The Bruce Palma Report

Hello, my name is Bruce. I’m a TV addict. I’m not a social media addict. Anymore. I was a social media addict. I scrolled for 6 hours a day. I looked at cats. I looked a people. I looked at news. Fake and real. I couldn’t stop swiping. My fingers grew webs and stuck to my phone screen. I had to get them surgically removed. It wasn’t covered by insurance. I had to pay "out of pocket." As if I have that much money just sitting in my pocket. It was $2,000. I had 20 bucks and a few pennies. Anyway I had to get my fingers surgically removed from my phone screen. I told myself never again. Never again will I become addicted to a rectangular object with a screen. But lo and behold I became addicted to a bigger rectangular object. My flat screen TV. Are any TVs not flat screen now? Does that date me?   Anyway I only watch social media once a week. On Sundays. They say that guy who created the universe and the earth and running shoes rested on Sunday. I say fuck that. Sunday is my d...

  Today class, we will learn how to let go of our phones and spend the day with nothing in our hands except air. We will leave our phones in a secure locked drawer in my desk (me being the teacher and you the poor pupils with air in your hands) and we will not come back to class for at least 24 hours. It is advisable for you to contact the 22,000 friends, relatives and associates on all your social media platforms (and of course email) and inform them you will not be available for 24 hours. And before signing off, tell them not to send any cat videos, funny videos of people falling down stairs, updates on the fall of humanity or icebergs melting, or links to articles about how eating ice cubes cures cancer. You will be completely free of all distractions. Are we ready?! Now, you might be a little lightheaded as you step out into the world without your phone. That’s ok. It’s to be expected. It’s as if you left one of your hands or eyes or right lung at home. It’s as if you’re wa...

I have decided (this morning at exactly 8:12 am PST) that I will not buy forks, knives or any other form of cutlery from an unknown company or person. I will only buy them from a celebrity endorsed brand. Someone who knows their stuff. A celebrity that is fully cognizant of the intricacies of steel. Someone who can design a spoon that rivals the Mona Lisa or the Eiffel Tower. I need to know my forks, knives and spoons (especially my spoons) have been birthed from the genius mind of any random pop star, tv talk show host or faded movie star from 50 years ago. A grill from an ex-heavyweight champion of the world (boxing, not bobsledding) will most definitely cook my burgers and vegan weenies better and tastier than some random grill designed by a faceless computer. Why would I buy a blender from some random brand with no celebrity’s picture on the box? That would be stupid. I’m not stupid; just mildly dumb. I want my 600 thread count microfiber sheets made from free-range llama hair to b...

While the world toils and turns and turtles are singing through plastic oceans of crap, I’ve decided my elbows are ugly. This is no small matter. I thought I was one of the most handsomest, fit and fly specimens of the human race. But now I’ve gone and found out my elbows are ugly. Not just ugly; but hideous. I looked in the bathroom mirror (after flossing and singing the national anthem backwards) and noticed these two red bony growths on my arms. Like bright red walunts. “What are these?!” I sang to myself in the mirror. My reflection said, “Those are your elbows…proud of yourself?” I said, “Hell no! These things are hideous.”  They were probably bright red from sitting at my desk six hours a day pondering the nature of the universe and carb-free cupcakes, hunched over with my elbows grinding into the fake wood. Digging in with my thoughts and cupcake dreams I must’ve pushed my elbows into the wood too hard and now they look like little ugly red stumps. Something out of a fairy t...

cheese glorious cheese damn you taste so good cheese glorious cheese how can i abide with such culinary bliss? such cheesly delights? i have been living in the land of cheese bathing in cheesy mystery   the vast untapped, resources of cheddar brie, Camembert, and Jack i have been investigating how each cheese tastes on various crackers it is a worthy endeavor, blessed by the highest priests of cheese in the land cheese glorious cheese damn you taste so good cheese glorious cheese how can i abide with such culinary bliss? such cheesly delights? the Swiss has holes, the cheddar is yellow or gold the brie oh, the brie, oh goddamn  the brie on any form of cracker available i have invested many years in pursuit of the knowledge of cheese the various ways in which cheese can be used in a myriad of dishes fondue  nachos  charcuterie  quesadilla  grilled and melted with sourdough toast and pickle juice pizza glorious pizza  what would pizza be without che...

“You can always learn something new,” as the saying goes. Well, I made the mistake this morning in Googling “are frogs dissected in schools.”  I’ve always wondered why kids in school have to be subjected to cutting open random dead things floating in formaldehyde. I also wanted to find out if kids were still cutting into dead animals in the pursuit of knowledge. What came up in my search was not a recipe for sauteed frog’s legs in butter sauce but this from the online Encyclopedia Brittanica:  About 75-80% of North American students will have dissected an animal by the time they graduate high school. An estimated 6 million – 12 million animals are dissected in American schools each year. While frogs are the most common animals for K-12 students to dissect, students also encounter fetal pigs, cats, rabbits, guinea pigs, rats, minks, birds, turtles, snakes, crayfish, perch, sea stars and earthworms as well as grasshoppers and other insects. Sometimes students dissect parts of an...

I recently saw an episode of the 80’s sitcom Alf . I didn’t know much about Alf, the show or the character, until seeing this episode. And to tell the truth, I fell asleep before the episode ended. I still don’t know much about Alf , the show or the character. If you can call Alf a character. He’s more like a used sock or talking wind scarf.  Or maybe a tiny caramel-colored elephant, baked and melted into a talking furry sock thing. I asked my wife, “What is this?” “It’s Alf ,” she said. “I know who Alf is,” I told her. “I just don’t understand the concept.” “He’s an alien,” my wife said.  “Didn’t you ever watch Alf ?” She was getting testy. It was late. I let it slide. “No,” I said calmly. “I know who Alf is. I’ve seen pictures. But what’s he doing eating dinner with some random family?” “I don’t know,” she said. “It’s just a show, relax…” She always tells me to relax when I get worked up over the smallest of things. And this was one of those moments. “I just don’t—” “Don’t,”...

I have tried to get up at 4 am every morning so I can crush my goals and feel like a productive member of society (just what society I want to help produce, I’m not sure) but I seem to want to sleep more and more. What I mean is, I keep hitting the snooze button on my phone as the alarm rings and tries to send me out of dreamland. I feel bad about this and a tad unworthy. I realize a person my age should be able to sleep as long as he damn well pleases. But somehow I feel as though I’ll be missing out on some juicy slice of success if I sleep later than I planned. I blame it on the books, coaches, experts and other fools who seem to know exactly how everyone else should live their lives, and have no problem charging buckets of ducats for it.  If I woke up in the morning (at the appointed time, my crush time), I don’t think the first thing on my mind would be how to tell the rest of humanity how they can wake up on time and make a million dollars if they just buy my book, watch my...

  We must talk about avocado toast. I don’t want to talk about avocado toast. There are plenty other things to talk about: war, famine, politics, pimples, popcorn or even a new set of tires. But I feel it’s my obligation as a connoisseur of all things food to warn you of the evils of buying avocado toast out in a restaurant or anywhere west of the equator or in Iceland.  A random sampling of over 20,000 restaurants shows avocado toast to be anywhere from $10 - $30, depending on what you’re wearing that day. If you do the math, a simple piece (or two) of avocado toast consisting of bread, avocado and possibly some form of seasoning (herb sprinkle, Celtic sea salt or free-range pepper, your choice, hold the mayo) should only cost no more than $5 bucks. Let’s calculate this together class. And don’t tell me your dog ate your homework. Avocado: 2-5 bucks. Full avocado. Most restaurant avocado toast only contains half an avocado. I measured it. Cheap, that’s what the restaurants ar...

  I have given up trying to lose whatever baby fat I have hanging under my ribcage in a pile of unwanted lard. I’m talking about my pot belly. I’m not sure if it’s as big as a potbellied stove. But it’s big enough. It looks unseemly. It just hangs there. Or rather it just rolls over my belt buckle in a pile of flesh. I’m sorry for being so graphic. But you know what I mean. I’m supposed to do something about it. Eat more steak, less carbs. Less cupcakes at midnight and more celery sticks. I’m supposed to do squats and burn my fat at some ridiculous heart rate achieved only by running on a treadmill in some overcrowded gym open 24 hours (except when they clean the bathrooms with foul smelling bleach). I’m supposed to do all this and more so I can have tight firm abs and look like some underwear model in some catalog just posing for the cameras and collecting their take-home pay which is probably way too much to offer some buffoon with a six-pack (not beer but belly or lack there...

  It’s summertime again in Los Angeles and the heat is intolerable. Temperatures upwards of 110 degrees (Fahrenheit, Celsius, fairly-traded, carb-free…whatever) are melting people right in the middle of the street and if it gets any hotter I’m boarding a ship to the North Pole just to keep myself from evaporating (especially before I win the Nobel Prize in Bozo Population Control). Whether or not the planet is in a post-apocalyptic melting phase or we’re just too concerned with thermometers and not concerned enough with our carb intake is beyond me. I’m in no mood to argue with people about whether this extreme heat and the beads of perspiration rolling down my wise old countenance are caused by a scientific term or we’re just nearing the end times. If it’s just global warming I’m sure the scientists and the local car washes can figure out a cure. Maybe bring in a few million air conditioners—the industrial-sized ones used to cool down suburban malls melting from all the teen...

Pitching a tent is like goat milk. Raw goat milk. Either you like it or you don’t. There’s no middle ground with raw goat milk or tents. I will gladly sit in some city park and look at a random bush with poisonous berries—but stick me high up in the mountains in a tiny green tent and I’ll call for a helicopter airlift to the nearest roadside diner bathroom. I tried camping twice (yes, I know, they say the third time’s a charm) and both times the damn tent ruined the experience. Something about hooking up all those metal tubes and getting the tension just right in the nylon tent fabric left me wanting to strangle a raccoon.  I just wanted to sit under the starry sky, toast vegan marshmallows and sing Katy Perry songs. But no, I had to get that damn tent pitched. It’s worse than hitting a home run in a baseball game.   I respect people who like to hike, look at random rocks and watch water do nothing but fall. But I can’t understand wanting to sleep in a tiny plastic tubular h...