Wednesday, November 30, 2005

Love me Tuesday, or put out the cat

Lyrics/Music - Barlow/Malveen

(from the Oral Blonde album "Hamburger with cheese")

If I slit my wrists and bled on your carpet would you clean it
Or would you leave it to remember me by
I caught my fingers in the door when I was waving goodbye- Ho-ha
And my nails came off just like Jeff Goldblum's in "The Fly"
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
If I scalded my hands in boiling hot water would you put out my eyes
Or leave me to die with a subscription to "Better Homes and Bludgeons"
I cut off my nose shaving and you didn't bring me roses
Instead you noticed that I no longer smell
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Oh wolf nipple chip sugar talkin' momma
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat....
the cat is dead.

For more on the Oral Blondes go here.

Tuesday, November 29, 2005

26 shopping days left

I was down in the U.S. over the past weekend and they are already fuckin’ nuts and pissin’ crazy when it comes to shopping for the big yule tide holiday. The malls were packed to capacity the day after Thanksgiving. A day loving referred to as "Black Friday". Pushing, shoving and the caroling of car horns is already in full swing south of the 49th.

So to help you prepare over the coming weeks, I will be launching a series of gift ideas in your quest for the perfect present. I'm just trying to save you the embarrassment of running around like a blathering idiot at 5:30 on the 24th to buy scratch tickets for everyone. (You're welcome.)

The first one is a great item from the wonderful people at Divine Interventions. It's for those up-tight members of your family. Perhaps your pompous Uncle or prudish Aunt?

It embodies all the positives of Christmas. Like watching the pleasure in others faces as they use your gift for the first time, or giving you the sense, the good Lord is somewhere deep inside of you. They even have the baby Jesus.

Now I ask you. How much more Christmas does it get? And the answer is none. None more Christmas.

You could order a dozen of these babies and your Christmas shopping would be finito. And how good would that feel?

Sunday, November 27, 2005

The Sunday non-Blog

In transit. See you tomorrow.

Saturday, November 26, 2005

Wednesday, November 23, 2005

The true story of Thanksgiving

I hope you are enjoying the slide show of my trip to Amsterdam and Zurich with Bob Noxious 5 years ago.....I don’t know!....he had to go over to review a movie...... "The Revenge of Pippy Long Socks," or something like that.

Wow 5 years. It brings a tear to the eye... it was during the Cannabis Cup!’d cry too, you insensitive bastard.

Today however, I’m getting ready for a little jaunt into the land of the free and the home of the brave. We are off to see my girl D’s beloved Saints battle the Jets in the Meadowlands.

Since it is also Thanksgiving State-side, I thought I would bond with my American brethren and post a link to the true story of Thanksgiving. I’ve researched this and it’s right up there with the E-true story of Santa, the Easter Bunny and Hitler.

So forget about your troubles friends. Forget the impending layoffs before Christmas, forget your cheating spouse, forget that damn annoying Bird Flu thingy....wait Thanksgiving...turkeys....ok...scratch the last one, but click the link and have a giggle.

Friday, November 18, 2005

Sorry, I gotta P

It's the final day of the my blogging week brought to you by the letter P. So, let's piss out the P shall we?

Pickles, pickaxe, pacemaker, pachyderm, your computer screen covered in spit yet?

...pad thai, Palestinian, panic attack, gay penguin, ( I suddenly have an urge to visit the Mayor).....

...pancake, pancreas, papaya, cell phones....

Hey does anyone else want to punch Richard Branson in the spleen over that new Virgin cell phone commercial? You know the one where that chick hisses like a frickin’ cat over her Christmas gift before a stuffed elk gets wheeled in to give her the great news of Sir Richards savings packages. Perhaps you’re lucky and that ad piece of crap is indigenous to this country only.

...Punch! Prick!...

...parallel universe, peanut worm, premier, piracy, Harry Potter....

Can you believe they actually had gaurds at the premier? Militia with metal ditectors and night vision goggles, frisked movie goers to prevent piracy of the new Potter film. (like I want to see some guy with a plant for hair get up in the middle of the film on my TV anyway.)

peekaboo, pencil pusher, pimp, pedicure, (yeah I'll get to the foot thing some other time)....

...pennywort, pompadour, pigmy, penile dysfunction....

I’m not actually going to talk about the penis here, but it seemed a good segue into the book I’m reading called, "Getting Laid," by Paul Barker. It’s a Sex in the City/ Bridget Jones Diary approach from a man’s perspective and it’s friggin hilarious.

Paul and I have a lot in common as we both write humorous fiction based on real life. We both write from the Dicklit angle and we are both unpublished authors working for a living in other jobs.

People who would really enjoy these books if they read them, I’d say are in the 50% category.
Unfortunately, people who would find this stuff funny and actually buy and read books is more like 2%. Thus the dilemma.

The male side of things is even more grim. About 20% of the buying public are men, except most of those readers are either the comic book crowd with no life experience, or retired codgers who want to read things like, The Great Halifax Disaster of 1911," or "Rommel: The Desert Fox." Ah Canada, home of the non-fiction history lesson novel.

Publishers and agents know this and will squash anything remotely linked to the Dicklit genre. But we will persevere. If not with my newest offering "Handmade Heart," then my next, "The Yaya Sisterhood Strikes Back."

....prostate exam, pissed-off, publishers, parasitic putz’s.

Thursday, November 17, 2005

Porn: the subliminal teacher

It’s true, I’m learning German. Besides winning the war in the hand to gland combat, I am versing myself in a second language. Amazing isn't it?

You see I’ve been viewing some triple G vids with the standard fare of oral, anal, in & out and a bukkake chaser straight from Deutscheland. However, all the dialogue is in German. Even the ooohs and ahs. But I started to discover, after a while, I understood what was being said.

This got me to thinking, if I could learn German while I was watching porn, then maybe others like me could learn as well? Think of the ramifications? And it doesn't have to be learning to speak words other than your mother tongue. Subliminal messages in porn could teach you Law, Medicine, or Small engine repair. Hot dang!

Just as long as the porn doesn’t end up in the wrong hands and programed for a different purpose. Then you find after watching some three-way action you have a sudden urge to take the wife shoe shopping.

Now I realize that even though I am working towards becoming fluent in German, it is still limited. For instance I can’t very well get off the plane in Munich and start yelling-"Arschegefickte tussen schlucken besser," or "Ass fucked sluts do it better."

Nor can I tell someone their German daughter looks "Neidlisch su und vollgespritzt und gierige sperma schlampen." or in other words, "cute, lovely and drenched in jizz like a greedy sperm whore."

I think I would have a few unsettling looks if I were to order off the menu in Frankfurt by saying, "Fur hubsche und geil. Gib mir einen mund voll sperma. Ich muss abspritzen. Snell!" or as you probably have already figured out, "I'm hot and horny. Give me a mouth full of cum. I need some spunk. Now!"

Yet, on the bright side, I am certainly more versed in the linguistics of the Master Race than I was a month ago.

So if you feel like picking up another language, I suggest downloading porn from whatever country you desire. Learn a language. Ukranian, Russian, Dutch.

Give yourself the gift that keeps on giving and educate yourself in the process.

Wednesday, November 16, 2005 silly....the other one.

Remember that Paris Hilton commercial with the hamburgers that got all those righteous boobs in a tizzy? Today I thought I’d honor my tribute to the letter P with that Paris/burger commercial except, it’s with the original actor who was suppose to do it. Go watch it and then tell me you have a problem with Ms. Hilton.

Tuesday, November 15, 2005

Pussy wants's not what you think

Je-sus! I almost forgot to post today. I was sitting around, having a beer, thinking something wasn’t quite right with the world. What did I forget? I went through a mental check list, but somewhere I missed the whole Blog thing.

Now I’m here to put things right and blow one off. It’s last minute, I know, but it should suffice.

It’s a link to those crazy, yet creative inventor bastards. These people are intelligent. We are talkin’ S M R T, Arkansas advanced in their way of thinkin’.

It appears there is hope for your VCR yet. Your pets will thank you. Go here and scroll down.

Monday, November 14, 2005

P is for penetration

I think I got this off of sexscenes at starbucks a while back. Figures.....anyhoo....

This week is brought to you by the letter P and today’s word is Penetration. Can you say Penetration...sure..sure..I knew you could. The swell people at Apple have come up with a new gizmo to appease the angry masses after the Nano ipod fiasco. Those little buggers broke if you looked at them the wrong way. So this new device should help you forget that shoddy workmanship...the ladies anyway.

Sunday, November 13, 2005

Pottahawk still on the plate?

With my post about pants from yesterday and today’s reference to Pottahawk, I have decided that further posts this week will be brought to you by the letter "P".

With that said:

I was checking the Ol’ dooflingus the other day. And by dooflingus I mean site meter in my dooflingus, which is fine by the way. Thanks for askin’.


Every once in a while I like to go in and view the site meter, see who has been on the blog, where these fine people come from and who referred them.

I noticed that even after several months I’m still getting hits from search engines by people looking for the Pottahawk Pissup. Guys it’s over! It’s mid November now. Move on.

Unless you’re ironing the swantz-gold Speedo and puffing up the water wings for next year? PP is fucking someone else. Get over it. The boats are all shrink-wrapped and stowed away for the winter. Just make sure you don’t miss this extraordinary event in the future or I will have to taunt you a second time.

But I'm also here to help you my friends.

If you are still suffering withdrawals, I suggest you focus on the picture, (Sorry girls, he’s taken), for at least five minutes. It has been known to cure such longings by replacing them with a vision much more shocking and horrific. It will make you forget all about Pottahawk and run screaming.....I'll just set my watch....ready?....and go!....Hey, are you still here?..... Hello.....Hello!

Saturday, November 12, 2005

These pants have gone wrong

This was sent to me in an email. I thought it was a good giggle, so I'm posting it today. It was an item being sold on Ebay. If you are interested, I'm afraid it's too late to bid but read on anyway.

You are bidding on a mistake.
We all make mistakes. We date the wrong people for too long. We chew gum with our mouths open. We say inappropriate things in front of grandma.And we buy leather pants.

I can explain these pants and why they are in my possession. I bought them many, many years ago under the spell of a woman whom I believed to have taste. She suggested I try them on. I did. She said they looked good. I wanted to have a relationship of sorts with her. I’m stupid and prone to impulsive decisions. I bought the pants.

The relationship, probably for better, never materialized. The girl, whose name I can’t even recall, is a distant memory. I think she was short.

Ultimately the pants were placed in the closet where they have remained, unworn, for nearly a decade. I would like to emphasize that: Aside from trying these pants on, they have never, ever been worn. In public or private.

I have not worn these leather pants for the following reasons:
I am not a member of Queen.I do not like motorcycles.I am not Rod Stewart.I am not French.I do not cruise for transvestites in an expensive sports car.

These were not cheap leather pants. They are Donna Karan leather pants. They’re for men. Brave men, I would think. Perhaps tattooed, pierced men. In fact, I’ll go so far as to say you either have to be very tough, very gay, or very famous to wear these pants and get away with it.
Again, they’re men’s pants, but they’d probably look great on the right lady. Ladies can get away with leather pants much more often than men can. It’s a sad fact that men who own leather pants will have to come to terms with.

They are size 34x34. I am no longer size 34x34, so even were I to suddenly decide I was a famous gay biker I would not be able to wear these pants. These pants are destined for someone else. For reasons unknown - perhaps to keep my options open, in case I wanted to become a pirate - I have shuffled these unworn pants from house to house, closet to closet. Alas, it is now time to part ways so that I may use the extra room for any rhinestone-studded jeans I may purchase in the future.

These pants are in excellent condition. They were never taken on pirate expeditions. They weren’t worn onstage. They didn’t straddle a Harley, or a guy named Harley. They just hung there, sad and ignored, for a few presidencies.

Someone, somewhere, will look great in these pants. I’m hoping that someone is you, or that you can be suckered into buying them by a girl you’re trying to bed.
Please buy these leather pants.

Friday, November 11, 2005

Nine Inch Nails a 7

Last night NIN played here in the Big Smoke. The following is my review of the evening.

I’ve seen them put on better shows with more intensity, emotion and showmanship, but in all fairness, last night wasn’t their fault. It was the fuckin’ prick who decided that as a spanking to the ACC and the public in general, it should be a dry concert.

Without the benefit of alcohol the crowd just didn’t have the energy after a rockin set by Queens of the Stone Age to get Nails through the night. Granted, as professionals it shouldn’t matter if there is one person in the audience or 16,000 screaming crazies. But Trent and the boys always like to come out roaring then break it down in the middle and whip it up in the end. With a sober crowd, it's an extremely hard task and after the video presentation, there was no energy to feed off.

It took until the encore, Hand that feeds/Head like a hole, to get the blood pumping again and by that’s over’s too late to kiss perfection between the legs.

Maybe my expectations are too high after witnessing previous shows that slipped beyond excellence? Or perhaps I was put off by mitigating circumstances? The expensive merchandise, the even more expensive snacks. Christ, they should have just checked my prostate while they were at it.

Other evening events that didn't sit well with me?

-Even though I informed the girl at the check point, Al Qa'ida had given me the night off, she frisked me like she was gorging on a bucket of chicken and I was the elusive drum stick at the bottom grease-stained container.

-I roamed the halls for twenty minutes and not one person mistook me for the real Trent Reznor.

- At the begining of every frickin' song, the guy next to me yelled out, "Yessss!" like he’d made a three pointer to win the game and got nothing but net. I'm sure before the concert he went to a Bookie and said, "I’m betting a $100 on the order NIN will play the songs tonight."

-There was a line at the men's bathroom.... the men's for christ sake!

-Then there was my girl D who wanted to hear "Something I can never have," and when they unexpectedly played it 5 songs in, she went crazy and nearly squeezed my dice right out of my nut sack. Hurt like hell too and I had to go stand in line for the bathroom again. Although, the guy next to me thought it was great. "Yessss!"

Perhaps an eventual DVD release of the tour will prove me wrong and Nails simply needed an audience from that mythical land where beer is readibly available at concert venues?

Thursday, November 10, 2005

Oh no he di-int!

From the annals of sites like and and, I bring you one for the ladies.

You see, men on the whole are cheatin’sons of bitches at some time in their life. I should know. I was one. And then they just become men on the hole, which is not exactly a good emotional state for women to be in, especially when it’s mostly some other woman’s hole their on.

My girl D always says, "I wish I'd met you 10 years ago."

And I always say, "No you don't. I would have fucked you up good."

It's the truth.

But I don’t need to tell you this girls, you’ve already been through the scenario at one time or another. Perhaps it’s still going on...hurry...go look for the God damn paper trail! Because men, as well, are stupid creatures when it comes to sex and will believe their own lies. (Yes I am aware that you knew that fact as well.)

"Yeah Honey, about that room at the Radisson on my credit card? Funny thing see...there was this homeless guy who was nearly frozen to death on the street corner and to make a long story short....he had a puppy...did I mention he had a nearly frozen puppy with him....I needed to help him...and the puppy.....get him off the street and into a warm bed...well, turns out the Radisson was the only place that would let animals stay...oh and that meal at Chez Louie...he had to eat, Honey...he was starving.

Translated into man speak all this simply means is...I fucked your best friend, cause she had bigger tits than you and I couldn't resist. She was a great lay and in a hurry to get my dick out of my pants, I forgot to pay cash.

Oh yes...the link...almost forgot...the story of the homeless guy and the puppy got me side-tracked. here it is....Now go! Share it with all Womandom and crazy assed females everywhere....note: the site has agreed to remove my profile in return for this posting.

Wednesday, November 09, 2005

Aye, eye Captain

So the Leaf Captain has been back for three games now since returning from his eye injury sustained in the first game of the season vs Ottawa.

He has 2 goals and 4 assists in that span, including the game winner last night against Washington. A 2 point per game clip is pretty good for a guy who almost lost an eye-ball early last month wouldn’t you agree?

What does all this mean for the Buds?

They still won’t make the playoffs. Lindross will find a way to get hurt. Pat Quinn will probably announce soon he is illiterate, and the whole team will most likely be implicated in some boat cruise sex scandal. In fact, expect them to get slaughtered by Buffalo in their next game, or is their characteristic, inconsistent play lost on you as long as there’s a W on the board? (Can you tell I'm a Habs fan yet?)

Hold on there Leaf faithful. It’s going to be a long season of barely scraping the median.

Tuesday, November 08, 2005

Just slip out the back Jack...

Remember that Paul Simon song, "Fifty ways to leave your lover"? The following link has 50 embarrassing ways to die. Other than the #50, there is no connection except embarrassing ways to die is well...pretty funny....and Paul Simon is short and will probably be dead soon, which makes him funny I guess. So there is more of a connection than I first thought, but I'm derailed and way off track here. Check it out.

My favourites are:

-Drowning during your born-again baptism. (Yup that would be embarrassing.)
-Strangling on the finish line tape at the end of a marathon. (Don't have to worry about that one. I can't run around the block.)
-Being burned to death after falling and dropping the Olympic Torch three feet from the cauldron. (Remember when Ali did it at the Atlanta Olympics? Wow that was a close call.)
-Brain hemorrhage while trying to force out a huge turd. (Boy do these people ever know me.)

What are you still doing here? Click the link already.

Monday, November 07, 2005

Help, my Jesus is caught in a tree

Should someone call the fire department?

A woman in Houston Texas, (big surprise there), claims the image of Jesus Christ is evident in the upper branches of a tree in her yard. If between yawns you want to check the story out it’s here.

Is it any wonder that people like me scoff and make fun of religious fanatics like this? Truthfully, the only time I, or my girl D ever see a vision of a deity, is during sex. Besides, this "I saw the Almighty in a taco" business is getting old.

In fact, a woman in Milwaukee, or maybe it was Wisconsin? I don’t know. Someplace where they either brew, or drink a lot of beer. This woman also professed to have Jesus in a tree in her yard. Although, later it was proven to only be a poorly carved etching of Willie Nelson.

If you still haven’t had your fill of the Lord and Savior you should go to Jesus of the week, which I believe, like everything else, I stole from the Mayor at some point along with some pens, paper-clips and a back issue of "Massive Jug Sluts".

Anyway, go. Have a larf or three. I think they have an all-you-can-eat-body of Christ special on.

Sunday, November 06, 2005


Ok, my little three week self indulgence is at an end. I hope those of you who took the time to read the posts, enjoyed it. For those interested, further information and news on my progress can be found at the Handmade Heart web page

Now it's time to get back to the meat and potatoes of Blogging and focus on the stupid, inane, banter of everyday life that confuses and sometimes astounds us. I look forward to reading your comments on future posts.
Thank you for your patronage.


Saturday, November 05, 2005

The deflated dreams of Wanda

Synopsis: They’re older and wiser but it won’t make any’s not easy being an Oral Blonde.

A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes a past friendship will somehow yield a future together.

I puffed and wheezed as we raced with vigor to the dressing room to find our elusive percussionist. We charged in to see his legs sticking out of a closet in the far corner of the room. He was naked except for his boots and was holding on to a prop from the fifth song of the night, a blow up doll we called Wanda. She always coaxed a huge response from our audiences and now she had somehow coaxed Alistair Pare' into the dressing room closet. She was in his arms in post coital acquiescence. Alistair’s spectacles sat askew on his nose and his porkpie hat looked more like a yarmulke crushed like a pillow between his head and the wall.

"Forget the kiss. I think murder is more appropriate Sparky."

"I think I’m gonna be sick."

Alistair looked up at us and giggled. It was a hideous chortle that had a gurgling sound to it, and the smell of cheap liquor and sweaty plastic was an unmistakable musk.

"Je-sus Alistair! We’re on stage in fifteen minutes man!"

There was a knock on the door. It was Chas. His voice drifted through the door with calm authority, "Twelve minutes guys."

"Je-sus! Twelve minutes. Fuck me!"

I sniffled through my cold, "I wouldn’t say tha in frun of our presen combany, Doc."

Alistair’s laugh suddenly changed to blubbering and his head sagged.

"Alistair we go on in twelve minutes you have to get it together man."

"Don’t tell my wife mate." he sobbed, "You know . . . about the tart." He nodded toward Wanda.

I looked at Wanda and her expressionless open armed invitation and gapping mouth. "Alistair you’re nod married."

He wouldn’t hear of it and continued to blubber. "Crikey, if she finds out I’ve been unfaithful, I’ll never be able to sit about the house with my balls hanging out."

Doc shot his hands up in frustration, "Well there’s always the closet in the dressing room here."

"It’s all righd Alistair." I tossed Wanda across the room where she landed next to a coat rack by the door. "Look the other woban’s gone. Doc helb me get him ub . . . Doc? Come on! Now!"

Doc had rolled up the sleaves on his long white stage jacket and was wrapping a couple of Rooster’s extra stage towels around his hands. "I’m not touching his sweaty bulbous body. Who knows what kind of cooties he has?"

"Hurry ub. I need your helb. He’s a heaby bugger."

Alistair’s head sagged forward. "Crickey mate. My tally-whacker’s out saluting the Queen."

"Unfordunadely we already nodissed thad."

Doc and I struggled to get him out of the closet and on a nearby chair. Alistair slumped in the chair and began to swing his hips from side to side. "Tic-toc. Tic-toc. Look at me mate, I’m a human clock."

"Doc ged his panzs."

"What I want to know, is how did he get out of them and still have his boots on?"

"Just ged his panzs! Alistair you’ll have to gib me your leg."

Doc held up the pants. "Hello boys. I see they’re tear-a-ways." He crumpled them into a ball and tossed them to me. I unrolled them, snapped together a few clasps, and held out an open pant leg for our drummer.

"Alistair, gib me your leg."

"Tic-toc. Tic-toc . . . "

"Alistair! For Christ sake! Your leg. Now!"

He brought his leg up and it thumped to the floor missing the pant leg altogether. There was another knock at the door and Chas’ voice floated through in a muffle. "Ten minutes guys."

"Ok! Ok! We’ll be there!"

"Oh, and Blake Cole just walked in."

"Fantasdic." I mumbled. "Just in tibe to see us in disarray with our drunk drubber."

"What’s a drunk drubber?" Alistair inquired.

The door opened.

"Chas I told you we’ll be there!"

But it was the Mayor. "I brought you some ice cream for your throat."

Doc protested. "You can’t give him that. Sparky you can’t eat that with a cold. Dairy products will cause more phlegm. He can’t eat that take it back."

"I can’t take it back Doc. Are you mad?"

"Doc by throad feels like fordy feed of grabel ass. I hab to do somethink."

"Well not that Sparky. Get another lozenge."

"Fine! I’ll eat it myself," the Mayor admonished. Feeling unappreciated, he sat down with a thump.

Alistair raised his leg slightly but it again fell with a thud. He began to snivel again. "I’m dying mate. I know it."

"You’re juzz drunk. You’re nod dying!"

"Then why is the doctor here?"

"Thad’s Doc Barlow you fool. He’s dressed for stage."

Alistair thought for a second. "Doc Balow? I just can’t handle that guy." He put his hand to the side of his face and whispered, "But don’t tell him that mate."

"Doc hold his leg."

"I’ll hold his fat fuckin’ neck if he doesn’t shut his yap." Doc tightened his towels and then struggled to lift the tree-like appendage.

Arsehole Party was giggling again, "That tickles mate."

"Let me hit him Sparky. Just once."

I started to shove a rolled up pant leg over his boot and up his leg. "Good Alistair now the udder one." Repeatedly he raised his foot and missed the mark clomping his boot down.

"What a sad spectacle." The Mayor said, as he poked Wanda between mouthfuls of ice cream. "Wanda looks a little saggy. She’s probably sprung a leak with lard ass all over her. Looks like he finally found a woman who didn’t turn him down huh?"

Alistair looked at the Mayor with envious eyes as he plowed his wooden spoon into the ice cream. Licking his lips he said, "Hey mate, if I got a spoon could I have a taste of that?"

"No!" The Mayor said. He seemed disgusted by our drummer's request and cradled his small dish of ice cream to the side and out of sight.

"Mayor, go down stairs and try to ged em to delay the show. Send Skids ub here."
The Mayor, still protecting his dessert, snapped to his feet and abruptly left. Doc and I continued to struggle with our uncooperative band member and his other pant leg. "Fug dis cold!" I grunted.

Wanda’s battle scars had deflated her further. Her head, with gapping mouth, now
drooped to her perky plastic breasts like a distressing yoga position. She began to sag under the chair that had propped her up to witness our meager attempts to dress our drummer. "There’s no way we can use Wanda on stage tonight Sparky. The Mayor’s right she sprung a leak. She’s been through a traumatic enough experience anyway with Mr. Porkpie hat here."

Skids pushed his way into the room. "The Mayor said you . . . " He started to laugh. "This is sweet."

"It’s not funny Skids I need you to helb Doc get him downstairs. I have to get somethink for by throat." I began to clear my voice again with distressing regularity that disintegrated quickly into a coughing fit.

"You can’t leave me here alone, Sparky. I’m not putting pants on him. You ever change a babies diaper? They always piss all over you right before you get it on them. I’m not taking the chance."

"Skids is here to helb Doc."

"What? I’m not touching him."

"Skids, stop laughing. We need your helb."

"You and I couldn’t get his pants on, Sparky. What makes you think Skids and I are going to have anymore success?"

"Well what do you suggest Doc? He can’t go on stage in nothink but his boods." I wheezed. "And take off those damn towels, no wonder you can’t get his pants on." I ground my throat harder. It sounded like I was dragging a steel shovel across cement.

Skids continued to laugh, he was becoming hysterical and had to push his trade mark swoop of hair out of his face. "What happened to Wanda?"

"Nod now."

Doc pointed to Alistair as he continued, "How do we know he can even play in this condition?"

"Because he’s been shid-faced at mozed of our rehearsals, thaz why."

"Just don’t tell my wife mate. I’ll be in the dog-box for a month."

"She’s going to smell the plastic on you," Doc teased as he tossed Rooster’s towels by the door.
Alistair got teary eyed.

"You mean to tell me Wanda and Alistair . . .? " Skids began to howl again.

"Skids we hab to sobber his ass ub. Think of somethink."

"I wonder what the kids will look like?"

"Skids! Please."

Skids reached into his pocket and retracted some change. He fished through the coins and plucked out a penny. He approached Alistair and began to force the coin into his drooling mouth.

"For God sake man, whaddar you drying to do? He’ll choke."

"Relax, I saw this in a medical magazine. The copper will help him sobber up. It acts as an inhibitor. Come on, Alistair. Open up. Here comes the airplane into the hanger."

"This is ludicrous." I growled.

"Sparky’s right you fool it’s supposed to be a quarter." Doc began to search his pockets.
Our drummer began to gag as the penny found its mark imbedded somewhere between is cheek and teeth. He began to make sounds like a cat coughing up a hairball. "CAUGHHHK!"

Skids tried to force another penny between his lips. "It’s for your own good old boy."

"Skids you idiot let me in there," Doc spouted with his quarter raised. He looked like someone anxious to make his three song selections on the jukebox.

"Stob it! Both of you. This is stoobid."

They stopped and turned to me in mid insert. Alistair gaged again, "CAUGHHHK!"

"You both hab no idea whad you’re docking aboud. We hab to get him dressed. That’s the prioridy here. Nod, can we fit change for a fifdy in his fuggin’ mouth." There was another knock at the door. "Grand Cendral Station! Whad is the world insane? JEBUS H. CHRIST! WHAD IS ID?" The words ripped from my vocal cords like rusty razors.

Rooster entered. "Guys, I’ve been waiting for you down stairs. We’re on in . . . " He spied
Alistair, slumped and sobbing in his boots with one pant leg trailing from the knee like a rampart flag in need of wind. "— Mother fucker!" Rooster charged forward and threw a punch at Alistair hitting him in the head and knocking him off the chair to the floor. He landed with a thump. The pant-flag raised. "CAUGHHHK!" There was a faint plink of a coin hitting the floor and rolling away into one of the corners where it wobbled until Lincoln gazed upward, motionless, unblinking.

Doc and I grabbed our guitarist. "Now is not the tibe." I hissed. "We hab to ged him ready to go on."

"He can’t play like that!"

"Yes he can. Rooster! Lizzen to me while I still hab a voice, God dab it! We hab no choice. We canned cancel now. We’ve waded a year to do this. We doan go on, it’s all ober."

"Sparky’s right . . . I think . . . the show must go on."

In a delayed reaction, the punch finally registered and Alistair let out a weak, "Ow." He was still laying prone on the floor like a cow that had just been tipped. "Was that my wife mate?"

Rage seized Rooster again and he tried to kick our drummer from his restrained position.
"Rooster! Stob id man! Dis is nod helbing madders." My voice was like verbal gravel. How was I going to sing? "Doc please think of somethink."

Again Alistair’s slurred voice ascended from the floor boards. "I think I’m bleeding. I can taste copper."

The intro music began to play from beneath our feet.

Doc sounded alarmed, "Holy Louie Be-je-sus! What the hell?"

"Fug, the intro tabe we’re subbose to go on. Skids helb doc with dis ass. We’ll see you down der. Cub on Rooster." I pulled on his arm. "Deal with him laider. We hab to ged on stage." My lungs cried out for oxygen as my vocal engine sputtered and coughed and my nostrils inadvertently began to close again, constricting any passage of air.

"Go!" Doc demanded, regaining his composure. "Get down there! We’ll think of something . . . Skids, where’s the penny?"

For further information on this manuscript and other works, please visit the Handmade Heart web page.

Friday, November 04, 2005

Slow subs and chicken nuts

Since we all had day jobs, we played when we could on the weekends and tried to co-ordinate our holiday time together for longer treks. Even though we had different vocations we were musicians first and emphatically maintained that was the true profession. Our roadie Skids on the other hand, was going through an identity crisis and had drifted from job to job in search of a new career like the wind was blowing him. He’d been a stuntman, a sou chef, a private investigator, and an exporter of horse semen. He’d even done a stint as a minister trying to start his own religion. It got as far as a few sermons mostly revolving around parables before the authorities shut him down. His current occupation had landed him some small rolls in a few low budget films where we saw the back of his head mostly. To us it was just another pylon on the long life road. To Skids, he was a bonafide actor and was adamant that he be perceived as such.

We were in the midst of performing a six in seven night swing that led us over the border and upon our return we were greeted by the usual questions. "Where you coming from? How long were you away? Anything to declare."

Doc had already pushed the wrong buttons by responding that he’d declare he had a good time. Everything was going as usual until the border guard asked us our occupation. Like dominoes in motion we rhymed off one after another, "Musician," until it was Skids’ turn. He paused, turned his head to profile, looked up slightly, extended his arm forward like he was plucking an apple from a nearby tree and declared, "I’m an actor." He even broke actor into its respective syllables with the inflection on tor. The rest of us melted our faces into our hands. It was easy to see what was coming next.

"Pull your vehicle into the second bay area gentlemen and go inside to the immigration desk."

We did as we were asked and dejectedly shuffled into the building as two of the border patrol began their inspection of our vehicle.

"Some actor," Doc scoffed, "You can’t even make a border guard believe you." Doc shot his arm skyward in mimic. "I’m an ac-tor. Je-sus, do us a favor Skids, for God's sake, please don't tell them you used to export horse semen. I don't want to be here all night."

In we walked to the stoic atmosphere of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of sterile cleanliness. Once inside we were questioned one by one in a small room of peeling pea green paint, on a park-like bench of uncomfortable wood, with handcuffs dangling off the armrest. Contracts were examined, personal effects were perused, documentation was run through Interpol, all under the watchful eyes of glaring scrutiny.

Rooster complained as he plunked himself down next to us and Chas was led away for his
turn at twenty questions, "They made me strip down to my undies and squeezed out my toothpaste. I was expecting Dr. Jelly-finger to walk in at any moment."

Bug moaned, "I don’t stand a chance in prison. I’m too small."

"Bug, we’ve done nothing wrong."

"But they always make you feel like you’re hiding something, Sparky."

Doc needled him, "As long as you left the tea bags at home, we should be fine."

Skids squirmed in his chair, "I have to pee."

"You can’t. These guys will probably go in after you and retrieve the urinal puck for analysis. Then we’ll be here another twelve hours."

One of the border patrol who’d been searching through our vehicle approached. He was a burly brute with a handlebar mustache. He walked with his thumbs tucked tight into his belt which only brought further attention to his bulging gut, bordered by his handcuffs and holstered firearm. He towered over us and his flared nostrils taunted us from above. "We’ve completed our search of your vehicle, and I found this under the front seat." He plunked out his thumbs and removed a small baggy from his shirt pocket.

"Looks like a twig from a tree branch."

"Don’t be smart with me longhair. I could hold you here a hell of a lot longer for smuggling contraband."

"Illegal horticulture. You’re kidding right?" Doc asked, as he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

"This could be from a bud of marijuana. All you musician types smoke it."

We were now joined by the Duty Sargent who also had a mustache except his was more of the push-broom type. Lip dressing must be standard issue. "I’ve looked over your contracts and I’m afraid I will need verification that they are legitimate."

"Call the club."

"I did. There’s no answer. I need the agent who signed them to come up here."


"She’s the one who signed? Yes, I need to speak with her."

Reluctantly I called Alice and informed her of our delay and legal troubles. It took an hour before she blew in through the doors of the building. She went into the office, talked to the Duty Sargent and emerged twenty minutes later.

"They’ve agreed to let you go," she said handing out our documentation like it was candy and we were the enthusiastic trick-or-treaters. "Next time have the proper paperwork with you, H-2's, the work visas, whatever, so I don’t have to do this again every time you play outside the country."

"Sorry, thanks for coming on such short notice. Hope we didn’t inconvenience you too much?"

Skids danced around until he got his ID back then raced off to the restroom before he’d be known as Stains.

Alice continued, "I was on a lunch date when you called."


"Don’t be. I was looking for an excuse to get out of it anyway."

"That bad was it?"

"He brought me a pair of brown cords as a gift John. Brown cords."


"Yeah that would fit a twelve-year-old. Probably got them on sale."

"Was he trying send you a message that he’s cheap, or a pedofile?"

"I don’t know. I won’t be seeing him again to find out. Come on, you guys are going to have to motor to get a decent sound check in before the next gig."

We entered the bay area where we found our truck in disarray. Cases were open on the ground like little coffins. Suitcases were unzipped, seat cushions and effects tossed askew. Panels inside the truck had been popped ajar, wheel covers removed, the glove box lay with its tongue out regurgitating maps, receipts, and parking tickets. Skids joined our association of disbelief.

"Skids since you’re the one who got us into this, why don’t you show us your acting skills and act like you’re putting the truck back together."

Tomorrow excerpt from: The deflated dreams of Wanda

Thursday, November 03, 2005

The wedding of Blood Monkey

Blood Monkey was the affectionate nickname for our light-man back in the Oral Blonde days. He was a young kid when Doc brought him into the fold, fresh and freckle-faced. He looked about twelve but he was a muscular little guy and fit right in. I don’t remember the circumstances of him earning the moniker, only that Doc just started calling him that one day, and it seemed to coincide with Bug’s simian pet suddenly disappearing.

After the band suffered its last breath and we all ventured down dissimilar roads, some of us kept in touch. So much so, when Blood Monkey brought a long courtship to fruition and finally tied the knot, he felt compelled to invite some of his old band chums to the wedding. Doc, Bug, The Mayor, Alice and I had all graciously accepted and Chas had signed up as best man.

We arrived and were seated together at a large round table in a corner of a huge ballroom, dimly lit and decorated with the usual wedding paraphernalia, streamers, flowers, balloons, gifts of all shapes and sizes and that air-conditioned freon smell of temperature five degrees lower than it should be.

With our invited guests by our side we chatted and conversed in a jovial fashion. I was in a particularly bad relationship at the time with a girl named Lara. She was hopelessly trapped in the eighties in hairstyle and mentality. Her overall appearance was well shy of being hot and her demeanor barely registered above white trash. In essence, it was a union that should have ended a week or two in. However, she had been in a debilitating car crash the second week and I couldn’t bring myself to be the asshole who broke up with her while she lay in a hospital bed or the ensuing recovering months on crutches. So here we were, still together a good nine months after it should have ended. She was a bad drunk and the open bar wasn’t going to help our evening any.

Somewhere between the dinner and the heartfelt congratulations of best man Chas, Lara had leaned over to me from her little boat of insecurity on the jealous sea, and the accusations had started. "You want to fuck that chick over there don’t ya?"

"Who, the mother of the Bride? Are you for real?"

The band had been defunct for sometime and it had been a while since Alice had booked any of our gigs. I wanted the chance to play catch up. She had been through a host of bad dating experiences until she’d finally found a nice guy who had accompanied her to the wedding and was in the process of bringing me up to speed.
"They’d always bring me gifts for some reason."

"Well you’re a very likable chick Alice."

"No, John you don’t understand these were unusual gifts, whipped-out gifts. The kind you don’t give to a girl on a first date, on any date."

"Like what?"

"Like washer fluid, mouse traps, dental floss, a big bag of screws . . . "

"...I see where that was going . . . "

"Oh it didn’t stop there. You want me to go on? Toe nail clippers, talking beer mugs, a budgie..."

"As in bird?"

"Yeah, sept it was the middle of winter and he had a pick-up truck. Tossed the cage into the flat bed and the bird still in it. The poor thing froze to death on the way over. Gave it to me anyway. Said it was the thought that counted."

"What happened to the guy you started dating the last time we were down your way? Rick was it?"

"Ah Rick. Yes. He was alright until I finally got invited over to his place. The wall above his bed was covered in various sized dildos. I didn’t know weather to sleep with him of go rock climbing?"

"Sounds kinky?"

"Yeah until the KY came out and he started greasing up his own butt. Handed me a strap-on and everything. He also had this fetish for shoes. I couldn’t get any sleep even if I wanted to. He was always waking me up in the middle of the night by trying to shove pumps with spike heels onto my feet as I slept. I couldn’t handle it. I need someone more down to normal, plus he had too much shit hanging."

"Too well endowed was he?"

"No, he had a lot of cold-sores."

We both laughed. "The new guy’s nice."

"Yeah he’s a keeper, treats me good."

Lara budged into our conversation, "Hey! Can I talk to you? Alone!" She tugged on my arm insistently.

"Excuse us Alice," I let myself be led away. "What is so frickin’ important?"

"I’ve been watching you from the bar."

"I’m not surprised. Go on."

In the background the DJ’s voice like the sweetest sugar rolled over the P.A. system out of the darkness. It said, "Let’s have a warm welcome for the Bride and Groom and their first dance together." Polite applause and the glittering beams of a mirror-ball, led Blood Monkey and the love of his life onto the dance floor.

"You want to fuck Alice don’t you? I see the way you look at her. The way you laugh together."

"Alice is a dear old friend Lara. She used to book the band. Now if her sister was here that would be different."

"Don’t they all look the same? Aren’t they twins or somethin’?"

"Quadruplets . . . "

"I don’t care if they’re quad-ra-pa-ledics . . . "

"You’re so drunk you can’t even say it."

"I am not!" she stated, as she placed a hand on my shoulder, more to steady herself than a sign of affection.

The DJ’s voice interrupted us once again, "The Bride and Groom have chosen a special song for this wondrous occasion, The Power of Love." He extended love, so it sounded like luuuuuv. The first notes of the perky pop song from Huey Lewis and the News, burst from the speakers. I glanced at Blood Monkey as he and his Bride remained motionless, their mouths open slightly in disbelief.

"It’s supposed to be Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Power of Love . . . idiot. The guy calls himself a DJ."

"Look at me Johnny damn it. Don’t change the subject and don’t you lie to me! You want to fuck her don’t you?"

"Look, Lara, even if I did, do you think that would be the smart thing to do with her boyfriend here and my soon to be ex-girlfriend at my side?"

"What do you mean EX?" She was becoming more belligerent.

Blood Monkey and his bride were still standing motionless as they were joined by various women kicking off their shoes and hollering as they shuffled onto the dance floor in stocking feet. Some of the women were of Titanic proportions. One must have hit an iceberg because she slid and fell on her derriere but was rescued by some passing ships and soon was bouncing up and down again to the rhapsodic thumping rhythm.

"I asked you a question!"

"Lower your voice. You’re making a scene."

"What do you mean Ex?" She was glaring at me savagely through grit teeth.

"If you keep this up Lara, you will be."

"Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?"

I felt my hand clenching into a fist. Would I dare? I’d never hauled off and hit a woman in my life. I’d never hit anyone for that matter, but here was this person nattering on ceaselessly with the most preposterous bile, and suddenly for a brief instant I considered performing a little dental examination with my knuckles.

"You’re going to dump me for that . . . that cunt aren’t you?"

"You WILL NOT! Talk about my friends that way! Do you hear me?!" Her eyes started to well up as I continued, "I can’t be around you right now. You disgust me."

"Don’t walk away from me Johnny. You’ll be sorry."

"Lara, I was sorry a long time ago." I thundered off. I passed Alice on the way out. "This ends tonight. Wait and see." I thrust my fist into one side of the saloon-type doors that led from the ballroom just as Doc came waltzing through the other. "Is everybody happy?" he yelled. He rushed to join the rotund dancing juggernaut of bare feet and nylons.

I walked out of the building for air and did not return until I had time to put my, It’s not you It’s me, speech in order. I guess it’s the standard goodbye blow-off that most people use when they want to dump someone without causing too much of a scene. This was, after all, Blood Monkey’s wedding and I had to be precise in my breakup surgery.

I had reached the end of my wits and was tired of it all. Tired of Lara and her attitude. Tired of her mental blowups that I could set my watch by. Tired of her drab apartment with the parrot colored towels hung crookedly over the rack, the leopard print throw rug, the ubiquitous wolf prints on everything from coasters to dishrags to designs etched in glass candle holders.

They howled at me from the bedroom comforter. They barked at me from the welcome mat. They yammered away from the closet on sweaters of powder blues, ashen grays and kissing pinks. I was tired of Lara and the whole jungle. Tonight it would end and I would march right back in there and tell her so. Another L was about to end up on the alphabetical pile of Ex’s.

When I returned, I could not find her anywhere. I located Alice cuddling up to her new beau in the hallway as they were preparing to leave. "Alice did you see my idiot girlfriend?"

"I think she had too much to drink. She went to throw up I’ll bet. I saw her disappear into the restroom about twenty minutes ago."

"I can’t go into the women’s. Will you do me a huge favor and go in and see if she’s still

"She didn’t go into the women’s. She went into the men’s."

"Sounds like her all right. Ok, thanks."

I walked into the washroom to the echo of retching and the simultaneous grunts and coos of bathroom noises in mid vomit. There was a smell of paper towels, wet with pink liquid soap, and the squeak of shoes on the tiles followed by the occasional banging of a stall door.

"Lara, that you?" The banging and squeaking ceased. The retching however, continued. I identified the offending stall and slowly swung the door in. Lara had her face in the toilet with her dress hiked up to the hips and her bare ass smiling at me sideways. Her dress hung in folds on either side of her legs like curtains off the stage of some adult puppet show. Her knees seemed tied by her black lace panties as if they were being held hostage.

Bug stood over her, his hand still on his zipper barely just pulling it to attention. There was another wretch and I could hear Lara’s voice from the bowl. "Why did you stop?! Don’t stop . . . waugh!"

"Someone’s here," Bug uttered.

Lara again from the bowl, "I don’t care, fuck me . . . waugh!"

Bug pushed by me and I followed him, letting the door swing shut with a bang.

"I’m sorry John . . . I was in here and she just barged in. She said she felt sick."

"Really. How does she feel to you now?"

The toilet belched, "Waugh!"

"I was just trying to help her throw up."

"I see. By pushing her repeatedly into the can with your penis? I’ll have to try that one day."Actually I was jumping for joy inside. There would be no need for the breakup talk now. This was perfect, but I kept my face in a scowl of anger and disappointment. "How could you of all people do this?"

"It just happened."


"I know Lara and I have had our problems Bug, but you should at least wait for the grass to dry before you turn on the sprinkler. You owe me Bug. One day I’ll remind you of that."


Boy I wish I had to take a piss right now. I raised my voice so that it roared off the tiles, "I see you decided to do the smart thing Lara. Have a nice life."

I turned away, trying to conceal my smile, and left them both behind. The satisfaction I felt was one of relief mostly, bordering on euphoric elation. The same feeling you got at the end of that long car ride as you stood in front of the urinal squeezing the hell out of your bladder with you stomach muscles until you achieved that emptiness through a steady stream. It was the slamming of your hand down on the snooze button for another ten minutes in blissful slumber. It was Rolaids relief quelling the burning esophagus and in actuality I owed Bug, not the other way around.

Tomorrow excerpt from: Slow subs and chicken nuts

Wednesday, November 02, 2005

The cha-cha never stops

Synopsis: They’re older and wiser but it won’t make any’s not easy being an Oral Blonde.

A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.
It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes a past friendship will somehow yield a future together.

We were preparing for our first foray into the recording studio. It was a high and exciting time in The Oral Blondes budding career, we had a new drummer, we had a slew of what we felt were great songs and most importantly, we had the fresh breath of new management. At the time Blake Cole was a manager just starting out in the music business but had already made inroads with some of the major record companies. He arranged a sweet deal with one of the biggest studios in the city. His primary band was there recording their second effort for RCA and we could go in at night to use the downtime after they left.

The studio was state of the art and the best money could buy. We could not contain our mirth and felt that we should repay the faithful who had stood by us as we forged ahead. So we invited friends, and family, and girlfriends, oh . . . and chubs, . . . and hangers-on. We might have well put up flyers. The turnout was larger than most gigs we’d played. Even Wires had showed up to witness the blessed event.

It was bedlam from the get-go like kindergarten at recess. Video machines were assaulted,
fridges were raided, platinum records were removed from walls and used as frisbees and people were strewn about the place like corpses on a battle field, mostly drunk in puddles of their own vomit.

In the control room the plush couches supported the bodies, in places two deep, and the mindless chatter that the onset of an alcoholic daze will induce. Someone even brought a monkey. Several times the sound engineer had to turn around and tell people to shut up between takes. The air was blue with the thunder clouds of a smokey haze and the sound console was a virtual bar of mixtures, rye, rum, gin, and vodka. I was busy mixing myself a new drink when the door edged open and Wires’ head slowly made an entrance. I was ecstatic and ran to welcome him. I put my hand on his shoulder and coaxed him in.

"Wires! You came. It’s great to see you man."

"Wouldn’t have missed it Sparky."

"What you been up to? Still with the old band?"

"Nah. It finally died its death. I’m in charge of the house-sound for the Golden Horseshoe now."

"That’s cool. What about the drawings?" I gulped a mouthful of my drink. Some spilled on the carpet and I used my foot to blend it in, "Still as creative as ever?"

"I make time to do them. In fact, the local paper in Beaton want to run my comics in the Saturday issue."

"The Beaton Path? Wow. That’s great! You should talk to the Mayor he works for a newspaper. Maybe he can get you an in with them as well. He’s a fair-haired guy, vegetarian. You must have passed him on the way in."

"I passed a lot of people on the way in, Sparky. What exactly is a vegetarian supposed to look like? There was a guy almost comatose on the couch. Is that him?"

"No. That’s probably Chas."

"Well, I think Chas fell asleep on the remote. The TV was flipping channels and no one was watching. There was another guy in a room with some half-naked girl."

"Now that sounds like the Mayor."

"He was eating something but I don’t think it was vegetarian. Oh and I think there’s some record executives here. I heard them discussin’ you guys out in the lobby before I entered."

"Record guys? Shit!" I looked at Doc who had been pushing buttons and yelling, 'bulk erase!' My eyes darted to the madhouse around us. "Everybody Hide! Quick!"

There was a terrible commotion as bodies got up and banged into one another in an effort to find concealed spaces in a room barely big enough to contain those within it. I felt as if our parents had just come home unannounced in the middle of the party they told us not to have.

Wires moved to the side and reached for a cigarette, as a girl I did not know crawled under the sound console between the legs of the stunned engineer. Four others ran into the sound booth and put on head phones as they crouched down in a corner behind a bass amp. The rest elected couch cushions for their cloak of invisibility, thrusting their heads under, and remaining partially hidden like ostriches. Rooster slept through it all. He was still slumped against the track machines in the far corner where he’d been for the last two hours after he’d finished his guitar pass. There was an empty bottle of Jack jutting out from between his legs like an erect penis.

Wires struck a match with his thumb nail as he leaned against the wall. He still preferred to use the old wooden ones. He lit the end of the cigarette as the door to the control room opened. It was our new manager Blake Cole. He looked around, shook his head, and silently motioned for Doc and I to join him in the hall. Despite the clamor and clatter of everything falling apart around us, Bug walked calmly by, toward the studio, with a cup of tea in his hand. Blake waited for him to pass, "What’s going on here guys?"

"Uh . . . We were excited to be here and decided to have a few friends in to share the moment . . that’s all."

"A few friends is one thing but legions of inconsiderate malcontents is another."

"Things may be getting a little out of control I’ll admit but . . . "

"...A little out of control? A LITTLE OUT OF CONTROL! Have you seen the lounge? It’s a mess! There’s a gold record being used to serve cheese and crackers! Someone threw shit against the wall, as in human waste, and there’s a monkey with the TV remote changing channels and jumping up and down on a guy who’s passed out on the couch."

Doc spoke, "It’s a gibbon."

"A wha?"

"The monkey, it’s a gibbon. Probably responsible for the shit on the wall too. Don’t know about the cheese and cracker tray, they are mostly herbivores, but definitely the shit on the wall."

Blake glared at him.

"Ok . . . I think I’ll just shut my trap . . . " Doc trailed off.

Blake thundered, "Just because you pay for the time doesn’t mean you can do whatever you please with it, gentlemen! I have one of the A&R people from RCA out in the car. I was bringing him in to hear you guys. That’s right! But this unprofessional behavior." He shook his head. "I can’t take a chance like that. This already makes me look bad and you worse."

"Blake I don’t know what to say?"

Blake held up his hand to silence me, "Let me finish. You have a golden opportunity to step ahead of others. It’s in front of your face and you’re blowing it. I think you’re going to look back on this one day and regret that you missed this window. In this business you don’t get too many second chances. You have to capitalize on them when you do. It’s there for those who really want it but if you’re just using it to play rock star then I have no sympathy for you. Go get a day job. Now! I suggest you get busy putting this place back in order. Understand! Spic-and-span, or it’ll be a long time before you find yourself in a situation like this again."

After his tirade Blake paused for a moment to collect himself. He tugged downward on his blazer and strangled his tie to center, then turned and calmly walked off.

Bug joined us. He sipped his tea and placed it back in the saucer. "There’s no place to sit. There’s four peoples ass’s sticking out of the couch and I can’t find my monkey."

Tomorrow excerpt from: The wedding of Blood Monkey

Tuesday, November 01, 2005

Handmade Heart

For the next five days I will be posting small excerpts from my newest manuscript Handmade Heart.


They’re older, wiser and more experienced, but it won’t make any’s not easy being an Oral Blonde.

A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.
It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes, somehow a past friendship will yield a future together.

The Honey wagon

There he was in a clearing by the road with a brooding wall of forest on either side of him, the man and his mullet, in dirty, gray, overalls, like an escaped convict who had tunneled out of the joint. He was squatting, bent at the knees, his ass jutting out toward me in greeting, struggling with a red metal valve on the side of his truck. He grunted and cursed in a way that was oh-so-familiar to me. It took me back to a place before the recording of time...well, our time anyway, a time when we’d been young and full of possibilities. He’d been fairly svelte when I’d known him back then, with just a bit of a paunch for a belly. However, to see him now, he’d really let himself go, trading in the Greek God for the fat Elvis and exploding in his overalls with no prejudice to direction.

He began to rap on the handle with a wrench that he had pulled from a red tool box, a case that was currently on its side vomiting screws, nails, linchpins and a solitary hammer.
The truck itself, was a mishmash of knobs, hoses and metal winches jutting out of the flatbed of a Hino amid twin Honda motors, the bookends for a huge steel tank. It looked like someone’s skewed vision where the future meets the disintegrating rusted past. A gentle breeze brought a waft of its sunbaked reek, a concoction of grease, oil and something disturbingly human. There was a bumper sticker holding the left taillight to the whole mess with the assistance of duct tape. It said "shit disturber," and I knew right then, it was him. It just had to be.

He hammered away at the valve, "Cum-mon ya frickin’ bastard-of-a-thing. Ohhhh . . . what elks can go wrong?"

"Wally! Hey!"

The man ceased his grunting and his actions and slowly stood up turning to face me, a full growth of beard hugging his mouth like a fungal infection. He shielded his eyes from the sun to place me in shadow as I approached. "Sparky? .... Is that you?"

"None other, Wally." I advanced on him cautiously, not sure if I should shake his hand. Who knew where it had been? Besides, he was also disheveled and sweating profusely giving him a translucent, sticky glow.

"Shit! Well I’ll be. John Sparky Malveen– Haven’t see you for . . . "

"Along time Wally. Let’s just leave it at that . . . and shit is right."

He extended his hand and I took it, dispelling my earlier thoughts of the man and his occupation like he was a leper or an accused pedophile. I was suddenly struck with the need to tell him everything, my reason for being there right down to the last detail, but I couldn’t– not yet.

"I hardly recognize you without all the hair." He snickered a wheezy laugh, grinning through his tanned weathered skin and bush of beard. "I bet you made some barber happy."

"I needed a change. Cut it off in a fit of depression I guess. Still have a lock of it tucked away in a drawer somewhere. Hey I didn’t exactly recognize you either." I began thumping his drum-tight, tummy like a ripe watermelon.

"You know me Sparky. I love to eat."

I gave him a cockeyed look. "What the hell do you have your nose into now?" I tapped the side of the tank on the truck that said, Gristle & Son’s Sanitary Services.

"Ah ya know? It pays the bills. I’m out here by myself, my own boss, nobody at the office bugs me. I get my route and I’m gone and it’s not as bad as it probably looks."

"Sucking the crap out of outhouses, could it look any better? So I guess that makes you what, a Fecal Wrangler or a Vacuum Stool Technician, maybe?"

"I prefer Waste Retrieval Engineer."

"Just what the world needs, Wally, more engineers, to balance the scales with the lawyers I guess."

"Hey Sparky, It’s people like me that keep your Johnny-on-the-spot sanitized and ready for use."

"That’s all right Wally, I have indoor plumbing now," I said.

"It’s not a glamourous job I’ll admit, but it pays all right and the fishin’s good up here . . ."

"...and you don’t have to go far to get your bait, I’m sure."

"It’s not like I get in there with a shovel, you ass. God damn it! It’s all done by the old Honey wagon here . . . ," he lovingly stroked the trucks’ main tank, " . . . with pumps and hoses, now days it’s a lot cleaner, a lot neater and a lot more practical."

"I can see that. When everything’s working."

"Exactly." Wally looked at the valve and kicked it. "Son-of-a-bitch! Mother-scratcher seized up on me. I won’t be gittin’ any more work done today."

"Don’t worry Wally. If someone is such dire need to use one of your . . . uh . . . plastic phone booths, I’m sure they’ll still make the call."

"I suppose. It’s too hot today anyways. The heat’s really kickin’ up the stench."

"I hardly noticed," I said, waving my hand frantically in front of my nose.

"Besides, damn kids got in this one here," he said, thumbing to a blue plastic cube with a yellow roof that was leaning slightly to the left. "They set the turlet paper on fire and nearly burned the frickin’ thing down. It’s all burned black on er insides."

"Oh yeah, It’s not like we didn’t do stupid things when we were younger."

Wally reached down with some effort and more inaudible cursing to collected his tools. He picked up a hard-hat that had been laying out of sight behind the rear wheel carriage. It was more of a pith helmet really. Wally said it was all part of the uniform. "Just make sure you don’t pith into the wind," I told him. A poor joke at best I know, but my weak attempt at humor was lost on him anyway. "So what happened to the electrical trade? That’s what you were doing when you left the band weren’t you? The struggle between ohms and amperage get to be too much?"

Wally informed me that he’d quit being an electrician to start his own business when the 90's were coming to a close. If you’re not working for yourself, you’re working for someone elks, was the way he put it. He’d started a little thing called, Millennium Outfitters. It was a company that provided emergency supplies to people in the event of catastrophes. "You know, water, non perishables, camping gear, small weapons that sort of thing," he said. But when Y2K never emerged and the world continued to spin with ceaseless regularity, Wally was left with a garage full of gas generators and sling-bows, as his business went south and folded. It actually sounded like one of my birdbrain ideas that started with the best intentions then crashed in a fireball of ruin.

After that he’d been looking for the easy ticket, driving around in old cars, (Beaters, he called
them), getting into accidents trying to sue someone for restitution. He’d even worn neck braces in court. But the money that he’d picked up in the insurance settlements had been lost in the aftermath of three brutal divorces.

"Are you sure you’re not up here in the wilderness hiding out?" I’d asked him.

Now here he was, away from any remnants of that life, driving the Honey-wagon and wiping his ass on the alimony checks every two weeks before firing them off in the mail.

"So you see . . . I just got tired of it all, traded in the Electrical Cherry Picker for the Ol Vac-mobile here and moved out to God’s green pasture."

"Hell’s half acre’s more like it Wally. There’s nothing around here. What do you do for excitement . . . other than fish that is?"

"Well . . . there’s not much to tell Sparky. It’s a simple life, I don’t need much . . . and there’s no stress. But enough about me, what brings you out here? Whatchu been up to? The last I heard you were at that place . . . "

"– It burnt to the ground."


"I didn’t do it. There were plenty of people in line in front of me with matches for that business. But you know what Wally? You want to hear something strange. I worked in that damn fruit store for years. I could have whatever produce I wanted and never felt the urge to eat a damn thing. Now that it’s gone . . . I miss the taste of a Bosc pear, which is really screwed."

"Why don’t you just buy a boss pear somewhere elks?"

"Bosc! Bosc! The brown ones!" I said, as if telling him the color would suddenly change his pronunciation. "Do you understand what I’m saying Wally? I hate Bosc pears. I absolutely loath them . . . the gritty texture. It’s like eating sweet sand . . . You know, If that place was still standing I’d probably still be there." It was more of a statement to myself than for Wally’s benefit, "Can you imagine me at my age still doing menial tasks like taking out the garbage?"
Wally looked at the tank on the truck full of human waste. "Sorry," I said, "No offense."

"That still doesn’t answer the million-dollar question, what have you been doing Sparky?"

"A little of this, a little of that. Right now I guess I’d say I’m an author. Wrote a couple of books."

"Really. Anything I’ve read."

"You read now Wally?"

"Very funny."

"They’re not published yet."

"I thought you said . . . ?"

"I did. I’m an author . . . just apparently not a very good one. I felt inspired, so I did it."

"So are you here to do some research on Honey-wagons, you know, for your next uh . . . unpublished book? God, the stories I could tell you. There was this old woman with fifty cats, a duck and a turtle and her outhouse was . . . "

"...Seems intriguing Wally, but no. I’m here for a different purpose, a mission if-you-like.
I’m interested to know what you think about it, in fact, everyone from the old band?"

"The Oral Blondes?"

"Uh huh . . . and you’re a hard guy to track down."

"You drove all the way up here to see me first? I’m touched."

"No. I said you’re a hard man to track down but I’ve already talked to everyone else. Doc,
Rooster, and Bug. I just need to know what you think about what I have to say? Perhaps, even give you an opportunity to come out of the wild and back to civilization if you like."

"So if I’m so hard to find, how did you know where to look, Sparky?"

"You mean besides Gristle & Son’s telling me you’d be here? A chance meeting with someone we used to know, Wally. Come on, let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you all about it."

Wally rubbed his stomach with admiration, "Now, you’re talkin’ my language."

Tomorrow excerpt from: The cha-cha never stops