L.A. Magazine featured the life of an actor-waiter in its August L.A. Archetype column, and now come November, another former Minnesotan appears in the very same column. Hmmm…

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I’m two weeks away from launching my web opus: USofAnderson.com—hence my recent hiatus from the blogging world.

It’s a project that has consumed me like a room full of puppies, vicious puppies gnawing my ankles like KFC chicken wings, for nearly three years.

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I was in the TC this past weekend to attend the Upper Midwest Emmy Awards (the Redemption Party videos I produced last year were nominated in a promotions category) and to visit Dad who, God willing, will be starting his second round of chemo at Abbott Northwestern Hospital this week (the peach-fuzzed monk is upbeat and ready to go to battle).

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It was just over a year ago that the RNC came to town and gave our strippers good money, Sarah Palin infused Mall of America department stores with a stimulus package, and I told the singer-songwriter Five for Fighting—who played a few songs for Norm Coleman at one RNC party—that I loved his music. (It is good dental office music...you know the song, the one about life not being easy for Superman.)

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All weekend and into the early part of this week, a Vesuvian plume of ash and smoke has risen from the Angeles National Forest from a wild fire that continues to burn out of control in the mountains just outside of LA.

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From a Hollywood perspective, Brett Favre is a master storyteller and screenwriter. We’re talking William Goldman and Syd Field good. Perhaps there’s a ghostwriter involved, but regardless, Number 4 is spinning the most delicious, Jimmy Stewart-esque tale since It’s a Wonderful Life, and isn’t it just a wonderful life in Viking country now?

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Boy bands used to be lip-synching-flash-in-the-pan musical acts and August was no time to release a blockbuster film. But this past weekend the rules of modern media were kicked to the curb like a Walkman with a New Kid’s cassette tape. And an old fart like me thinks it’s all bull.

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The August issue of L.A. Magazine features an interview with an “L.A. Archetype: The Life of an Actor-Waiter”—and Minnesotan—Noah Longo.

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June gloom has lifted, and LA is bright and sunny and full of spit and vinegar. Why, Perez Hilton, that infamous blogger, got a knuckle sandwich to the face on Sunday from the road manager of the Black Eyed Peas after Perez called Will.I.Am. a "faggot." It went down in Toronto, but you don’t take a shot at LA’s number-one celebrity blogger and not expect retaliation. Perez is filing suit. Fergie just wants to keep the peace. It’s all so f-ing G-l-a-m-o-r-o-u-s.

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My father turned 65 on Saturday, and sadly I wasn’t home in the 'Sota for the big shebang. On the blessed day, he grilled some burgers; drank a brandy Manhattan; and took Uncle Howdy, Aunt Barb (his sister), and his father for a ride through some Wisconsin wilderness on his John Deere four-wheelin’ Gator. No shame in keeping it simple.

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