admit now that I adopted from an unlikely source (of which I will tell you later.)

My friend (at this point, I bet that he is reassessing our status) seemed shaken and confused by my response. Probably for good reason. I’m a little different from you; perhaps you have gathered that.

Because, after a long period of introspection and deep thought, I decided that my superpower wouldn’t help end world hunger, or homelessness, or even to stop the Yankees from ruining baseball with their profligate and ultimately unsuccessful spending: I would like to be able to projectile vomit. On cue. And, yes, on people.

Imagine the satisfaction. That reject from “Tool Academy” on the train that is yelling into his cellphone? Blow all over his little Capezio-looking boat shoes. The bony, faux gay with the bowtie? Guess what? Now he’s wearing your pot pie.

I have to tell you that this is not exactly my own idea. I used to work with someone who would express her disgust for a certain person by saying how she would like to vomit on him or her, more specifically, in his or her faces. It was sorta like her version of throwing a shoe.

“You know what?” she would say. “I’d like to puke right in his face!” Coming from some so nice-looking (in both senses of the word) it was high comedy and made us laugh in those halcyon days of yore.

Alas, I made the mistake of tell GG of my wish and she said “that’s not funny.” I, naturally, disagreed. I am the expert at funny, I told her, although she is far funnier than I.

Wait a minute; you don’t think I am funny? Seriously? Wow.

Hey…umm…come a little closer. I just want to tell you a secret.

Okay, now close your eyes.

I first learned to shoot semi-automatic weapons, during the year in which I lived in Mexico. I never told you about that? Well, to celebrate such a momentous milestone that I have decided to a get a tattoo of a Mexican flag, with a couple of crossed AK-47s underneath it. Good idea, right?

Truthfully, I went to military school for a year in Mexico, Missouri, where I did learn how to shoot a gun. I was, however, only thirteen. Is the tattoo still a good idea? No, because it would be a blatant misrepresentation of who I am, although it would surely help me fit right in with the skull-rocking bowtie warriors on the LES.

I have watched the over-proliferation of quote-unquote badass tattoos worn by douche bags and posers, with equal parts amusement and disgust. Because people are phonies, and followers. A tattoo is more than just a yin-yang symbol on a person’s ankle that they got in Key West, it’s like a time stamp of who they are at that very moment they were being inked. The good times and the bad.

But whatever. Here are six that bother me the most:

1) Barbed wire (except on a woman): Like, why? You’re from the Jersey Shore.

2) Spider webs: Guess what? If you kill someone you earn a spider web tattoo. That’s it.

3) Any kind of corporate logo, including band names and sports teams: There was a time when I was considering the Black Flag logo on my neck’s back. Thankfully, that time passed before I did

4) A Still-Living Baby: Memorial likenesses are wonderful and cool. But a living baby? Makes no sense. The baby grows quickly and hates his own baby picture. Twenty years later, it still sucks.

5) Crosses…with Jesus attached: He starts to shrivel, as you get older. Not cool.

6) Twelve-step bullshit: Inspirational messages are for your fridge, not your forearm.

Here are six that I am always happy to see:

1) Devils: Classic. I have one.

2) Varga Girls: Totally cool.

3) Anchors: Because, there was a time when Popeye was the fucking man.

4) Unicorns & Stars: Duh. Always cool.

5) Any kind of fish: Fish tattoos age very well.

6) Hearts: I’m a romantic. Is that such a big surprise?

That new SyFy rebranding is in a two-horse race for worst ever with that generified logo disaster Tropicana foisted upon us, one that the company has already released the “Hey, we screwed up!” mea culpa and retreated like gerbils back into their corporate habitrail.

These are just two of the many creative entities that have bothered me recently. What I always try to imagine is “that meeting” where the pasty creative types are selling their vision to the distracted executives, more concerned with their 401ks than any crazy idea to recommunicate a message they’d already spent million drilling into consumers’ brains.

People like change, only in a universe alternate to ours. My college roommate stays over occasionally, and he uses Right Guard in a can. I have known him for nearly a quarter-century (I graduated college at 11) and all he has ever used is that copper can. Occasionally, I have tempted him with far-off treats like Truefit & Hill shaving cream and lemon toothpaste from Italy.

The thrill of the new stuff usually lasts until he runs out of it. I am much less stringent, but have always used the Speed Stick brand, albeit sixteen hundred different varieties.

So for Tropicana to think that deconstructing a logo that we can all instantly picture in our mind will have any positive benefit is just a bunch of research gobbley gook, that was collected and promptly skewed to make a certain point.

And SyFy: you dummies. Did you think that by changing the spelling of your name you would, what, attract illiterates and morons to the joys of Battlestar Gallactica and Ghosthunters? Who care so much about science fiction, but felt left behind by the one of the more commonly know abbreviations—in history? Wow, congratulations. We are enjoying getting to watch your corporate finger-pointing immensely. You must be the stupidest nerds in history.

On that note, I am in the midst of a “Daisy of Love” marathon. Okay, it’s only two weeks, but it feels like a marathon.

Answering machines are bad enough. Everyone remembers a few drunken, unfortunate, perhaps gushy messages that, afterward, they wished they could crawl through the phone and retrieve. I certainly do.

But now, with Facebook and Twitter, people are leaving out all sorts of laundry for the world (aka their “friends”) to see. Tonight I skated down my list of friends and peeped a plethora of stuff. I hate you. I secretly love you. Someone please call me, I am down in a hole. And, of course, baby, come back.

Not sure how I feel about that. On one hand, it is kind of embarrassing, and a level of overreaching. On the other, it probably does work more often than not. People see it and wonder if a message is directed toward them. I mean, I often see messages that are specifically directed toward me. Especially the ones about fawning admiration of a certain someone who possesses rugged good looks.

See, at this point, you probably knew that was a joke. Three months ago would’ve been a different story. Whew.

It’s 4:17 a.m. and I should probably get some sleep. GG will be up in four hours and want to talk about so many things that she will loudly lament not having made a list. It’s actually quite charming.

‘Night/Morning,

T.

Most everyone I know goes to therapy, or has gone to therapy. I haven’t. Not once. I’m not proud of that fact, necessarily, because, hell, I could probably use a little perspective. Ahem. But I realize my limitations and a major one is, I don’t like spilling my guts to a perfect stranger holding a stopwatch. And, if cornered, I would lie to them like the rug beneath your feet.

After all, the person you are unburdening yourself doesn’t care a lick about you. You know that right? They are like a no-sex prostitute. And they don’t really tell you anything, anyway. They parry your problems back to you and ask you how you assess the situation, all the while watching the clock like it is a dwarf crack baby crossing Queens Boulevard after midnight.

Don’t ask me how it makes me feel, motherfucker. Tell me how it should make me feel. I came here because I need answers, not questions. (I’m sure there are loads of you out there who would disagree. It’s okay, pussies.)

And anyway, that’s what friends are for: to listen to your problems and tell you that it’s always someone else’s fault.

Because it always is, you know. One more thing….oh, I am sorry, your time’s up.

I just got tickets to see Tinted Windows when they come through NYC in June. Do I like their music? Not really. But I am curious to see Taylor, the kid from Hanson; Adam, the bass-player/song writer from Fountains of Wayne, James the guitarist from Smashing Pumpkins, who I wasn’t aware did anything other than purse his lips; and Bun E. Carlos, from Cheap Trick play for ninety minutes straight. I am also interested to see the reactions from the record-company weasels who’ll be cramming the club, while Twittering about standing at Will Call next to Anne Hathaway. For a band, looking to connect with an audience, a crowd like this must be a nightmare.

The best response to that pressure that I ever saw was in the mid-90s when I went to see a Scottish band, Teenage Fanclub. Their debut album was called “A Catholic Education” and, released on a small label, it quickly caught the attention of the majors. The wooing commenced and the breakup with the little fish ensued. (It was a messy split and the band contractually released another indie album of instrumentals in France they called The King, featuring a great version of Like A Virgin.” I have it.) Then they signed a contract with Geffen Records.

So Teenage Fanclub came to NYC, having just released their major label debut Bandwagonesque which featured a yellow money bag on a chartreuse cover. As a statement, it was pretty potent. And everyone was waiting to see if they were any good. We were used to seeing UK bands being slobbered over by their press only to come here and play like wet noodles.

So the gig: It was at the old Marquee club and was the band’s first US appearance. Basically, the entire crowd were record company weasels and husky, four-eyed college radio kids.

And so they hit the stage and the first song they introduce they say they wrote especially for the occasion. And it was called “Fuck You, David Geffen.” That song, and the entire show were amazing.

I am sure this is something that the lead singer Norman Blake discusses with Geffen every Thursday when he drops by to clean the record mogul’s pool.

“Sometimes I feel so weak I just wanna explode.
Explode and tear this whole town apart.
Take a knife and cut this pain from my heart.
Find somebody itchin’ for something to start.”

Bruce Springsteen wrote these words in 1977, during the initial recording sessions for what would become Darkness on the Edge of Town. Trapped in a lawsuit with his former manager, Springsteen was barred from releasing an album for three years, unable to follow up on the amazing reaction to 1975’s Born to Run. He was angry. He was frustrated. Sad. Embarrassed. And angry again.

The live shows—his only source of income—from those days were incendiary. Twenty-minute versions of “Backstreets”. Howling renditions of “Kitty’s Back”. It was really something, as the bootlegs (“Boston, ’77″ is a good place to start) can attest.

He was fighting for his life as a musician, both on stage and in court. And when Darkness finally came out, it was the angriest and least hopeful of his career. Even the unreleased songs—most notably “The Promise” and “Iceman”—were downright downcast. But I cannot stop listening to it, especially late at night, walking around.

Sometimes, last night for example, I kind of feel like that too. Stir crazy. And crazy-eyed. I feel like I’ve already bided enough time, waiting for the good to come and unable, through sheer force of will, to make it happen.  But for some reason, I am still swinging because there isn’t any other way to fight your way out of something.

Just look at what happened to Bruce: he went on to sell trillions of records and is probably worth a billion dollars. “Sure,” you are thinking, “Tony is just like Springsteen.”

Are you laughing? I’ll cut ya.

GG and I just watched the new Steven Soderbergh flick The Girlfriend Experience starring totally naughty adult film actress Sasha Grey. And predictably, reviews in our household were mixed. GG struggled to remain conscious during much of it and I enjoyed watching scenes that were built so minimally and shot so skillfully. She thought that Ms. Grey didn’t seem to do much acting, and I disagreed, finding her performance very quiet and intuitive.

I have read a bit about Sasha, as I pitched a story on her several months back to a men’s magazine. I had thought the fact that she had been cast as the lead in Soderbergh’s movie, and that she doesn’t possess the stereotypical porn star sugar candy beauty, would be of interest to…men. She once referred to porn as a “Faustian bargain.” She did interviews with The New York Times and The Wall Street Journal. She has a deep voice and a slow-building wry smile. She doesn’t giggle much. They passed.

My friend Mary interviewed her and total luhhed (her word) Sasha. Said she was very cool. Which is nice to know, I guess.

Anyway, I expect that The Girlfriend Experience will make a few bucks on the coasts, but will rake in some serious inDemand money. Because guys will be lured in thinking that there would be sex scenes galore. And they’d be disappointed. To Soderbergh’s credit, the nudity is minimal.

Back to the movie: I thought that the cinematography was pretty stunning, the lighting particularly sumptuous. And the director clearly let the actors improvise much of the dialogue, which made for realistic-sounding conversations. It had a loosey-goosey feel.

But I think a lot of credit goes to Mr. Soderbergh for offering the gig to Ms. Grey and not Lindsey Lohan or Natalie Portman, who seems to work blue almost exclusively these days. God bless.

And credit, too, to Grey for remaining unapologetic of her adult career, and for refusing to chase a quote-unquote mainstream one. Her twitters indicate a pretty wily character. Last weekend, do you know what she said she was doing? “Watching the NFL Draft.” Yeah, right. Nice try.

That’s it. Go see TGE or wait and rent it. But support the cause, which is a movie that is not cut from the same cloth that brings you “Wolverine.” Needless to say, GG is all over that one, and I have a feeling I will struggle to remain conscious before eventually falling asleep, while clutching the remnants of a bag of Twizzlers.

My entire life has been spent limiting my exposure to germs. It’s become something of a joke amongst my friends. Salad bars give me the willies and I don’t really like sharing food with people I don’t know. When I come out of the subway, I want to immediately take a shower. I have also mentioned on more than one occasion that I wished Purell would branch out into bar soap and oral hygiene products.

So now that everyone is all freaked out and warning each other not to associate with coughers, droolers and to wash your hands whenever you touch a public door handle, I am shocked that it seems like news to some people. This behavior were things drilled into Gervinos as children. My brother would literally cover his dinner plate with a napkin as he ate. “Cross-contamination” was a term that had mad resonance in our house.

I am certainly far less touched than them and my friends can verify that. I will split apps with friends (especially the good-looking ones) and the other day I met an Ecuadoran friend at a Dominican buffet lunch (heat lamps + fried and stewed foods) even though I feared that I would get pinkeye. (I didn’t.) And I promised not to call children, “human petri dishes” any longer.

So when my mother-in-law pinpoints the epicenter of the swine flu epidemic as “somewhere in Brooklyn” and mentions the above warnings, I have to laugh.

I mean, what could Brooklyn possibly be the epicenter of? Cough cough.