Loudmouth cavemen commentators are losing their jobs.

Yes, I’m on Facebook. And when I (finally) get around to actually designing this blog — or having this blog designed, say, by this firm I’m intimately acquainted with — I’ll have the “Find me on Facebook” link. (This is definitely a tale of the cobbler with no shoes.) In the meantime, I’m the only Lee Wochner there, so I won’t be hard to find.

Yes, I’m on Twitter. And when I [insert almost everything above…]. In the meantime, I’m the only Lee Wochner there, so I won’t be hard to follow.

No, I’m not on Friendster. Not really. Not since 2003. And whoever that last final lonely Friendster member is who keeps plaintively messaging me via that system:  I won’t be replying.  It’s over. Friendster, I mean.

Just thought I’d say those things for now in case you were wondering.

…will surely star Ricky Gervais and Elmo.

A friend posted this on his Facebook page. He swears it’s not photoshopped and that it’s an actual site in Silver Lake. Now, I’m in Silver Lake all the time — that’s where my theatre is, that’s where my workshop meets, that’s where my good running buddy Steve lives, that’s where the good pizza is found — and I haven’t seen this. But I’ve asked for the address. Because I want to see this. In person.

Until I have further information (which I’ll share), I surmise that this is a further result of LA’s gaping-black-hole budget, and that the rest of the phone pole was sold as firewood at a Do-It Center near you.

Yes, it still feels like angry micro-sized road workers are jackhammering inside my jaw. But hey, it’s been only a week and a half. Maybe by next week it won’t hurt because I’ll have placed my head onto the onramp to the 405. That might help.

A big shout-out to my thoughtful thesis student Sandra, who was kind enough to ask about it. Either she remembered, or she saw me furtively tonguing the throbbing blasthole the way a dog licks hopefully at its injured paw. Which is what my wife caught me doing the other night before quietly depositing in front of me an undefined tiny blue pill that proved remarkably effective. No, I have no recollection of anything that followed.

Y’know those celebrity tours where you can see Fred Astaire’s house, or visit W.C. Fields’ gravesite, or whatever?

Now you can go throw up where Charles Bukowski did. And visit the post office where he was infamously employed. And so forth.

And all for the “didn’t know there’s a recession going on” price of 58 bucks — which is about 53 bucks more than Buk ever had until the end.

Irony abounds.

After a full night of fighting crime, there’s one thing you need to do before settling down for a relaxing cup of Nite Owl coffee: Tend to your wounds. If you’re not fortunate enough to have an Alfred or a Jarvis, that means stocking your own medical supplies. Here’s the perfect solution for those little scrapes and cuts: Ouch! Comic Strip Bandages.

The 1st Annual Bukowski Festival is this month in (where else?) Hollywood. Here’s the info: