The Bruce Palma Report

  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...

I would like to visit Machu Picchu for the simple fact that going to the mall today just to bask in air conditioning and teriyaki bowls at the food court seems rather pedestrian. I’m looking for adventure, so anything west of the Pacific Ocean or east of the closest fast food drive-thru will do. Just get me into some exotic locale where I can converse with pelicans or cobras. One gets tired of the freeways and the air-conditioned malls, no matter how comfortable the latter is, and with amazing handbag sales to boot. One needs to venture out into some far away jungle where a wild Friday night includes running from poisonous snakes and arguing with wild monkeys about the merits of paper bag recycling.  You can only watch so much reality tv. You need to get out on a giant river in a canoe and wrestle alligators at least 3 times a week. Otherwise life gets dull.  You can only drink so many diet sodas before you realize you’re just a walking lab rat in tennis shoes. If I were I...

There are very few times where I get up, go outside and thank the sun for rising on this beautiful, rotten mess of a world with all it’s ups and downs, highs and lows, good people and fools—not to mention decaf coffee and carb savvy cake. But today I decided to get up, get the hell off my phone and go greet the sun. The sun said, “Hello there mortal fool. What hath ye been doing these days? I missed ya…” I said, “Hello there big ol’ sun. I’ve been counting my carbs and piling up my acorns for a 96” wide-screen TV.” Sun said, “Don’t be a retail fool. I stream for free, just wear good shades if you look me in the eye.” “Well,” I said, “I think I might just do that. $2999.99 for a big fat digital box with Real Housewife reruns will suck up all my acorns and I’d rather use the loot for a trip to Italy.” The sun slid behind a tree. I could only see a few shafts of yellow peeking through. “Now don’t you hide on me, you big ol’ trickster,” I said. “I haven’t even had my first cup ...

  Now that summer is here, at least in my neck of the woods (why do they say “neck?” what about “foot” or “thigh” of the woods?), it’s high time we splatter our little faces and necks and foreheads and bald heads (if we’re so lucky to have this ability) with sunscreen. One must keep that nasty ol’ sun off of our precious skin. We’ve been told bad things happen if we don’t lather up and cover ourselves in copious amounts of white greasy goo. Now this is our responsibility and as a populace we don’t take it lightly. Every year come summertime (or suppertime or any time the sun decides to spread its nasty rays through the atmosphere) millions of people purchase bottles and cans and containers of what is commonly known as “sunscreen.” We are responsible people. We are about the environment. We care about seals and penguins and paper bags. And we care about our skin enough to do something to allay the onslaught of the sun’s nasty, pernicious rays. What about the sun? What about ...

I’m not stupid; I’m just mildly dumb. I thought by the time I turned 30 I’d have everything figured out. I thought once I graduated high school and took a few college classes ( History of Pants Hemming and Advanced Train Set Construction were my personal favorites) I’d be a genius—comparable to Einstein and Mickey Mouse.  But no. I’m just as dumb now as I was at 30. And I’m about to turn 60. I feel cheated. No one warned me I’d be a doddering old idiot with no hair as I entered my twilight years. I’m over-emphasizing for effect, but I still want to know why I don’t understand the gravitational rotation of Mars but I do know all about the latest Netflix rom-com. Not stupid, just mildly dumb. There are so many things I know so little about. Take, for instance, the ladybug. Why do I always save ladybugs but kill every ant I find in my home? If I found a ladybug in my room I’d give it a chair and hot meal. Ants get wiped out with nary a thought. Why does my body want more bread...