Nothing could adequately prepare you for a ride with Bobby the Cabbie. The only things that could even help are headphones, a partition, and a hearty breakfast of cocaine and Ritalin. I'm not sure what happens when you mix cocaine and Ritalin, but if you can survive that, you can survive anything.

I know what you're thinking: cocaine and Ritalin are not usually breakfast foods. A more pressing thought, however, is that you have no idea who Bobby the Cabbie is. And even more pressing than that is just how much cooler it would be if "Bobby"� rhymed better with "Cabbie."�

I was in Daytona Beach this week on the first stop of my "I Don't Want a Real Job"� book tour. As is my tradition, or will become my tradition when I do it more than once, I contacted the local humor columnist to chat about the business of columnisting. He kindly invited me to stop by the Daytona News-Journal, which I did with the help of a cab company.

I am a lifelong New Yorker, and thus bad cab drivers are nothing new to me. While attempting to go to 113th street and Broadway, I once had a cabbie that tried to take me to 113 Broadway and then 13th street and Broadway. Another time, my cabbie abandoned the cab to chase a kid who threw a snowball at his car. (Yes, the meter was still running). And I even had one driver that kicked me out of his cab for asking how much he thought the fare might come to. But being a New Yorker, I've rarely had a cabbie that spoke much English, let alone one with a name that came this close to rhyming with "cabbie."�

When Bobby picked me up, I instinctively headed for the back door.

"Get in the front,"� he barked. "That [bleeped for family newspapers] door hasn't worked in years."� Bobby was being forthright. A good quality in a cabbie.

"Where are you from?"� he asked. An inquisitive nature. Another plus for the Bobster.

"I love New York,"� he said. "It's much prettier than Daytona."� Honesty. Nice.

"Here in Daytona, there are too many homeless people,"� he continued. "And blacks."� Woah. That's where he lost me.

"There's trash all over the streets here,"� he said, before turning to look at the back of my head while I tried to face away from him. "You know I mean the people, right?"�

This man was increasingly scaring me. Bobby went on to tell me about all the drugs and prostitution and gambling and bubonic plague for which Daytona is apparently famous. I was surprised, since the brochures only mentioned NASCAR and spring break.

We soon passed a man who was fairly average looking, except for a bit of chin scruff. And Bobby said that that was the kind of homeless freeloader he was talking about. I finally stopped nodding my head in terrified don't-hurt-me acquiescence and asked the question that you are by now all thinking. What time of day is best to mix cocaine and Ritalin? Aloud, however, I asked Bobby why he lived in Daytona if he hated it so much.

"Well,"� he said through puffs of his third cigarette, "I was on my way to Vegas back in "˜68, and something came up. You know how it is."�

I didn't, but I wasn't about to ask. We finally arrived at the News-Journal, and Bobby asked if I wanted him to wait for me. I told him I might be a while. He offered his number for when I was ready. I told him I'd call the cab company. He said that they never give him to people who ask for him. I wondered if anyone has ever actually asked for him.

"Here's my cell number,"� he said, just before extending his clawlike hand to shake mine. "By the way, I'm Bobby."� I shook the claw, which had probably only been used for steering, chain smoking, and shaking the hands of terrified passengers who have no intention of ever calling his cell phone.

On the way home, my new cab driver didn't speak at all, except to ask, "destination?"� through a thick accent and to mutter, "what part green light don't understand?"� Though the ride back was less fearsome than the ride there, it was also much more boring. And while I didn't wish for a bitter, coughing, racist cab driver, I did wish she'd be a bit more animated.

Or at least be named Abby.

Thursday night, I had the Tonight show on in the background when something caught my attention. I'd heard Jay Leno say something to the effect of, "and now, the reunion of one of the greatest rock bands of all time"¦The Doors."� With all due respect, Jay, unless there was a bus accident that I didn't hear about, I don't think that's possible.

Just to give you a bit of perspective, here's today's history lesson:

Singer/songwriter Jim Morrison fronted The Doors from start to finish - when he died of an alleged drug overdose in 1971. After Morrison's passing, the surviving three members, John Densmore, Robby Krieger, and Ray Manzarek, released one more album - 1978's "An American Prayer"� as a tribute to Morrison. With the exception of a few greatest hits albums here and there, The Doors were officially shut.

But then came April 25th, 2002. On The Doors' official website, there was this simple news update: "Robby Krieger and Ray Manzarek are collaborating in private rehearsal sessions and hinting at the possibility of working with some prominent vocalists in the not too distant future."� In other words, break out your checkbooks, there's going to be a reunion tour. Well, half of one, anyway.

It started with that Tonight Show, when Robbie and Ray appeared to promote their then-upcoming Las Vegas concert. The obvious question was, "who would be opening for The Doors?"� (Badum!) But Robbie and Ray saying they're The Doors is like Natalie Wood and Sal Mineo trying to remake "Rebel Without a Cause"� and having someone stand in for James Dean. Robbie and Ray are not The Doors. They weren't The Doors. They were part of The Doors. Maybe the Doorknob and the Buzzer. Jim Morrison was The Doors. And even if R&R somehow found a way to convince a post-mortem Jim to rejoin the band (I hear a group in Florida has the technology to do it, but has yet to reveal it to the public), that's still only three quarters of the group. John, who is very much alive, is not part of the exploitation process.

John has enough common sense to form a separate group and not try to profit off of The Doors name. His group, Tribal Jazz, will release their first CD later this year. Notice the name of his group. It is not The Doors of Tribal Jazz or Tribal Jazz and a Guy From The Doors, or Doors Tribal Jazz Doors Doors. It is simply Tribal Jazz, a sign that John has recognized that his friend and co-worker passed on, and his career should move in the same direction - on.

When Kurt Cobain died, Nirvana's drummer, Dave Grohl, kept playing music, but in the Foo Fighters. When Jerry Garcia died, The Grateful Dead stuck together, but renamed themselves "The Other Ones"� in recognition of how different the band is without their most recognizable member. But 32 years after their front man died, Robbie and Ray are trying to keep the dream alive. It's quite possible that Jay Leno was mistaken, and the two Rs are not referring to themselves as The Doors. But I looked up "The Doors"� on Yahoo! and found something just as disturbing. A link to thedoors.com describes it as the "official site of John Densmore, Robby Krieger, Ray Manzarek and Jim Morrison."� Was Jim really in on that decision? I can only imagine that conversation - mainly because it obviously never took place.

"Robby? Ray?"�

"What is it, Jim?"�

"If I happen to die before you guys (wink wink), can you make sure that we get a good domain name for our website before some cyber-squatter steals thedoors.com?"�

"Jim, the web won't be commonly used for another quarter century."�

"I know - I'm just thinking ahead of myself here. Oh, and I'm totally cool with you using the band's name to play the Tonight Show. But only if John isn't there. And make sure to wait until after Carson retires."�

"You're the boss."�

Maybe I'm making a big deal out of nothing. It's possible that this is all a misunderstanding, or that Morrison would have been fine with it. But it's a lot more likely that a man widely known as a dark poet would much rather R-squared not perform his "Light My Fire"� with the help of Kevin Eubanks and The Tonight Show Band. And I'm positive Morrison would be very surprised to learn that there's a "Virtual Pilgrimage"� to his grave on thedoors.com.

Then again, he is the one that came up with the idea for the website.

No matter how clear your skin, no matter how old you get, no matter how often and zealously you attend your religious institution of choice, you will still, occasionally, wake up with a pimple the size of South Dakota.

You may think you're immune to the red social death. But that's just kidding yourself. You may not get one for five years. But it will come. Oh, it will come. Some of you may even have one now.

More often than not, your pimple will come on a day where thousands of people are closely examining your skin. No one gets a pimple when they're planning on being home by themselves for a weekend. Though many people plan on being home by themselves for a weekend when they got a pimple.

I'm writing this column because this morning, I fell victim to that same fate. (Having a pimple, not staying in for the weekend). I have a standup gig tonight, so people will not only see my pimple, they will see it with the aid of a giant spotlight. As far as the crowd is concerned, I will become one giant pimple, which may impress them since few people have ever seen a pimple do standup comedy. The sheer novelty of it may be enough to win them over.

Growing up, I never really had a problem with acne, aside from spending a year confusing it for the company that makes all those anti-Road Runner gadgets. I never had more than one pimple at a time, and I went through entire months in high school with none at all. But in high school, acne would have been okay since everyone had some. You can't really laugh at someone for getting a pimple when you can't see past your own facial mountain range. Well, you can, but it'd be asking for trouble. As well as the pot calling the kettle, well, a smaller pot.

Now that I've past that awkward stage where everyone is just as awkward as each other, pimples are no longer welcome. Though we will all still get it occasionally, acne is much rarer - I don't think I've had any in years. So while I've been eligible to mock the pimpled people for quite some time, I can now be mocked by all the people who are on their non-pimple cycle. This is why you need to treat others with respect. To paraphrase a famous, um, phrase - people who live in glass houses should not clean the windows with Stridex pads.

I'm an adult now, or at least at the age where I can be tried as one after assaulting the convenience store guy for selling me skin care products that don't work. Now that I'm 23, there's nothing quite like cosmetically rocketing back to 14.

The reason that teenagers make such a big deal about their pimples is because often, it is their greatest problem. When you're in high school, your pimples affect your social standing, which is a high school student's biggest concern. When you've already graduated college, your pimple(s) do not affect your ability to get a decent job or find an apartment or find a night job to pay for that apartment since you blew your paycheck at happy hour. Those are an adult's biggest concerns, while a pimple is merely an inconvenience that might make you postpone a date. Or a comedy show.

I'm glad I have to do a set tonight, because it will allow me to use the pimple to my advantage. Instead of pretending there is no Vesuvius-like blemish on my forehead, I can come up with clever, self-deprecating jokes about how much it sucks to have a pimple.

Question: What's the difference between a pimple and the plague?
Answer: Nothing!

My plan is to get them rolling in the aisles. That way, they can stop staring at my forehead, and instead concentrate on how dirty their clothing got from rolling in the aisles. Aside from making people laugh at my expense, the only other positive effect of a zit is 12 points in Scrabble. I can't imagine using a pimple to your advantage in any other profession.

"Your honor, my client is an honorable man."�

"But we have a videotape of him stealing candy from babies while pushing an old lady into oncoming traffic."�

"Perhaps you didn't notice that I have a pimple on my forehead."�

"By golly, you're right! Case dismissed!"�

Luckily, I'm in that unique position where having a pimple isn't all that bad; this is a time where being a comedian will certainly help me. I plan on using my pimple to make people laugh and affect positive change in their lives (as well as in my career). Frankly, I'm going to embrace my pimple.

But not too tightly because that could get messy.

If this writer thing doesn't work out, I'm going to try out for one of those judge shows. I'd be great at ignoring the American legal process and mouthing off to the destitute. The only reason I don't have a judge show already is because I'm not sassy, ethnic, or able to constantly remind people of how I made it despite my unsavory background.

All these shows have slightly different hooks, but the formula remains constant. One person is suing another in a very open and shut case. Sometimes it's the prosecution who should obviously win. "Your honor, he stabbed me seven times and refused to pay the medical bill, or for the knife resharpening."� Sometimes, the defendant has a better case. "Your honor, I know I took his parking space, but I don't see why that makes me obligated to buy him a new car."� But in either case, it doesn't take a rocket scientist (or someone with a law background) to know who is right and who is wrong. It does, apparently, take a law background to say, "when my hand goes up, your mouth goes shut."�

These programs are a far cry from the old Divorce Court where the drama was created with what the prosecution and the defense said to each other, not with what the judges said to them. The judge was there to listen (gasp!) and render a verdict accordingly, and that was it. And it didn't matter where he or she grew up.

But it matters for Judge Joe Brown, who reminds us that he grew up in the streets at every opportunity. Yes, it's wonderful that he escaped a bad neighborhood and went on to the very respectable career of television arbitrator, but he doesn't need to repeat that every time they go to commercial. "And now, a word from our sponsor. Who I first met during my days in the streets."�

But at least Brown is fair, unlike the Judy school of judging, which teaches you to pass judgment before hearing a case. On multiple occasions, I've heard Judge Judy tell people that they should shut up because she didn't like the way they looked. And I've only watched the show twice.

The now cancelled Judge Mills Lane was one of the only judge shows to feature a celebrity judge, until Judge Mills Lane stopped being a show and Mills Lane stopped being a celebrity. You probably know Lane as the boxing ref that DQed Mike Tyson for biting Evander Holyfield's ear, and went on to star in the less violent Celebrity Deathmatch. It's not his boxing background that gets me - I just don't want my judge to have had a role on "Buzz Lightyear of Star Command,"� even if it's a cameo.

The syndicated Judge Hatchett, distributed by Sony Pictures Television, is younger and more attractive than Judge Judy, but really, who isn't? And Sony wants so much for her to be taken seriously that the press photo of her features an open robe and a skirt that stops well above the knee. "I think this season we'll try to feature more cases that focus on the problems of domestic violence. Now show a little leg."�

And the litigants are no better. These are people who should settle their differences without the aid of cue cards, but have been raised by judge shows and thus learned that no one ever really has to take responsibility for anything. Even if you lose, the show pays the settlement. Now that's standing up and taking responsibility for your actions, huh?

There was a case recently where a wasted guy threw a keg off a third story balcony. Of course the keg hit a car, but the thrower refused to pay for the damages. His defense? He didn't check for cars before the throw, so he obviously didn't hit the thing on purpose. But there's no legal precedent establishing a "my bad"� rule; the defense was an obviously poor excuse made up simply to satisfy the idea of a defense. This way, the keg-thrower may have lost the case, but he lost it on TV and thus had someone else pay the bill. In the process, the world got to see just how dumb he was. $800 is now the going rate for dignity.

I really think I'd make a good TV judge, and not just because I already own a black robe (it's terrycloth, but it's still black). If they just gave me the chance, I'd render equal, swift, and certain verdicts, and carry out justice wherever it was needed. I'd stand up for the poor and the downtrodden, spread the message of fair play and responsibility, and be a pillar of my community.

And after a long half hour of work, I'd retire to my judge's chamber, and read some law books under the cool glow of my makeup mirror with all the light bulbs around it.