On Friday, I cruised the Eldo all the way down the 10 freeway to Ontario for the PodcastExpo, at which I was to appear on my old chum Leo Laporte’s wildly popular TWiT.

Fearing I was late, I took a hard right into the parking lot and jumped the curb, launching a hubcap into the lot. Well, that hubcap just kept rolling, and rolling, because there was nothing to stop it. The parking lot was empty.

On the one hand, I was kind of excited, because I saw I could get a parking spot befitting my pristine chariot and its culturally important driver, right next to the front door. Yet on the other, I started to suspect something was a little off. This feeling only grew as I opened the massive door of the classic coupe to hang my legs out and change into my podcasting shoes, for that’s when I saw a group of people entering the convention center wearing Spanish Dance costumes. Either I was at the wrong place, at the right place at the wrong time, or the popularity of podcasting had been greatly overblown by the media.

Turns out, I was a week early. The show is this week, September the 29th, and I’LL BE THERE. I’ve even cancelled a longstanding lunch appointment with Dirk Benedict (better known as Lt. Templeton “Faceman” Peck) to attend. Yeah, that’s how important this is to me. You can be there too; admission is apparently free. The twittering is supposed to begin at 2pm. Oh boy! It’ll be great to see the old gang again! I hope Patrick Norton is there. He owes me $27.

Now, let me put a cherry on this Manhattan by saying Martin Sargent is the kind of guy who turns lemons into double Stoli lemondrops, so I’m kind of glad I screwed up the date. I figured, “Awww, what the h-e-double hockey sticks!! I can Spanish dance! I didn’t spend a semester lecturing about Hemingway in Madrid for nothing!” So I changed out of my podcasting shoes and into my capezios, and WOWED THEM. One guy was actually clearly pissed off and kept going out to smoke cigarettes everytime I flawlessy spun one of the ladies across the convention center floor. Sorry, Baldomero. You’ll get it next time. And Maria, thanks for everything…you were great.

P.S. Hope to see you all at the Revision3 re-launch party this Tuesday in San Francisco.

All systems go for the special SPACE edition of Infected! In a half hour or so span, Joey, The Gator and I manage to answer most of the universe’s lingering mysteries, such as why did Pluto get thrown out of the solar system? (Hint: it had something to do with Joey, high school bullies, and a pickle.) Did we really go to the moon? Our expert guest, filmmaker Bart Sibrel from moonmovie.com, says no way! Plus, is space tourism just a fad, or the next Reno? Yikes! The jug wine really hits hard in zero gravity. Blast Off!

Sorry the episode was released later than expected, but with all the work being done over at Rev3 HQ to prepare for our big relaunch, things got hectic. When you watch the episode, though, I think you’ll agree it’s worth the wait. If you’ve been thinking about reading Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time, don’t bother! All the answers are right here, in our SPACE edition!

Oh, and make sure you watch the video peep show edition and don’t just listen to the audio version if you want to see dramatic proof, in the form of top secret NASA footage, that the moon landing was a hoax (according to our guest). You’ll also get to see out guest get punched out by Buzz Aldrin for telling him he never went to the moon! Now where else are you going to see something like like, but right here on Infected?

Today, while cutting through the parking lot of a Ralph’s Supermarket in Sherman Oaks to catch the light on the other side, I saw something big going on! About fifteen to twenty guys with expensive cameras, all equipped with telephoto lenses. They were not only mobbed around the entrance to the store, causing the automatic door to open and close like crazy, but also standing on the train of grocery carts that were pushed up against the window, their lenses pressed right up on it.

The paparazzi were here!

I lowered the window of my Eldo and shouted, “I’m right here, television’s Martin Sargent, snap away!”

Nothing.

“Wow,” I thought, “Whoever’s in that Ralph’s Supermarket must be a real big star for these guys to not jump at the chance to take my photo, I’m going to get to the bottom of this!”

So after I drove around the parking lot for a while looking for a spot close enough to befit someone of my social standing, I pushed my way through the paparazzi throng into the store. I walked the length of Ralph’s, searching for my fellow celebrity, scanning each aisle much like you do when trying to figure out where the Funyons are. And then, in front of the Pepperidge Farms cookie display, I saw her. Jessica Simpson. Her ass was a little bigger than I imagined, but she still looked good, and I started to feel pity towards her. See, being a celebrity myself, I know what it’s like to not have any privacy, to be chased about like a fox in the hunt, to be exploited merely because you’re gorgeous, talented, and better than everyone else.

So I walked up to her and said, “Jessica, it’s me, Martin Sargent, from the TV. I know what you’re going through, and I’m going to get you out of here.” Just then, I felt a crushing blow from behind as her bodyguard tackled me into the Oreos. He took Jessica by the hand and led her away as I just lay there with black crumbs on my face, dazed. He must have only been able to see me from the back and didn’t realize who I was, probably figuring I was just some weirdo. Understandable. Lawsuit prevented. Plus, Jessica’s been through so much already this year, with Nick and now John Mayer. And it’s kind of gauche for one celebrity to sue another.

When I finally collected my wits and stumbled out to my Eldo, I saw SUVs full of paparazzi tearing off after Jessica’s car, down Ventura Boulevard. I thought about going after them to run interference so Jessica could get away, but like I said, her ass was a little bigger than I imagined, so I just headed off to the Tattle Tale Room for a whiskey, to be alone with my US Weekly and my thoughts.

It was a magical evening. I mean, wow. JUST WOW!

Would you like me to tell you about it? Wonderful, then. It would be my pleasure.

Exhibiting the generosity I’ve become quite well known for among the Hollywood elite, I took my entourage to see the wildly talented island crooner Mr. Don Ho in Waikiki, on the island of Oahu. Now, for those of you more into Korn and Insane Clown Posse than the classics, Don Ho is not only a peerless entertainer, but one of our greatest living Americans. He most famously sang “Tiny Bubbles,” but everything he’s ever recorded is pure audio gold.

Well, we were met at the Don Ho Show with the kind of warm embrace one can only receive on the islands, and shown to our VIP table. Much to my surprise, delight and honor, a few songs and countless side-splitting jokes in, Don Ho invited me up on stage to sing a few numbers.

Now, let me preface this by saying, most people at a Don Ho show are golden citizens to say the least. In fact, several couples in attendance were celebrating their 50th wedding anniversaries, and I for one can’t think of a more special way to commemorate such a momentous occasion. But most 70 to 80 year olds are unfamiliar with the storied television, Internet and cell phone career of yours truly, so there weren’t too many Polaroid, Kodak Disc and Brownie camera flash bulbs going off as I mounted the stage. Yet a few bars into the first song, with Don Ho as my muse, we had those AARPers tapping their orthopedic shoes to the delightful beat. And as thrilling a life as I’ve lead, I’m not sure any other experience has left such an indelible mark on my soul. Except maybe that time I was invited to give counsel to the Dalai Lama (What up, D.L.?).

So thank you, Don Ho, and thank you, Ms. Haumea Hebenstreit, executive producer of Don Ho Enterprises, and many thanks also to all the other good-hearted people who make the show possible, for bringing such joy to me and my posse. And, of course, for giving us the entire Don Ho discography on CD, which you should all head straight to Amazon to buy.

Next time you’re in Oahu, do yourself and favor and go see the Don Ho Show. If you don’t have any plans to go to Hawaii, now you have a damn fine reason. Plus they have pretty good beaches, and according to my driver, Remy, some fine strip clubs and pot to boot.