Thursday, November 30, 2006
On one hand, health officials warn of E-coli, and a visit from your favorite relatives Sam and Ella if you pull up a bar stool and get it on tap directly from the cow.
On the other side, farmers complain of loss of taste and nutrients once the pasteurizing process is complete.
Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I don’t drink milk.
Tis the season for Debit Card theft. So much so, the banks are getting all Scrooge McDuck on counterfeiter’s by introducing a new electronic chip to cards for 2007. The Debit cards will be much harder to forge and save the industry/ consumers billions in stolen revenue.
Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I seldom use my debit card.
It appears some female celebrities alla Brittany, Paris, Lindsay, are in the Christmas spirit. They’ve taken the giving mood one step further with the paparazzi and the adoring public, by wearing short skirts minus the underwear, so all may catch a glimpse of a catcher’s mitt Johnny Bench would be proud of.
Do you know what I’m saying? A little whiff of Tuna Town, the winking pink, some clitoral bubble-gum.
Health officials warn this practice is not only uncouth, but dangerous— not as dangerous as unpasteurized milk mind you, but this is the notorious trio we’re talking about who have ground more sausage than Schneider’s.
Certainly someone like Jennifer Aniston would be ok. Her quiff would conjure up images of kittens and fresh baked cinnamon rolls.
Personally, I don’t give a rat’s ass. I haven’t munched on a decent cookie in some time. But that’s not really my call is it?
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Since Pamela's available again and Kid Rock is once again no more, you'll need to know a few things about her if you're serious. Nick Di Paolo is just the guy with the info. My favorite line was "If she had dysentery I'd follow her around with a waffle cone."
Monday, November 27, 2006
Man driving down road .
Woman driving up same road .
They pass each other
The woman yells out the window, PIG!
Man yells out window, B I T C H!
Man rounds next curve.
Crashes into a HUGE PIG in middle of road, and dies.
Thought For The Day: If only men would listen...
I would also like to add, if only women would give men more sex, they wouldn't have to go out driving and looking for huge pigs.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
chapter two - the limits
The agents said as long we had tits and ass up front we could get gigs, no matter how bad the band was. What they didn’t tell us? Until we became a better band with an expanded repertoire we’d be playing across the border in Quebec. This would present a problem, as I was the only one in our group who could vaguely speak French. In between torturing my French teacher in school I’d actually listened and could at least say more than, the sweater is red, and, doggie where is the chicken?
I learned the sets quickly. It was mostly bluesy stuff; Joplin, Pretenders, and ugh— Pat Benetar. Within a few weeks we were ready and loaded up for our first gig on a three month tour.
On our way, we braved hours upon hours in the back of the truck in freezing temperatures. It was a rented cube-van with tandem wheels and no opening between the cab and box, so I’m not kidding when I say I was riding in the back of that vehicle. There was only room up front for three. Wires drove, our illustrious leader Space got a seat by default, and Glenda’s voice had to be protected from the cold. As she was fond of saying, "You can’t replace a voice like you can a guitar sting or a sound-man." Which left Rooster, myself and Magic our only other crew member, to huddle under a pile of sleeping bags atop a pyramid of equipment with only the puppet show of our icy breath for entertainment. It was here that I began to bond with my freezing cohort Rooster, as beyond talking about sex, Magic didn’t have much to say.
Rooster had floated from band to band before landing in the lead role with Shock Alice. He’d not yet had the success, but he certainly was prepared for it. He was cutting edge haute couture, from the clothes he wore, to his rock-star persona, to his groovin’, yet laid back, on-stage presence. The guy reeked of cool. Although, in the back of our truck with only his nose poking out of his hooded parka and the occasional blast of breathy exhaust, he’d probably tell you, he felt more frozen than cool.
It was becoming evident with each truck-stop and the slow dwindling of the English language into Québécois, or a bastard offspring of the two, no one in our little group, other than myself, would endure this cultural language barrier. Sadly, Soup de jour, was a struggle. My God how are these people going to survive? They can’t even order food.
Even the undefinable attempts of our entourage to ask for the simplest directions to the bathroom was hopeless. "Ew eh la sal duh bank madamoyzel?"
I helped when I could but most of the time, eating was like a game of Russian roulette, pointing to whatever was on the menu and just accepting what came to the table.
"That’s disgusting. There’s a hair in my soup."
"Well Rooster. You did order the hair soup. That’s what, soupe de cheveux, means."
When we finally arrived at our destination, we went to work setting up the equipment while Space went to work finding a girl for the night. Upstairs from where we were playing was a desegrated strip club with male and female dancers. Space was quick to make friends with one of the male strippers who, at best, spoke broken English. We called him Go-go Boy, mainly because he referred to himself that way.
We spent time between sets watching our neighbors prance provocatively amid the blinking strobes and stench of sour draft. By evening’s end Go-go Boy and his half erect penis--- the product of an elastic-band around his member--- had procured one of the local girls, still in her le McDonald’s uniform, to be the willing participant in three-way action with our drummer.
To me, three-way sex was like ordering KFC. It tasted great once in a while, but you knew if you ate it every day you’d quickly get sick of it. What I’m trying to say is, I had no problem with these nocturnal activities. Or at least I wasn’t disapproving . . . until—
Space and Go-go Boy burst into my room while I sat propped up on my bed against a wall, quietly reading. They ripped up Rooster’s bed--- tore it to shreds actually--- and trudged off, carrying his mattress with an urgency of heros trying to break the fall of a suicidal jumper from the fourth floor. Fortunately for them, Rooster had been out for his after performance ritual of eating hair soup and unavailable to protest. How disappointed I was when I found out it was only to construct a multilevel contraption to make the logistics of their sexual experience more pleasurable.
Within minutes my fortress of literary solitude was a noisy buzz of muffled moans
and the disco thumping of a bed slamming into the wall next to me. As the decibel level increased my patience lessened. "That does it. This is war."
I stomped over to Space’s room and with pounding fist, and an ominous baritone, screamed. "Ou est ma fille!" or, "Where is my daughter!"
Go-go Boy had laughed like hell, but Space had not found my uninvited intrusion too
amusing. When I’d knocked, he had been at the mouth-end of what we called a tea-bagging session. The girl in her hysterics had nearly choked and swallowed his scrotum.
"God damn it, Sparky! It’s bad enough I’m always worried someone’s husband or boyfriend is going to find me with their woman and castrate my jewels. No! You have to come along when I’m in a very delicate position, to say the least, and act like a crazed father. Have more fuckin’ sense next time. Asshole!"
It was hard to decipher what had angered Space more, my disruption of their sexual bliss, or the fact the girl had taken the opportunity to grab her clothes and scamper away during Space’s tirade. Or as Go-go Boy so eloquently worded it, "We put her down side by each, but when we turn around der she was— gone."
Space gave me the cold-shoulder for the rest of the week. Not that I minded. I had already grown tired of his, there’s me and then there’s God, attitude when it came to women.
Besides, there were others in the band I could terrorize with my practical jokes.
"Space was such a dick."
"I think Un grand penis, is the proper term."
"Wires! Your French has improved. I’m impressed."
Wires shrugged and gave me a sly look, almost mischievous, the look I’d seen so many times before. He picked up a pencil laying helplessly next to his plate of toast and blew on the tip. "Too bad Rooster never learned to speak the language."
I laughed, reminded of my little tutoring session where I tried to teach our guitarist to
speak French. Rooster had been distraught. Three months in a foreign environment would severely hamper his ability to get laid. He begged me for a crash course in the delicacies of the linguistic process. Little did he know, my crash courses also meant you burned. Sensitive to his situation, I agreed to give him some lines to try on the petites jeunes filles. Rooster was an eager leaner and soon had enough memorized to carry on a conversation with a little miming. Maybe even get him to first base. He practiced his words and phrases all afternoon in front of the mirror.
Later the same night, he was ready to test his fluency on a cute French girl who had taken a liking to him and had been swaying back and forth in front of his side of the stage.
"I’m gonna do it Sparky. Wish me luck."
"Go get her Valentino."
With a clasp on the shoulder I sent him off into the lion’s den for the following conversation as Wires and I looked on.
The young waif smiled and answered, "Salute."
"Quel est votre nom?" (What is your name?)
"Cela est magnifique. Sally c'est un beau nom." (That’s magnificent. Sally is such a beautiful name.)
"Et vos yeux sont merveilleux." ( and your eyes are incredible.)
The girl again smiled broadly.
"Et votre âne est comme un melon circulaire." ( and your ass is like a round melon.)
The girl looked confused.
Rooster thought to himself, I’m losing her. I better bring out the ‘A’ material. He began to ramble off everything I’d taught him in no particular order. "Mon nom est Rooster. Je suis une tete chinoise de nourriture. J'aime manger le castor. Vous resterez avec moi ce soir dans la salle de bains. Et faire m'est fourni avec votre langue. Chalice du tabernach!"
Loosely translated all this meant: "My name is Rooster. I am a Chinese food head. I love to eat the beaver. I will stay with you tonight in the bathroom where you will make me orgasm with your tongue. Fuck the church!"
With this elegant sincere delivery, the girl’s face changed from delight to disgust and Rooster felt the heat of her hand, smack, across the face.
"Aller la secousse de!" or "Go masturbate," for those of you who want to know what to say when you’ve just been insulted in French.
I turned to Wires, "Looks like there aren’t going to be too many people talking to me this week."
"Rooster should have known better. When you are learning a new language, people tend to give you the slang and the profanity first."
Wires chuckled. "But still..." He was inadvertently beginning to doodle on a blank page. With his head tilted forward, his hair hung like a mop. He looked like he had no face. "I had this friend in highschool who taught me some Polish once." He said. "When I met his mother for the first time I thought I’d win her over by hanging some mother-tongue on her, if-you-will. I don’t think she was too pleased when I told her, my birdie has a nest, and I lick the syrups between the legs."
"Wires you didn’t?"
"You know, it’s amazing how fast you can run when someone’s chasing you with a kitchen
"You know it’s not like I didn’t experience my own problems with communication when
we were on the road. Remember the Bon Valon guy?"
The French love making requests. Following one particular set, a man approached me at the side of the stage. "Do you know how to play Bon Valon?"
I informed him that I didn’t know the song. In fact, neither did anyone in our group.
"No they are a band. You must know Bon Valon?"
I’m extremely knowledgeable when it came to music but I’d never heard of such a group. "Are they a local band?" I asked, trying not to anger the man who was becoming increasingly frustrated.
He gesticulated madly. "No! No! Bon Valon. Bon Valon! BON VALON!"
He couldn’t believe I was so stupid. How could I not know of his obscure, spoon playing, folksy lumberjack, inbred collection of musicians? BON VALON! What kind of screwed up band name is that?
"No! Come on!" He insisted, "Bon Valon. You must know! Alex Bon Valon? Eddie Bon Valon? Teacher au chaude? Les Jump? Run avec le Devil?"
"Ohhhhhhh! Van Halen! You want to know if we play Van Halen?"
"Oui! Yes, yes!"
My God man. I’ve cracked the code. Victory is mine. The blue wire is cut with two
seconds left on the clock. Three points from outside the line— Swish— nothing but net. I was so happy, I not only hugged the guy, I nearly got up on stage to announce to the world there
had been a major breakthrough in relations between two distinct societies. David Lee and the boys had brought peace to a world on the brink of disaster. Salvation is mine. Let us all bow our heads, pray, and sing, Ain’t talkin bout love . . .
The guy was happy too. We were both celebrating and chanting, "Bon Va-lon, Bon Va-lon, Bon Va-lon." We started pointing at one another in a, You’re the man . . . No, you’re the man, sort-of-way. Others had noticed our revelry and began to gather. Some with raised glasses joined in."Bon Valon! Bon Valon! Bon Valon!"
"So," he said finally. "Do you play the Bon Valon?"
"Christ Wires! How did we get through those years without getting our ass kicked, especially with Space at the helm?"
"You’re here. He’s not. That speaks volumes."
"But there was so much crap. So much hostility. So much wasted momentum. So much— "
Wires held his hand up to stop me in mid sentence. He blew out a big cloud of smoke. He set his pencil down and took another bite of his toast, which was probably soggy as well as cold.
He grinned wide and chortled. To this day it was so unusual to see him smile. It was like his well-weathered face would crack from the strain of it and I would be left to sweep up the fractured shards of visage with a dustpan.
He said, "Remember we used to name all our tours? Enter the Onion, Uncharted Clam, Menace in the Mouth— "
We chimed in unison, "Attack of the Road Chubs."
"God, Wires. What was the name of that tour where all hell broke loose?"
"The Hell on Earth Tour?"
"No— the other one."
"The Return to Nasty Tree Tour, I think?"
"That’s it. The Return to Nasty Tree."
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Friday, November 24, 2006
That’s it. I’m grabbing the clubs and heading for the links. But, before I go I suggest you head for the links as well. Check out the London Fog to read and think.
Thursday, November 23, 2006
See. That’s me there now, taking out the garbage and watching the hot chick from down the street walk by. Look, I'm waving.......Well...look closer.....Still don't see it?
Maybe I should have inserted one of those "you are here" arrows?
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Wow! Where did they find people so old?
Pictured above, the notorious Victorian serial killer Jack the Ripper was a stocky 30 year old with a moustache, receding hairline and bushy eyebrows, according to a composite drawing created for a British documentary.
Or in other words. Jack the Ripper was really Freddie Mercury.
"It's a popular misconception that nobody ever saw the murderer, that he just vanished into the fog of London," former Metropolitan Police commander John Grieve said in a statement.
I bet I would have made a reliable witness, because strangly enough, OBJ looks very much like the composite sketch of the killer. Although his M.O. only fits if you think of the Ripper as synonyous with flatulence.
One Ball Joe the Ripper
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Monday, November 20, 2006
I had only seen Daniel Craig play villains in other movies like Road to Perdition, and could not perceive he would make a good 007. My mistake.
Although Casino Royale was kicked from obtaining first place by Happy Feet--- yet another penguin movie--- it still finished in the 40 mil range at the box office and everyone, including myself, have been jumping on the, much crowded, Bond-wagon.
I guess I'm just used to my Bonds having a slurred Scottish accent, and beating women up in their private life.
Once again, I was wrong.
Sunday, November 19, 2006
Our manager used to say, "You struggle for ten years and then make it overnight." In my opinion you should add another ten.
"It was twenty years ago today . . . that Sgt. Pepper taught the band to play . . ."
Even then the struggle is ongoing, just as the battle between good and evil, conquest and surrender, or the veteran incumbent beating back the hungry rookie nipping at the teats. Years ago we all had stories to tell, weaving the roads of history, bringing us to that point in time. It was a navigation of the detours, dead end cul-de-sacs, and the cracked, black, asphalt of pavements in disrepair.
With every yarn to be spun however, there is always a beginning, middle, and end. Now, the beginning need not venture back as far as squirting out of the womb in a gooey mess of wailing pink flesh, nor the end, be the last breath of thought before embarkation on a cruise ship to the afterlife. This is about the juicy middle, the thick slice of roast beef between two slabs of white bread and the mouth-watering anticipation of penetrating incisors. Don’t get me wrong, this is not all about me. I, John Malveen, more than most, know there are many spokes to support the tread and keep the wheels in motion. My story isn’t so much about me as it is of another. Perhaps someone more significant, more endearing, more essential. The very hub that kept the tire spinning— and that was Wires.
Looking at Wires now, sitting across the table from me in the lavish surroundings of a suite in a prestigious downtown hotel, I realize how far the journey has come from its inception. The excessive truck rides. The long forgotten faces like memory apparitions. The endless barrage of cookie cutter towns with the same dirty gray brick buildings. All those years apart in nowhere jobs . . . and now, we were finally back together again.
After all this time, he was still thin and scruffy, with the same hair he’d had for as long as I’d known him. His bangs barely sat above his nose--- quite sheepdog-ish actually. He also had the same sullen look of aspiration, amid the incessant blinking of his eyelids, as if he’d not slept for days. The only differences in fact, were his hands. They were clean, no longer caked in grease and grime, with a distinguishable french-tip line of filth under his nails--- a staple of the hard work and heart ache. Good Ol’ Wires, reclining quietly in a plush leather chair. His legs crossed at the ankles, with his hands folded gently in a temple over his heart. He was gazing out through the huge balcony windows into the expanse of the city before us--- another metropolis waiting to be conquered. His trademark cigarette hung from a lower lip, as its silhouette of smoke twisted and gently ascended to the ceiling. His drawings, I used to call doodles, were spread out haphazardly before him on the table, pinned down by a half-filled coffee cup and a plate of toast with two bites missing. Wires, was lost in thought with not a care in the world.
I looked at him thoughtfully. "You know, we only roomed together once on the road."
"Hmm . . . you’re right. How strange in all that time?"
However, when you think about it, he was the crew and I was in the band. Only under extreme circumstances would we share quarters even back then. And back then he was Neville Whitmire, the lanky awkward kid. Not our Wires, the man of legend, the indefatigable god who could fix anything and got us through so many tight spaces, town after town, tour after tour.
I was Sparky Malveen. No one who knew me then called me Johnny. I was struggling to make ends meet and climb the ladder of success; a ladder I was beginning to think was leaning against the wrong house. Yet, here Wires and I were in the same room after all the, water under the bridge, (if you’ll excuse the cliche), waiting for noon. Waiting for the limo to arrive. It had a surreal air to it.
Wires and I always shared camaraderie. It’s not like we were jerk-off buddies, or anything. Frankly, we could talk on a deeper level. Be more philosophical than bragging in fine detail about the women we’d slept with the previous night.
When I first met him, he was extremely quiet, shy, introverted--- an idiot savant, I had thought. He was mumbling to himself as he plugged in cables, bused and rerouted lines into the main sound-console. The way his lit cigarette bounced up and down from his lips, it appeared to be the one giving inaudible commands and spouting curses.
I was trying to focus on the task at hand. I was auditioning for a new band and was extremely nervous. Not anxious of my capabilities, I was confident I could perform the material. I was however, self-conscious of the image I was portraying. After all, I did not exude the self-indulgent 80's rock-star motif of big hair and bigger ego packed into a svelte frame of pouts and poses. I was pudgy, with glasses, out-of-control hair, and an even more unruly mustache. More Ron Jeremy than David Coverdale if you must know.
"Fuck! Neville what’s the hold up?"
The drummer was the leader. Space they called him. He seemed a little pompous but it was only the first time I’d met him. I had talked to the singer Glenda to set up an audition time. Glenda was there, but she and the guitarist were now silent and except for a quick handshake, grunt and nod when I arrived, they hadn’t said much at all. Rather standoffish and pouty, and they both had the big hair too. The guitarist especially, had a plume of a reddish-blonde mop atop his head fittingly earning him the moniker of Rooster. Space on the other hand, had a thin, blonde hairline covered by a bandana, and was becoming increasingly impatient, revealing his displeasure. "Neville!"
"There has to be a loose connection here somewhe— "
"— Well hurry up! We have four more bass players to get to before lunch."
"This cable’s bussed across channel ten, echo, reverb, vocal one— "
There was a sharp screech of feedback and we all covered our ears until Wires turned down the volume.
"God damn it, Neville!"
"Ok. All fixed."
After a moment of glaring maliciously, Space took his throne behind a gold speckled set of drums. I thought I could see a faint glimmer of a smile at the corner of Wires’ mouth, as if he’d known all along what the problem was. He was simply letting Space know who was really running the show.
The room was small and soundproofed with purple, cardboard, egg-cartons stapled to the walls. There was a thick shag carpet, matted and grey. I would have bet, somewhere in its youth had been a creamy off-white. It was also bumpy. Probably with the corpses of bass players after their failed auditions. The microphone stands all stood slightly askew giving the room a campy Batman feel. I felt a bead of sweat start to form on my brow, but the room was also uncommonly hot from four flood-lamps fighting each other to cast shadows amid the tang of simmering perspiration and burnt dust.
"Let’s start with hit me and battlefield," Space commanded.
"If all we’re going to play is Pat Benetar, I’m going to tell Neville to bring back the
The drummer’s sticks gave us a four-count and we started into, Hit me with your best shot. The audition lasted five songs with Space grumbling at his band-mates between each number. "Glenda you were sharp on the end of the chorus. Rooster that’s supposed to be an augmented fifth in the bridge. Watch the tempo people."
"You’re the drummer," Wires said. "You keep the tempo."
"Neville, just stick to sound and leave the music to us."
Although I wasn’t totally pleased with my effort, I did manage to punch the rhythm with Space efficiently. After all, drums had been my first instrument when I was a child. They thanked me for coming and I began to pack up my gear. The next bass player was there. He was a tall behemoth with hair halfway down his back, who towered above us all. He had to crouch down to get through the doorway for fear of hitting his head. Rapunzel, Rapunzel, I thought as this carpet of hair swayed past me on its way to formal introductions. "Hair . . . meet Rooster". "Glenda . . . Hair". "Space, Neville, This is Hair". Followed by a game of crisscrossing handshakes, waves, and, "how are ya’s."
He plugged in. As I turned to leave, I looked at Wires. He was leaning against the wall on a teetering chair. He mumbled through cupped hands as he lit another cigarette. "You nailed the gig."
"See you tomorrow Johnny." He winked at me as he took a puff and blew out a gust of smoke.
I made my way to my father’s car parked in one of the many empty spots of the industrial complex. I could hear the muffled pounding of other bands rehearsing somewhere deep in the bowels of the building as if they were trying to use their euphony to delve to the earth’s core. From a distance I could make out the unmistakable squeal of feedback followed by the bellow of Space--- "NEVILLE!"
"How did you survive Space’s abuse all those years Wires?"
Wires brushed his bangs out of his face and looked at me earnestly through squinting eyes. He temporarily removed his cigarette from his mouth to make room for his coffee cup. After a swig returned the mug to its brown ring atop his drawings. He gazed back out the suite’s window. "Didn’t really listen to him."
"You know, it still blows me away that you were right about my audition. I thought the
guy after me was going to be the one."
"Who? Walking Hair Guy? Naw! I could see that you were the best fit and they knew it too. You were the only bass player who could remotely keep Space from racing through the
"Yeah but I was a tub back then. I was so concerned about weight...my appearance."
"Looks are deceiving. Do you know, that Space secretly came to me about most of the band’s decisions?"
"Yup. I made sure you’d be the one. He talked big, but most of the time, he really had no clue what the hell was going on."
Wires had been right and I got the call from Space himself, informing me that I was the newest member of Shock Alice. Three weeks of vigorous daily rehearsing and we’d be out on the road performing. Finally I was on my way up . . . to the next rung.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Friday, November 17, 2006
Ok if you haven't registered the sausage metaphor by now, there's no hope for you.
Thursday, November 16, 2006
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Now you can keep vigil for the United States Government by signing up here and viewing hours upon hours of desert, fence, and cacti....oh and perhaps the odd Sanchez making a run for the land of opportunity to pick lettuce for $1.50 an hour. It's all accessible on line.
I don’t know if I’d sit and watch something like this as if it were a Hollywood blockbuster or the camera in the apartment lobby. I imagine there are some out there who would. Patriotic Americans sharpening their knives and loading their automatics as I speak.
Perhaps if the U.S. of A. Is serious about this and want everyone watching in prime-time, then they should offer an incentive program. I don’t know.......maybe for every immigrant you catch you get air-miles, or a dollar off tainted Hershey chocolate/ spinach/......insert favorite E-coli digestible product here______.
Hey, I'm just trying to think outside the bun.
Tuesday, November 14, 2006
With winter coming, I thought this next post might be appropriate to warn you of the danger, soon to be lurking around every corner, when the mercury has dropped, the wind begins to howl, and the pedophile has begun his long hibernation.
Monday, November 13, 2006
So I’m back, and yes, I had a wonderful mini vacation. It was more fun than getting a new job and a phone number no one knows. However, the first thing I see when I return and sit down at the computer console is a story for a new digital camera. It films you as you are, but then subtracts weight so you look nice and trim to others.
Kind of like setting phasers to stunning.
Just think of the possibilities. You can now get rid of those grad photos of yourself on the dating websites and replace them with the new updated slim, fit, irresistible you.
Yes! Let’s all unleash our inner Nicole Richie and worry about plopping our true Orca selves down in front of that someone special later. We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.
Tomorrow: digital cameras that make your baby’s head look bigger.
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
I also feel you should know about some of the more worthy Blogs as well. Thrust them into the cold hard spotlight, as it were, naked to the world.
For this reason you should check out Linds.
You know the statement "cuter than a bugs ear"? That’s for Linds and I know many a man and a few women too, who would crawl across a room of razors just to drink a pound of her piss.
So check her out.
As some of you may be aware, I write a little on the side. Every now and then, I’ll slip in a link to one of my completed novels. Link to one of my completed novels.
My newest, is a work in progress that has held my attention, on and off, for the past four years. But now, as I gather a little steam and begin to roll the bolder ever upward toward the precipice, I find others also lay claim to it.
After Googling my proposed title, "Johnny Trigger", I found he is the name of a central character in a movie slated for release in 2007 called Wages of Sin. A movie where everyone kicks ass "Jet Lee" style. Apparently, he’s also a software game and an actor from the late sixties too. So what am I to do?
After scrapping all my previous titles "Johnny on the spot", "Johnny cum lately", "Here’s Johnny not so much", "Johnny Johnny where’s my Johnny", I finally settled on "Johnny Trigger" and I'm totally spent on ideas. You can see why I'm upset.
This also happened after the completion of my first novel, "Centre of the Universe", when a TV show pilot of the same name was introduced. But because it starred John Goodman I was never worried.
I can only hope they cast John Goodman as Johnny Trigger.
However, I don't feel I'll be as fortunate this time.
It's not like I expected that Geller Prize thingy for writting but since my literary hopes have been ground into a fine pulp for the moment, you can leave an appropriate alternate title in the comment section if you wish. Perhaps lay claim to a book that will probably never be published anyway. After all, the last time I looked, I wasn’t Dan Brown, or Stephen King, or Stephen Brown for that matter. So long Johnny.
But let’s look at this without the animosity, and the boo-hoos, and the, "all your crap is on the front lawn", littered with expletives.
I’m going to say something now I thought, never in a million years, I would.
I'm going to say........Federline is one smart son of a bitch. In fact, not since John Mark Karr, the guy who claimed he killed JonBenet Ramsey, then walked away free as a pair of double D's in a porno, has there been someone more brilliant.
In Federline's case, he'll get more than a first-class flight and 15 minutes of media attention. Palimony, my brothers. That's what it's all about. Try to catch a whiff of the aroma. Smells sweet, don't it?
What guy wouldn’t want to live the rest of his life supported by a rich sugar-momma. And after two kids and a sullied career, it’s an uphill climb for Brittany.
So kudos to Kevin. The smartest man on the planet....oh until 4:17 this afternoon when he does something completely stupid.
Wow! Today certainly was a goldmine of nonsense wasn’t it? 4 extra posts.
As always, there is a method to the daily verbal excrement. I’ll be heading to the Mayor’s hidden retreat with GIGC for some VIP R&R on the DL, and to plot campaign strategies for the coming months. See you Monday.
But before I go, I can’t disregard my weekly duties.
New this week: Kevin Federline- Playing With Fire
But I recommend Chicken Coupe de Ville.
And yes, Brittany already has his number.
Tuesday, November 07, 2006
Kind of gives new meaning to the term, "I poked that shaved ham with my beef syringe", doesn't it?
To err on the side of caution, a recall has been implemented. Go here to find out if the ham you slam qualifies.
What's next? I suppose someone will drive the Ol' skin bus into Tuna Town and they'll be recalling fish.
Monday, November 06, 2006
First they beat the Bears in Chicago, now this. The whole world's gone mad I tells ya. MAD!
Say, although we still have the Monday game to go, I didn't do too badly picking the games this weekend like a woman who knows nothing about football. I mean how many of you picked Miami and San Fran to win? But I digress.
Anyway the story's here if you care to read it. Sorry, I'm still waiting for the chocolate.
Sunday, November 05, 2006
0:05:21 Ugh! God that looks like it hurts.
0:10:41 Ok if it’s true what he said, I can’t say she didn’t deserve it.
0:18:07 Watch out behind you! Wow what a frickin’ idiot.
0:27:51 Nice tie-in to the previous movies. Cause if you haven’t seen them now you have to spend more money.
0:36:18 No don’t help the bitch. Run!
0:36:54 Ouch. Suddenly my nuts are tingling.
0:37:06 Strangely enough I’m hungry.
0:47:42 *munch, munch* What did I miss? Don’t tell me to shush you fuck!
0:51:19 Now that hurts.
0:57:30 Didn’t see that coming.
1:10:24 Now I have a headache.
1:13:43 Oooh! Is that a bone I heard breaking? GIGC won’t be able to watch this.
1:27:06 Ok so he was testing her, but she failed, causing the other girl to die, so he’d get involved and make the wrong choice and kill him which would in turn end her life, making it ultimately his fault— or maybe was it her fault? After all she didn’t pass the test.— but the other guy saw this all coming and set the whole thing up for Saw IV. He saw it coming. Is that where they get the title from? Oh I’m so confused.....or am I?
1: 32:45 No way! She was in the movie? I didn’t even recognize her. Was she one of the dead chicks?
Saturday, November 04, 2006
Seems I have more time on my hands of late. So, I’m going to shoot for a once a day Blog, or comparable to one third of my daily masturbatory schedule, until further notice.
Days when I’m feeling lethargic you’ll know because I’ll just post some mindless link. However, it is my intention to form some thematic presentations that will create some regular patronage like, "Holy Christ it’s pictures of Chuck Norris eating chocolate off a different animals asshole Mondays over at Strangedaze. I can’t miss that. *click*
For the diehards who find change awkward, even fear it like clowns, or midgets wearing diapers, I will endeavor to at least post the newly released albums and my alternate recommendations for your listening pleasure. Thus maintaining the weekend stapple you have come to expect.
New release this week: Foo Fighters are fighting the foo once again with Skin And Bones.
But I recommend The Handsome Beasts- Beastiality
I know, I know.....that's not Chuck Norris and you're asking yourself, "where's the chocolate?"
I said, wait til Monday!
Friday, November 03, 2006
To make matters worse, it was won by a woman who knew nothing about the sport. She hadn’t even heard of football until 2 weeks prior for Christ’s sake. She slaps down some dopey picks that no one in their right mind would make and....presto! Wins megga.
This week I have decided to follow her lead. Forget I know anything about the NFL and make my predictions based on sheer stupidity so that you and I, my brothers and sisters, may share in the financial bounty.
KC vs St. Louis
St. Louis’ uniforms are much more fashionable and stylish.
Take St. Louis.
Cincinnati vs Baltimore
I’m told the Ravens take their moniker from Edgar Allen Poe. The Bengals on the other hand, I’ve never heard of a literate tiger, have you? Baltimore
Houston vs New York Giants
New Yorkers have had such a tough time of it, haven’t they? God, I feel so sorry for them. While in Texas everything is so big. They think they have it all. You know what? Time to put those Texans in their place. New York
Titans vs Jaguars
All I know is, a Titan reminds me of a silly movie done with claymation monsters, where as a Jaguar is a car rich bastards own.....Oh I wish I was a rich bastard..........any hoo, you don’t get a Jaguar unless you’re successful so, Jacksonville
Dallas vs Washington
Cowboys and Indians never excited me, but maybe the Indians should win one for a change? There’s no place for stereotypes in this world......Maybe you should disregard the "rich bastard" comment from my last pick? Redskins
Green Bay vs Buffalo
I'm told quar-ter-back--- is that how you say it?--- Brett Farve has had such a tough time in his personal life over the past few years. Does he live in N.Y.? That aside, if I were on a desert island like in Survivor Cook Islands- oh that Ozzie is such a hunk- I’d certainly eat cheese before I’d touch Buffalo. Green Bay
New Orleans vs Tampa Bay
Tampa- Sunshine, palm trees, little boozie drinks with pink umbrellas..... New Orleans broken levees, devastation.....oh those poor people.... Tampa should let them have the little misshaped, brown ball all game, in my opinion, after what they’ve been through. New Orleans
Atlanta vs Detroit
Jiminey Crickets! This is a hard game to call. It comes down to Michael Vick’s ass. Man what a nice ass. Ok definitely Atlanta.
Miami vs Chicago
I have never been swimming with a bear, (can they even swim?), but I have with a dolphin and they are so cute and gentle. Miami
Minnesota vs San Francisco
At this time of the year who wants Minnesota anything? San Francisco is more scenic what with the market and the bridge and the trolly cars and the hills and all the colorfully dressed men. 49ers
Cleveland vs San Diego
Brown is such a drab color unless you have the right shoes and purse to match, but San Diego’s logo reminds me too much of Buffalo’s hockey team and that disgusting Donald Trump hairpiece they have on their jerseys now. I'll bet Donald Trump has a Jaguar. Cleveland
Denver vs Pittsburgh
OK Pittsburgh I’m told you won it all last year. Now it’s time to play nice and share with your friends. Let others win. Besides, their coach looks so mean. Does he ever smile? Denver
Colts vs New England
Isn’t Tom Brady just dreamy? And he had a TV show named after him. I never heard of the Manning Bunch? New England
Monday- Oakland at Seattle
Flip a coin. Too much else to watch on Monday night like Deal or no Deal at 8:00 PM, The New Adventures of Old Christine, Friends reruns and.....Oh! and Dr. Phil!
However, I'll bet her feelings toward Jews has been tainted somewhat.
Wednesday, November 01, 2006
I can't tell you how old he is mainly because you would be shocked by the way he so youthfully maintains his girlish figure, but let's just say, he's old enough to RENT his own damn car! And young enough, that he still gets a full election every four years.
Peace out my brother.