Monday, December 31, 2007

Tasteless cartoon of the year

Sure I could go back through the archives and pick out a cartoon that stood above the rest in repulsive humor.....or I could simply blog a couple of cartoons, so vile, so tasteless, I have purposely avoided displaying them on these pages for fear of the negative backlash.

In fact I vowed I'd never post them. So if I do can see my dilemma. I could be opening up one of those space-time-continuum thingies.

However I know out there somewhere, there's a bunch of sick bastards who really want to see these and hell, I've probably got the rest of you wondering what's so wicked about these posts.

Curiosity killed the cat.....

This year is nearly over thank god!

And for me, this pretty much sums up the last half of 2007.

5500 fucks in 55 minutes

Sunday, December 30, 2007

Drum roll please

Here it is my friends. My most favorite post of last year and probably yours too because it had you jumping for joy at Ol' Strange's demise.

It was sent to me by Bob Noxious and I got quite a giggle from it. Enough so it rules as my fave post of 07.

Click this and it will all be self explanatory.

Another drum roll please

Although I haven't seen him much because the bastard had me transferred to a remote office in the Congo, I would be remiss if I didn't wish the Mayor of Mitchieville a happy Blog anniversary.

So from all here at Strangedaze, (Mitchieville field office # 8754239): Dickie Sanchez, Bob Noxious, Jose Marrone, GIGC, Babosa, Yours truly and OBJ......OK maybe not OBJ....he's in training for the Great Wing-off of '08.....a happy blogiversary.

Now send us some hits! Or at the least food and fresh water. Dickie had to have his leg amputated after being bit by one of the wait.....OBJ bit him.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

HMH #23

Chapter Twenty-three : The Mayor’s orifice

Son of a bitch! Alexander lied to me. He said he called to warn us about the wrong directions on Thursday night. My head spun with accusations and improbabilities. That fuck Alexander can wait for now. I must call the Mayor. The message seemed urgent. He must have something important to tell me. I can always count on him for information.

Initially the hotel desk had answered right away and patched me through to the intended room. Now the purring of a phone unanswered continued through the line. “Come on Mayor pick up for Christ’s sake.”

Finally on the fifth ring a female voice answered, slow and groggy. “Yeah.”

“I need to speak to the Mayor right away. Put him on please.”


Jesus how stupid am I? She’s not going to know who I’m talking about. Before I could repeat my demand using the name she would know, I heard another voice in the background ascending from the depths of slumber. “Who is it?”

“It’s a prank call. Someone demanding the Mayor.”

“Wait. Don’t hang up. Give me that.” The Mayor’s voice came to the forefront in the receiver. “John, that you?”


“Jesus John, why so early?”

“It’s nine-thirty.”

“Not for me it isn’t. Wasn’t the area code on the number I left you any clue? I’m in Vegas you ass. It’s frickin’ seven-thirty and I had a late night assignment.”

“Yeah I know. Your late night assignment answered the phone. How was I to know I was calling you in Vegas?”

“ The concierge answering the phone ‘Caesars Palace,’ any indication?”

“Shit, I need to get a job like yours.”

“Yeah life’s rough.”

“I’m sorry I woke you, but I just got your message and things are a little out of control here.”

“I know, I heard. That’s why I called you John.”

“How did you know we were having problems?”

“I got an anonymous phone call Friday saying things weren’t running smoothly and you needed me to look into some things.”

“That means someone here made the call.”

“The voice sounded familiar but I couldn’t place it. John forget about it. The important information is, what I have to tell you.”

“I need all the advice I can get Mayor. Every time I think it can’t get worse, it does. Please tell me something promising.”

“I guess that would depend on how you take the news. The situation is not good. Have you heard of Russell Brock?”

“No, should I?”

“He was one of the partners at the firm of Alexander, Myers, and Brock- younger guy- an up and comer.”

“Griffin’s law firm? What about him?”

“He’s responsible for a lot of the firm’s heavy weight clients over the years mostly in the entertainment and media field- his area of expertise. He handled Wires Whitmire for one.”

“Griffin Alexander handles Wires stuff now. What happened to Brock?”

“He drove his sports car through a guard rail in Encino a month before Wires died. It was ruled an accident, but shortly after, Alexander and Myers divvied up the clients and Alexander took on Wires among others. Also, around the same time several large deposits were made to a charity foundation called Tykes to Titans. Does that sound familiar?”

“That’s the charitable foundation that some of Wires entitlement went to and more will go if we don’t finish here this weekend. Son of a bitch! What the fuck is going on?”

“After Brock’s death Wires filed an updated will with the firm. However, he was sick at home there was nothing more they could do for him at that point.”

“What were the changes made?”

“I don’t know I couldn’t find that out.”

“Are you thinkin’ this Brock guy was murdered?”

“No. I’m just speculating on the events with the information I’ve uncovered. Did you know Alexander is under investigation?”

“Investigation? From who?”

“From the IFCC among others. Things are not smelling like roses here John. Since the investigation Alexander and Myers have had to keep their noses clean. That’s probably why this is going the way it is. He probably desperately needs the money for something and doesn’t want you to finish. Sounds like he’s trying to squeeze as much dough out legally and then he’s going to disappear.”

That son of a bitch lied to me. “I can’t believe this Mayor. Why us?”

“Hey! Would you let go of that til I’m off the phone? This is important.”

There was a faint little animal growl probably accompanied by a love bite of some sort on the other end of the phone. “OK your honorable Mayor sir.”

“Mayor, we’re The Oral Blondes not Tom Clancy. I don’t understand how this is all connected to us. Surely, if you’re correct, the money from this venture is a drop in the bucket compared to the dollars you’d be talking about. Some other reason has to be at play.”

“You don’t have a copy of the will do ya?”


“Do you have the contract there with you?”

“Shit yes. I’ve been trying to get a close look at it all weekend but things just keep piling up.”

“Get it out. See if there’s anything unusual about it.”

I dug through the contents of my bag. The contract was nowhere to be found. Son of a bitch it’s been stolen. No wait! I took it out the other night but never got to read it because of Grub’s ghost. I dropped to my knees. The manila envelope was on the floor under the bed. Quickly I extracted the document from inside, and wedged the phone between my neck and shoulder. “Hmm, let’s see here . . . yada, yada, yada . . . Adjudicated by a third party in the music industry, expenses paid by Neville Whitmire’s estate. Monday the 31st in the year of yada, yada- I don’t know Mayor, everything appears to be in order. Pretty straight forward. Like Alexander told me. We finish the song by Monday, hand it over to be heard by someone in the music industry at Wires’ expense. If there’s something underhanded, I’m not seeing it. I was told all this verbatim.”

“I thought there would be something there.”

“How did you find all this out? You must have quite a list of sources?”

“Actually I Googled it on my lap top. I wish I had done it a few weeks back when things didn’t smell right then. But you’re all big boys. I figured you knew what you’re doing.”

“Obviously I don’t feel that way now.” I quickly filed the Mayor in on the current events from Grub’s hand to our discovery of Arsehole Party at the bar.

“Things are worse than I thought. Arsehole party? That’s a no-brainer. You’ll just have to make do with Grub struggling through the session.”

“My thoughts exactly Mayor. We’ve all had enough of that asshole I agree. But Grub’s hand is chewed. He can’t do everything we need him to do and we’ve only got one shot to get it right. We have today and tomorrow then we’re out of time.”

“Fill in missing parts with a sequenced drum machine.”

“We already tried. It didn’t fit the song. No, we need a live feel.”

“You’ll figure something out. Look John, I’ll continue to do some more digging this afternoon and meet you when I get back on Tuesday, but right now I think I should go.” He cooed. “Watch your back something is in play here we don’t have all the information on.”

I felt this was some kind of bad joke. Was Wires really dead, or was he playing an elaborate hoax at our expense? I sensed, come Monday, it would be laid bare by Wires Whitmire as he came driving up to the studio in a big black sedan. Strolling through the front door with a nervous laugh as he lit up a fresh cigarette. Ha-ha got you guys! He was going to point out the hidden cameras and the concealed microphones. He would expose the live audience in a room behind one of the walls. You’ve been punked. We could then watch in all played out again on TV and have a good chuckle.

That son of a bitch lied to me. “I’m going to call that fuck Griffin Alexander right after you, and get to the bottom of this. I have proof he’s lied to us from the beginning.”

“John, wait til we have more information. Besides . . . oh . . . oh . . . oh, yes, that’s the spot. . . besides he’s in L.A. It’s e-VEN earlier Th-ERE. You’ll only get Vo-hoy-ce mail. That’s if he’s in the office on a Sunday.”

“Thanks Mayor. Go get some sleep, or just go get some.”

There was a click and we were severed by dial tone. I returned the phone to its cradle and stood up to glare out the window of my bedroom into a day sunny and bright. A gaze into a world unconcerned with our current blight.

Doc’s voice invaded my daze from the open doorway. “What was that all about?”

“Same old, same old.”

“Do I want to know about the newest deep shit we’re in?”

“Not really.”

I watched as a yellow taxi cab glided up the driveway tracing the Bible Buick’s path and kicking up dust into almost a black cloud. It appeared to disrupted the peaceful solitude of the morning. It came to a squeaky wheeled stop in front of the entrance and the back door swung open.

“Besides,” I said. “We have far more pressing concerns to deal with at the moment.”

Two feet swung out and hit the ground in unison. The boots were new, but the design was unmistakable— fur rimmed muck-lucks. Arsehole Party had arrived.

Friday, December 28, 2007

New release this past year

I tells ya....this is one of the weekly features I really enjoy. Why? because it takes me about 4 seconds to post and then I have the rest of the day to myself.

Yet, looking back there have been some extremely funny album covers over the past year and it is difficult to choose a favorite. I will have to blog multiple choices and give this post another 30 seconds or so of my time.

Favorite new releases of 07

Thursday, December 27, 2007

It's all about sex

Many times this year when it looked like I was getting boring, I could always pull readership back in by posting something obscure and revolving around sex.

Blogs like how to stuff your crotch for the ladies, how to make your own condom dance party, the top ten foreign objects inserted into the human body or, during penis week, how about the guy with the iron schlong?

And don't get me started on 2 girls 1 cup. Although the song about it was hilarious and easier on the eyes.

The following was a survey I have posted for, vagina-card-carrying, partners in an effort to better myself and regain my lofty sexual prowess and my favorite.

1- Dear female: You have just had sex with me. Was it a disappointing experience?


2- During foreplay, which of the following breast-stimulation techniques did I employ?

a) The Tune in Tokyo
b) The Kneading Dough
c) The Soft Caress
d) The Obligatory Nipple Suck

3- You realized I was interested in having sexual intercourse with you when I...

a) Poured you a glass of wine and dimmed the lights
b) Came out of the bathroom naked
c) Put on porn "by mistake"
d) Announced, "It's not going to suck itself"
e) Drugged your drink

4- When I first moved my hand downtown, you thought

a) "Don't stop"
b) "Please stop"
c) I'd dropped a Cheeto.

5- Seeing me naked for the first time made you...

a) Hot with anticipation
b) Jealous of my boobs
c) Ask whether you could braid my back hair
d) Wish you had a smaller vagina

6- When you were kind enough to give me oral attention, I...

a) Made sure to return the favor later in the evening
b) Grabbed your ears as if I was hoisting the Stanley Cup
c) Repeatedly shouted directions at you
d) Purposefully misled you about the timing of my climax

7- I treated your clitoris like it was a:

a) Spittoon
b) Speed bag
c) Delicate mandolin
d) Paper triangle football

8- Which words best describe my penis?

a) Punishing
b) Nice
c) Disappointing
d) Weird
e) What penis?

9- In my mind, the sex lasted for hours. In reality, it took up:

a) 1 min. - less than 2 min.
b) 2 min. - less than 3 min.
c) 3 min - less than 4 min.
d) Greater than 4 min.

10- How many orgasms did you have?

a) Multiple
b) One
c) Zero
d) One - in the bathroom afterward riding my electric shaver.

11- Over the course of the night, the most inappropriate thing I tried to use on you was...

a) A cheesy pickup line
b) A Black Mambo vibrator with crocodile ribs
c) The shocker
d) The sleeper hold
e) The Dirty Sanchez

12- Did I say anything embarrassing at the point of the orgasm?

Yes, and here it is (please spell phonetically in the comment box)

13- During our five minutes or less of intercourse, how many positions did I bust out?

a) 1
b) 2 - 3
c) 4 - 6
d) 7 or more
e) You don't know. The pain of your ankles up behind your ears was too excruciating.

14- You cried during intercourse. Why?

a) I was crushing you
b) I was pulling your hair
c) It was just that big
d) I brought back painful memories of that time you were with your uncle in the woodshed.
e) It wasn't tears - it was my sweat that had fallen onto your face

15- Immediately after finishing our act of lovemaking, I...

a) Tried to high-five you
b) Fell asleep on the wet spot
c) Cuddled you attentively
d) Turned the TV back on so I could watch Heroes

16- What best describes the view you had when you woke up?

a) A sleeping Adonis
b) A puddle of drool
c) My Star Wars bedsheets
d) My best friend sneaking out from his hiding place in the closet with the video camera

Thank you for participating in this survey. Please leave your answers in the comment box and I promise I won't comment on your box.

Honourable mention for sex post of the year:

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

All I wanted for Christmas was more Pottahawk

Not exactly what I had in mind.

You're getting warmer......

Now that's more like it.

But since I can't have it, I'll take the opportunity to start a week of regurgitated material from the past year and tell you these posts are somehow funny and deserving of an encore on the strangedaze blog.

You know what? You might as well consider today as the first day of all that, with my fave pics from Pottahawk '07 and my fave Youtube from last year......this gem, brcause my first choice "Dick in a Box" is no longer available.

Man, this is begining to resemble boxing day.

Tuesday, December 25, 2007

Monday, December 24, 2007

The rumors of my death are greatly exaggerated

Twas the night before Christmas and I have a humorous story to tell.

First ting you should know is never let GIGC mix you a drink. On an evening over the last weekend, I forgot the golden rule and allowed GIGC to make me, not one, but two Caesars spicy as hell.

By the time I was finished the second beverage the 1/2 bottle of vodka had kicked in and I was numb. In fact I said to GIGC, "I'm numb", or "urrrrghhhh"- something to that effect. Perhaps I was even drooling.

The important thing is, she got the message and proceeded to text the humor of my situation with a mutual friend of ours

Second thing you need to know is GIGC is not high on dropping symbols and text-lingo in her ;-)

So all our friend gets is, "Strange is numb!"

We started to watch a movie....well, GIGC watched, I was near comatose and........oh...

The third thing you need to know is, never interrupt GIGC in the middle of a movie. Which is exactly what our friend did when she got the text.

GIGC: "Hello!"

MF: (It stands for Mutual Friend not what you're thinking.) "It's me MF."

GIGC: "Can I call you back? I'm busy right now."

MF: "Is Strange OK?"

GIGC: "Yeah, he just had two Caesars." and she abruptly hung up.

Except MF didn't hear "Caesars", she heard, "Seizures", and began to panic.

Within minutes everyone from friends to the local undertaker were calling to get an update on my deathly prognosis. I half expected paramedics to bust through the door at any given second to administer CPR to my groggy, drooling ass and don't be surprised if this shows up in one of my books somewhere in the future.

Merry Christmas to all bloggers and readers and to all a good night.

Tasteless cartoon of the week

Saturday, December 22, 2007

HMH #22

Chapter Twenty-two- Sunny side up

The dream always ended the same way— our career in tatters crushed by cruel fate. Although Blake Cole left long before the night ended, and chose to tell us we, "sucked", at a later date, there he was in the dream with his proficient little laugh, every hair in place like it had been cast from a mold. He guffawed, and criticized, lambasting our performance, turning his back on us and sealing our doom forever. Labeled as losers and wannabes, a hurdle in the way of achievement, it always tripped us up with the finish line in sight. In the vision, there was always the twisted, morphed faces of anguish, sadness, and self-doubt emerging slowly from the shadows offering up condolence. It was a funeral pall, where we’d been buried alive by our own folly: Arsehole Party still spilling his guts in the corner— the empathy from the haunting eyes of our crew— Alice and her siblings— Wally just beginning to show the emergence of his dough-boy form— Apples as stylish as ever, and Wires who had been there to witness it all, from first song, to set’s end. He had seen the aspirations die that night, in a blink of his eyes between cigarettes, before the volleys of blame and condemnation were ever fired across our prow. Perhaps it was pity setting things in motion, or had he simply felt we deserved a better end? But we were here at Faith Sound now because of it. A second chance to correct the past- set things on their proper course. If only in the smallest recesses of his mind, Wires had started to lay the foundation for us on that night.

Tonight the dream had been vivid and more explicit in ways. It had clawed its way to the surface of reality from the world of unchangeable destiny and happenstance. I half expected to wake with a microphone seized in my clenched fist ready to bash the nearest skull in frustration, or out-and-out anger.

The mundane vision had twisted toward the end. It had warped to a unusual variance. It had played out as I had mentioned, but suddenly at the end, I found myself in possession of my voice. It was strong and loud as if my vocal cords had suddenly been cleansed of sickness. It rang with a crystal clarity. It boomed, and rose above the catcalls of laughter. It pierced the looks of revulsion, and whispering discontent. I laid into Blake, Arsehole Party and all the nay sayers. I even called Wanda a cheap inflatable whore. My words scorched into them like a branding iron on supple pink flesh. If it was over, I was going out with guns blazing and all would perish in my wake. No crevice was safe from penetration by my verbal fornication. Years of pent-up frustration and failure bubbled to the surface in a steaming hot spring of venom and expletive filth you would not kiss the ass-end of a cat with. They stood unable to break free of my diatribe. Smoking and burning from my words until they remained nothing more than pyramids of baked ash— cracked and blackened in the embers. A wind caught their remains, and in a flash of blinding light, they were gone. Blown to the four winds like the spores of a dandelion, swirling in a vortex of my smug satisfaction.

I awoke. It was morning. I looked at the clock. Ten minutes after nine. I fought through the remaining cobwebs of the hideous dream. Quickly I got dressed and headed out of the room. The house was silent. Everyone else was still asleep and despite the day that lay yawning before us, there was a serene calming atmosphere in it. The sun was rising in glorious splendor just as it had done for millions of years. It reduced all recent dubious events to a level of insignificance, like dead skin replaced by new cells.

I looked out the kitchen window, while I prepared some coffee. Amid full arm stretches, I spied Miss Agnes in her Sunday best. She was dressed in a wide, white, laced, brim hat and a flowing white sun dress. She stood facing the glowing ball of morning light as if energized by its effulgence. She held dear to an equally white bible with a red tassel that found solace at her breast. She embraced her little bible town with loving eyes. Reaching down she fondly turned a statuette of The Virgin Mary cradling yet another baby Jesus toward the beacon of radiant gold as a large brown Buick wound its way up the driveway from a cloud of dust. Florence joined her sister and waited for the hulking beast on wheels. It pulled up and rolled to a stop beside them. Inside, the car were Sunday morning church goers, women desperately fanning themselves beneath the brims of huge floppy laced hats not unlike those sported by the bible thumping siblings. The back doors swung open like the reaching arms of the Lord, and Agnes and her sister Florence squeezed into the encompassing bosom of the hat-filled car. I was reminded of clowns in the circus, as the Buick circled around and departed down the road, from whence it came. The vehicle filled with a variety of pastel chapeaus sailed off like an Easter basket of eggs, sunny-side up— positive, full of faith and forgiveness. It was a total contrast to my inclination. I looked on until it was engulfed in a haze of dust, dirt and gravel.

As Miss Agnes and her disciples faded from view, Suds wrestled my gaze away from the window. “You guys got in late last night. did you fix your drummer problem?”

“No, not really. Honestly Suds, I don’t know what we’re going to do. I’m not sure Doc and I decided what was best for the band last night. I think we may have cut our own throats by not following our initial intentions.”

I thought back to the previous night. It was a blur, but I do remember Doc asking what we were going to do and me responding, "whatever we have to". Blake Cole would have been so proud of me, beneath his molded hair atop a puddle of ash, doing what it took no matter what, even after I tore him a new asshole in my dream. We hadn’t even told Wally of the evening. I’m not sure why? After all, out of all of us, he wouldn’t have a problem either way. Letting Arsehole Party sit in, or continue on with Grub the invalid dropping his sticks every third beat. It made no difference to him. He was long gone from the Oral Blondes when the shit had gone down. Out of all of us, Wally was Switzerland— neutral, rational and undecided.

Suds once again broke the silence with his high-pitched squeak. “Things have a way of working themselves out. I’m sure it’ll all come together . . . ”

I looked down at him. “ . . . or all fall apart. Excuse my pessimism but I’m not exactly feeling positive right now.”

“With all that has happened to you that’s understandable,” the little man said. He reached up and felt blindly around the counter top for a mug. I pushed one into his stubby fingers and poured him a cup of black java. He nodded in appreciation and meandered over to the table cupping his gigantic mug with both hands. He climbed aboard a chair and released a newspaper from its elastic, thrusting it open before him.

“Where’s your huge apprentice today?”

“He goes to church with Miss Agnes on Sunday.”

“I didn’t see him out there.” Not that he could get into that car anyway."

“No he goes earlier. The Reverend picks him up. He usually has a few jobs around the church that need doing and Tiny- ”

“-I know, Tiny likes to help.”

“Exactly . . . Oh, listen, I almost forgot. Someone called for you last night.”

“Who?” Griffin Alexander? The Mechanic? Is my car’s ready? The ghost of Wires Whitmire? Who?

“He said it was the Mayor. Said it was urgent and you’d understand.”

“The Mayor called? Here?”

“I’m impressed. You know the Mayor? Which city?”

“It’s a nick name he’s not really the Mayor.”

“I see. Here’s a number where he said he could be contacted.” Suds reached into his shirt pocket and tweezed out a small folded piece of paper. He placed it on the table for my leisure like a Chinese finger trap. I picked up the note and opened to view the exchange. With all the long distance charges thank God Wires is paying for this. I’m a pauper.

“I’ll get the others up and start getting the tracks cued up.”

“Finish your coffee first. And Suds . . . Just wake Doc and Wally. Let the others sleep for now. Too many cooks you know . . . ”

“I hear ya.”

Then I realized something I wanted to ask him. I turned to Suds as he was sitting inadvertently blowing on his cup between sips and searching for the sports pages. His little legs swung from his perch like a child on a swing waiting to be pushed. “Suds how come you didn’t tell me about the calls we had Thursday night before we got here.”

Suds cocked his head to the side, a look of confusion on his face. He set his mug down. “Calls? there weren’t any calls for you on Thursday.”

Friday, December 21, 2007

New release this week

This gift giving season why not give the gift that says, "I'm not really crazy about your sorry fact, I'm hoping I don't have to see you again until next Christmas if ever!" Give them, Happy Holi-dee by Lenny Dee

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

Xmas bloockbusters we didn't see

With the overwhelming success of I Am Legend at the box office last weekend I thought it might be cool to post another movie that didn't quit make the grade for your holiday dollars.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

Merry Ho-Ho from Private Sector

And to prove how much we love the yule tide season, here are some pictures of us when we were young on Santa's knee.

Merry Christmas from Stuart (guitar/ vox)

Bob (keyboards)- Yes, he still has the outfit.

Brian (drums/ vox)

Don Bon (bass/ vox)

Strange (vox)

And let us not forget our light guy extraordinaire- Blood Monkey.

Monday, December 17, 2007

Tasteless cartoon of the week

Yup, that's tasteless all right......even for me.

Saturday, December 15, 2007

Christmas by the numbers

Don't ask me why I'm posting this early. By all rights I should still be in a river of drool on my pillow after another incredible annual Christmas party at Babosa and OBJ's where I survived more Irish Car Bombs than a Belfast deli. However in an attempt not to push my brain to overload I will keep it simple. In the spirit of Christmas I thought it might be nice to do a numbers strictly related to the yule tide here goes.......

6 Christmas movies or specials we'd like to see.

The 10 most annoying Christmas songs of all time. Is Christmas Vacation in there? Really it's only annoying after GIGC sings it for the 50th straight time.......WTF the link isn't working?

Please accept my apology and this link to Robot Chicken instead.

The 10 farts of Christmas.....OK I realize I'm stretching now.

Top 10 woman's mud wrestling videos. Hey, I don't know about your Christmas but this is mine.

HMH #21

Chapter Twenty-One- The deflated dreams of Wanda

I puffed and wheezed as Doc and I raced with renewed vigor to the dressing room hoping 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 Arsehole Party into the dressing room closet and out of his pants. She was in his arms in post coital acquiescence. Alastair’s spectacles sat askew on his nose and his porkpie hat looked more like a yarmulke crushed into a pillow between his head and the wall.

“Forget the kiss. I think murder is more appropriate Sparky.”

“I think I’m gonna be sig to my stomach.” I said between nose drips.

Alistair looked up at us and giggled. It was a hideous chortle. It had a gurgling sound to it, and the smell of cheap liquor mixed with 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 with calm authority. “Twelve minutes guys.”

“Je-sus! Twelve minutes. Fuck me!”

“I wouldn’t say thad in frunt of our present 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 with gapping mouth. “Alistair you’re not married,” Doc assured.

He wouldn’t hear of it and continued to sob. “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 at Slowhand’s.”

“It’s all righd Alistair.” I tossed Wanda across the room. She floated effortlessly and landed next to a coat rack by the door. “Look the other woban’s gone. Doc helb me get him ub ok. . . Doc? Come on! Now!”

Doc was wrapping a couple of Skunk’s extra stage towels around his hands. “I’m not touching his sweaty bulbous body, Sparky. Who knows what kind of cooties he has. I’ve already been accosted by a homeless guy tonight and I’m not risking further injury.”

“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.”

“Unfortunately we already noticed that.” Doc grunted.

We struggled to get him out of the closet and on a nearby chair. Alistair slumped in the seat 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. Explains a lot, don’t it?” 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 it. 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 ice cream, Sparky. Get another lozenge.”

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

Arsehole Party 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. Even under the towels surrounding his fist I could see Doc wasn’t kidding, his hand really did look swollen.

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. He poked Wanda between mouthfuls of ice cream with his wooden spoon. “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 plastic utensil 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 Arsehole Party’s request and cradled his small dish of ice cream to the side, 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 an uncooperative Arsehole Party and his other pant leg. No sooner had the door closed behind the Mayor, it opened again and a girl pushed her way in.

“Oh my . . . what’s wrong with him.”

“He’s drunk Alice.”

“I’m Phyllis. Alice is down stairs waiting for you. She sent me up to see what’s going on. People are getting restless.”

“I knew thad.. Phyllis I need you to do somethink for me.”

Alistair started to drool as he spied Phyllis. “Sweet visions of Venus.”
Doc cautioned him. “There’s no more time for that now. Settle down or I swear to God I’ll hit ya with my good hand.”

“Phyllis I need you to fine Skunk and don’t let her cub ub here. Tell her we’ll be there soon, but under no circubstanzes is she to cub ub here. Understand?”

Doc responded dryly. “Does anyone understand what you just said?”

“Oh, OK.”

“Thag you berry much.”

She scurried out of the room.

“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 worrisome spine injury. She began to deflate under the chair which no longer propped her up faithfully 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. “is sweet.”

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

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

“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 whad do you suggez 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 ged his panz 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 Arsehole Party 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. He tossed Skunk’s towels by the door.

Alistair got teary eyed as Skids began to howl again. “You mean to tell me Wanda and Alistair . . .?”

“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 old boy. 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.

Arsehole Party 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.”

“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. Arsehole Party 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.

Skunk entered. “Guys, I’ve been waiting for you down stairs. We’re on in . . . ” She spied Arsehole Party, slumped and sobbing in his boots with one pant leg trailing from the knee like a rampart flag in need of wind. “— Mother fucker!” Skunk 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. Skunk! Lizzen to me while I still hab a voice, God dab it! We hab no choice. We can't cancel now. We’ve waded a year to do this. We don't 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 Skunk again and she tried to kick Arsehole Party from her restrained position.

“Skunk! Stob id! 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 Skunk.” I pulled on her arm. “Deal with him laider. We hab to ged on stage.” My lungs cried out for oxygen as my vocal engine sputtered and coughed. My nostrils inadvertently began to close tighter, constricting any passage of air.

Doc regained his composure. “Go!” He demanded. “Get down there! We’ll think of something . . . Skids, where’s the penny?”


Skunk and I stood on stage in the darkness. Sheer terror hijacked our emotions while we waited for the others. The crowd before us grew restless as the intro tape faded and I coughed in echo through the microphone.

Suddenly, emerging from the shadows we saw three figures approaching. Doc had an arm and escorted a toga clad Arsehole Party to the stage while Skids followed behind, holding the tail end of what had been a curtain over the window in the dressing room. It was now wrapped around our drummer and fastened with duct-tape to hold it in place. Skids smiled proudly like he was holding the train in a wedding procession behind a hideous bride on the arm of her father. Together they passed through the stunned amazement of onlookers, Skunk and I included.

“Holy Christ. What the fuck is this?” Skunk whispered. Surely she echoed the rustling mumble from the audience.

“Here comes da bride,” I responded. I sent another cough echoing through the P.A. system.

Arsehole Party’s makeshift garment snagged on one side of the stage’s lighting and imagery, knocking a good portion of it over with a crash. It sent up a poof of smoke like an ascending thunder cloud. The panic of a night disintegrating before our eyes jabbed my gut like a blade of hot steel. I was burning from the humiliation of it. There would be no escape from this hideous evening now. They got him to the stage and plopped him behind his drum kit like a rag doll. Skunk looked absolutely disgusted, I swallowed hard as beads of sweat dripped from my forehead and Doc shrugged and took his place behind the keyboards. Here goes nothing. Skids placed sticks in Alistair’s hands, jammed the headphones on his beet-red melon, and left the stage with a salute to the audience. Doc began the click track as our drunken percussionist counted us in to our first song of the night.

I’d really like to blame Arsehole Party for that night. His selfish indulgement had started the landslide and eradicated any prayer of deliverance, but on stage it was the rest of us who looked unnerved and shaken.

Surprisingly, Arsehole Party performed with convincing force. He blasted into the opening number. I could hear him from behind me. “Bam! Bam! Bam!” With the occasional, “Caughhhhk,” he trudged through like a consummate professional. He played better than I’d ever heard him. Too bad the rest of us were now off our game. Skunk appeared distracted, as she stood lifeless with a look of dour disgust across her face. Anger seeped from her every pore. The only movement she made was between songs as he wiped her face with a towel reeking strangely of sweat and plastic. Doc hacked through one mistake after another as he tried to play his keyboard with a right hand resembling a ham. He glanced around nervously like a fugitive moments away from being apprehended. And my voice blew out three songs into the set, rendering me to a monotone hoarse whisper ala Bob Dylan.

Nothing worked. Too much fog, lights shorted out, half the set was destroyed or in disarray due to our toga-clad nemesis. I was a glistening glaze of perspiration as if I had a distillery of it inside my body brewing to the surface.

The crowning humiliation however, was the moment Wanda made her appearance, right on cue, in the fifth song. She fell with a lifeless splat like a molted snake skin. Skids had not been privy to Doc and my conversation giving Wanda the night off. He had raced up to the dressing room between songs to retrieve our deflated prized prop.

The exodus began. Our tortured audience had seen enough. One after another they headed for the exits. Somehow the night came to a conclusion with a grand finale of Arsehole Party standing up and losing his man-made frock in the process. He then proceeded to projectile vomit onto the floor behind the kit, with the solid twack of a penny hitting the snare drum. I strained my voice to say, “ Thanks for cubing. Goodnide!” There would be no encore.

Friday, December 14, 2007

New release this week

Not since Abba have I been this scared.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

The final countdown?

No, not to the New Year, but Private Sector really needs to think about playing some more shows......

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

That's not going to happen live is it?

I know you're all anxious to see some live footage from the Private Sector gig a few weeks back, but unfortunately you'll have to wait while we compile the miles of footage and be patient for Francis Ford Coppola to finish editing it. In the meantime Sector drummer Brian Christopher has kindly submitted a reasonable facsimile of the blessed event.

Probably because the singer in the video is wearing the same shirt I did....

However, outside of our dear comrade Justin, who will probably masturbate through the entire Gentile Giant footage, I doubt it will quench many pallets.

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

X-mas gift ideas

Still don't know what to buy that spoiled little brat....I mean darling little child for Christmas? Then consider some of these ideas sent to me by Babosa

Monday, December 10, 2007

Sunday, December 09, 2007

That's the spirit

With Christmas just around the corner it's time we started to get into the spirit. Because everyone knows we can only be nice to our fellow man a few weeks out of the year and then it's back to telling people to "go fuck yourself!"

Well...those few weeks are nearly here. What better way to start than watching the original South Park Christmas trailer.

What do you mean you're not going to click the link? You've already seen it?

I bet you haven't watched it with French subtitles?

You have?

Go fuck yourself!

Saturday, December 08, 2007

HMH #20

Chapter Twenty- Showcase showdown at Slowhands

I had many nightmares dealing with the fateful night in question. But no matter how many times it replayed in my head— the numerous dissections and analyzations — it always ended the same way, a chaotic deconstruction, an unavoidable road to disaster, and the death of hope. Ah . . . to sleep perchance to scream.

It came upon us so fast, everything happening now seemed a blur in comparison. Back then, even Grub’s sudden desire to leave, mere weeks before the nerve racking event, the frantic search for a successor, and the relentless rehearsing of a new percussionist, Alistair Pare` III, could not displace the ultimate despair to come, on a fateful, cold, February night.

Alistair, who we came to know as Arsehole Party, seemed to be a suitable replacement for Grub, however, his love of liquor presented itself as equally formidable. We all had to bite our tongues, to the point of severing our muscle of the vernacular and rendering ourselves mute, in order to salvage one last spin at the roulette wheel.

Alistair was a quirky, stout fellow in a shit-brown pork-pie hat, John Lennon glasses he called spectacles, and deerskin muck-lucks with fuzzy off-white rims. Those damn boots never left his feet even in the dead of summer. He was the crowning definition of obnoxious; spouting his pseudo bastard offspring of Aussie-Cockney-South Africanus. Out of us all, he seemed to grate on Skunk the most with his boozing, womanizing ways. Skunk was a tough chick, physically and mentally, yet many of the rehearsals nearly brought the two to blows over the minutest of details. But Arsehole Party could play, and was the only drummer we auditioned who could follow a click track. Such was the necessary evil of the intricacies in the music we played. With time winding down to a crucial gig, our choices seemed severely limited.
We would be performing at Slowhands, considered to be the club to showcase for record industry types. It was to be a wondrous night. A night where we put all the criticism to bed- the proclamations of: we were too unprofessional, we just couldn’t get it done, and we folded under pressure. The Oral Blondes were going tabula rasa with a big fuck you. Our stage show was going to be unlike anything seen before in a small club; a musical and visual onslaught. Alice Cooper had once said, you should give your audience something different to look at in every song and we intended to follow his words to the letter, with specially built lighting, fog machines and various props. As a bare-bones Grunge style rained supreme, we were going to make a triumphant return to a theatrical vogue of presenting our music amidst a set design in an urban jungle motif of neon blues and greens. All of which, would be brilliantly lit with black-lighting.

We had worked hard to make sure the elements would be in place by the big night and with the stress culminating into excessive evenings of endless rehearsals, I fought a battle with a creeping cold as the showcase approached.

The big night arrived and after a brief sound-check I swallowed the appropriate pills and elixirs to click my immune system to autopilot. I felt I could make it through the performance with my chemical, zen remedy.

Arsehole Party sought me out as I was sucking back a lozenge of honey and lemon. “Ello mate. I was wonderin’ if I could trouble you for an advance on tonight’s take to fill my yawning gam?”

“Wha? Are you azgin’ be for bunny to eat?”

“Something like that. Yeah. But not for rabbits mate. . . sustenance . . . of, let’s say, a more spiritual nature.”

“Neber knew you were a vegetarian.”

“Oh mate yer nose is on the loose.”


“Yer drippin’ mate. Give it a good blow. There’s a lad.” He smacked me hard on the back and I nearly choked on my lozenge. I grabbed a tissue and wiped my nose. I reached into my pocket and peeled Alistair three twenty’s. I thrust them into his hand like I was trying to rid myself of a bothersome bellhop.

“Thanks mate. Get some rest. You look knackered. I’ll see you when they shave a quarter off the ten.”

I was about to ask him what the hell he was talking about, but he’d waddled off with a happy whistle, so I retired to the dressing room. As Arsehole Party, I think, was trying to say, I needed my rest. Tonight was a big night for the Oral Blondes, perhaps the biggest to date. Agents, Managers, record company A&R’s had all R.S.V.P.’d. They would be in attendance among a sold out show of family, friends and fans. Even Alice and her three identical siblings had made the trek to witness the becoming. With a little over an hour to go and my nose beginning to clear a little, I ventured down to check the progress of the stage readiness. I found Doc and Skunk pouring over last minute set-list changes. They were both in stage clothes. Doc had his usual white Doctor’s coat and black leather tie with white keyboard keys imprinted down its length. Skunk was in a red blouse tucked into a short black skirt with matching nylons that disappeared into red high-tops. Chas, Mayor, Skids and Blood Monkey crawled like ants over the stage checking and double checking all the connections.

I greeted my band-mates. “Are we all set?”

“I’ll let you know at the end of the night,” Skunk spat. She headed off to tune guitars and check pedals.

“Waz with her Doc? Time of the month?”

“Arsehole Party, what else? Ever since that buffoon came in, there’s been tension between those two, you know that.”

“We have to ged through tonide Doc. Then we can make a serious decision on widge way we wanna go.”

“I think Skunk will save us the trouble and kill him after the show. Where is that idiot anyway?”

“I doan no. He should be bag from dinner by now.”

Doc grabbed at Blood Monkey’s arm as he passed by. “You seen Arsehole Party?”
Our crew member looked back at us from his boyish freckled complexion. “No, but I think Alice was talking to him earlier. She’s in the downstairs bar.”

Doc and I left the stage area and traipsed down the steps to the lower bar where we found Alice on her way up. Her long brown hair bounced and shimmered with each step.

“Alice have you seen our drubber?”

“I’m Emilia.”

“Of course you are.” We continued downward. “Damn quadrublets. I can’t tell them apard with their shoes on.”

“Now is not the time to be thinking of your foot fetish Sparky.”

Amid the mummer of voices under the inflection of overhead televisions, a cumulus of blue smoke, and the clink of glasses, we found Alice at the bar- at least I hoped it was Alice? I gently touched her shoulder. “Alice?”

“Of course. Who did you think I was, John?”

“Have you seen our drubber?”

“You’re who?”

“Alistair, our drummer,” Doc translated.

“The strange dude in the Eskimo boots? Yeah he was in here earlier. Tried to pick up my sister Lindsay until I intervened. He thought he was seeing double and excused himself. He seemed half in the bag John. He wandered out the front door. Haven’t seen him since.”

“Oh that’s just marbelous. Did he say where he was going?”


“What do we do? Doc?”

“Order a drink.”

The bartender approached us. “You looking for your friend? That crazy guy in the hat and muck-lucks?”

“Yes! Do you know where he went?”

“I’m not sure but I think he said something about heading across the street to the Cerberus for a night cap.”

“Night cap? Je-sus It’s 9:15,” Doc protested.


“It’s another bar on the east side of the street a few doors down.”

“Thanks. We’ll try there.”

Doc and I turned and bolted out the front door. Barlow’s white doctor’s coat billowed out behind us like we were super heros rushing to save the world from certain destruction. I could feel the constricting of my nostrils as the cold began to work its way to the surface again at full force. The scraping of my voice was also beginning to grate and I cleared my throat with a hostile grunt. The smoke-filled atmosphere of our environment hadn’t helped. Down the street we could clearly see the marquee touting the entrance to the Cerberus under a blinking, neon, three-headed dog.

“Hair of the three-headed dog that bit ya,” Doc said.

“Dis is all my fauld. He asked for an adbance and I gabe it to him. I should have knowed he’d spend it on his liber.”

“Sparky, I can’t understand what the hell you’re talking about. Let’s go get that imbecile and bring him back to Slowhand’s before you catch your death of cold.”

As we approached the entrance of the Cerberus, a figure who sat against the front stoop, shrouded in a grey blanket, with his head bowed, reached up his hand and said, “Pleased to meet you.”

Doc thought it was an adoring fan and shook the man’s hand. The derelict looked up from his five o’clock shadow, now well past eleven, and grabbed Barlow’s mitt with vice-like pressure. He brought his other hand up to strengthen the clasp and a toothy void opened up beyond his withered, char pei-like face. He refused to let go. “Give me money. I’m sick.”

“Let go of me ya crazy fool! Sparky. Shit!” Doc tried to pull away but the old man clung to him like a virus and Doc started to drag him across the pavement. His blanket slid from his shoulders to his legs, fanning out like a peacock tail behind him. It exposed a ragtag outfit of drab browns and ripped wool. Doc continued to pull away violently dragging the derelict with him in staggered bursts. Had I not felt so rotten I might have laughed at the sight. But there was no time and I was in no mood.

“Get him off! Get him Off!” Doc screamed.

The derelict wheezed. “Give me money!”

I shoveled another load of stones from my vocal passage. “Doc! Quid clownin’ around. This is nod helbing. Led him go!”

“He’s the one that won’t let go Sparky! Ow! He’s digging in his nails! Let go you fuck!”

“Please, just five bucks.”

Doc began to yank his arm with violent force but the derelict held on like a bear trap. The soles of his boots flapped like tongues as they skidded over imperfections in the sidewalk.

“Son of a bitch let me go!”

“Just a couple of bucks . . . a cigarette . . . anything. I’m sick.”

This incident was becoming annoying, so I turned back and did the only thing I could. I started to cough all over the man. “I’ll show you who’s sick. You crazy basdard.”

The derelict reacted like I’d just put out his eyes. He released his grip and recoiled into the shadows writhing in pain. Doc shook his fingers vigorously, flexing his injured paw. “Son of a bitch! My frickin’ hand.”

Come on Doc. Leds go find our drubber!”

We entered the bar. I popped another pill into my mouth along with a lozenge. Instantly I felt the vapors working their magic and my nose began to clear a little, allowing me to breath the sweet air of smokey blue, hovering in another layer of fog above our heads. The Cerberus was dank with battlements of near empty liquor bottles on an illuminated shrine before the seated worshipers and guarded by a husky partisan barkeep. His beard and belly fought each other for distinction bursting from his vest of denim.

“Excuse be.” He ignored me as Doc rubbed his wounded knuckles. “Excuse be!” I said again with sandpaper rasp.

The man finally turned in our direction. He approached us, and spread his huge tattooed arms out on the bar, as if he needed to prop up his uneven frame. “What can I get you guys?” He might as well have barked at us, his voice was so gruff. Suddenly my throat didn’t feel as bad.

“Inforbation. We’re looking for a hefdee chap with glasses in a porgpie hat and fuzzy muggluggs. Hab you seen him?”

“You guys police?” He looked at Doc. “Or doctors?”

“No. We’re in the ban thad’s blaying across the streed. He’s our drubber. We need to find him. We go on in— ”

“— Thirty minutes, give of take,” Doc added, as he kissed his swelling fingers. “Look at my hand Sparky. It’s starting to swell. I’m infected and will surly die if I don’t receive medical attention. Who knows what scabies that homeless dude transmitted to me in our contact.”

“Doc please!”

The barkeep said, “What’s a mugg-lugg?”

“My cohort here, has a cold. He meant to say muck-luck. They’re boots, fuzzy around the top, and look like the were shat out by a deer.” Doc informed the suddenly interested barkeep.


“You know what shit is?”

“You fuckin’ with me? Of course.”

“Same thing.”

One of the alcoholic devotees yelled from the end of the bar. “Hey I’m dry down here.”

“You’re also out of money!” The barkeep yelled back.

“Did you see our drubber?” I pressed.

The beard and belly returned his attention. “Drubber?”

“He means drummer.— Will you let me do all the talking Sparky?”

“No. I don’t remember anyone fitting your description who looked like he had deer shit boots on.”

I suddenly became concerned Doc had offended the bartender in some way and he had now decided to withhold what he knew.

“I saw him.” The alcoholic devotee yelled.


“The guy you’s lookin’ for: Strange fellow, little hat, glasses like John Lennon. Yup I saw him. He was in here about fifteen minutes ago. Bought some shots and a few beers and then staggered off. Never saw someone drink so fast. I like to take my time when I— ”

“— Did you see where he went?”

“Hey man, I’m a drinker, not a fuckin’ baby sitter.”

“Gib the man a drink on us.” I flipped a couple of bucks to the barkeep. He opened a
fridge and retrieved a beer, propping it in front of the informant in a geyser of foam as I honked into a tissue.

“Thanks my friends.” He raised the beer to a salute then swigged back the frothy beverage. He paused for a moment to savor the taste before setting the brown bottle back in its resting place of wet, stained coasters.

“The strange fellow you saw, where did he go?”

“I didn’t really see.”

“That was money well spent,” Doc lamented.

“But the way he looked, I’d say check the alley. Not steady on his feet. Know what I mean?”

“Come to think of it,” the bartender interjected, hoping to goad us into buying more drinks. “Yeah. There was an odd guy in here recently.”

“Thaggs. Come on Doc.”

“Is there a doctor in the house? I think I’m hemorrhaging internally.”

I grabbed his good arm and directed him toward the door. “Hemorrhage later.”

The alley was dark and filled with scurrying noises and dried rivers of potent urine amid rotting garbage. In the distance a siren howled as it sped off to some unknown destination and sent shivers of apprehension up my spine.

“I don’t think he went in there Sparky.”

“We won’t know if we don’t look. Maybe we’ll run into someone else that can helb us.”

“I don’t think we’re going to find another bartender in the alley and I’d sure like to avoid any more derelict encounters.”

“I don’t like the thought of looking in there either. As I see it we don’t have much choice. Time is running owd.” Cautiously we moved forward into the darkness. “Lizzen for retching. I’d might be him spilling his guts.”

“Have you seen him drink Sparky? The boy can hold his booze.”

“Lizzen for him pizzing then.”

There was a sudden clank of metal and I spun around to see Doc inspecting inside a trash-can. He looked up at me, the lid still in his hand. “You never know. It was worth a shot. Check the dumpster.”

So there Doc and I were on the most important night of our career checking trash receptacles for our AWOL drummer and calling out into the darkness to be received by silence.

“We’ll probably laugh about this one day.”

Doc lifted another lid from a trash can and peered inside. “You say that about everything that happens to us. We’ll probably laugh about this one day.” He shook his head from side to side in a mocking gesture. “Right now we have to find that frickin creep or there will be no one day.”

We reached the end of the trash cans. A brick wall signaled the end of the alley.
“Doc, we’ve looked everywhere. He has to be back at Slowhand’s. He knows, even in his condition tonight is important. It’s all we’ve worked toward. I don’t think he could’ve gone anywhere else. I say we go back. If he’s not there, then we have to cancel, there’s no other aldernative.”

The thought of telling everyone they had to go home was not a prospect I relished. I knew how damaging it would be to any hereafter we thought we might have. We were all running on frayed nerves and I didn’t believe we could survive another setback like the one this would create.


Doc and I found ourselves in the main room with the stage in view. The room was nearing capacity and there was a buzz of electricity running through the club. “Where the hell is Arsehole Party? I tell you Doc I’ve never been more nerbous about a gig then I am now and it’s all because of him.”

Chas turned to us from the console, his bald skull gleaming in the dull light of the club. “Fifteen minutes guys.”

“Great! Well that’s it Sparky. We have to postpone the show.”

“Doc, a few more minuds.” My nose was beginning to close again.

“But you just said . . . I don’t see any other choice, do you?”

“No, you’re right. I’ll get Alice to tell the manager.”

The Mayor approached from the rear and stood along side of us. He seemed rather glib. There was a twinkle in his eye and it shone out from his reddish bush of hair. “I found Arsehole Party.”

“Really? I don’t know whether to murder that prick or kiss his bulging ass?”

“Perhaps you should reserve your judgement until you see him, Doc. He’s in the dressing room.”

“Why? What’s he gotten into?”

I let out a long groan and tried to suck air in through my nostrils.

“It’s better if you just go see for yourself. — John, you sound like shit. You going to be able to sing tonight?”

“Mayor my throad is killing me can you ged somethink to sooth it? We’ll be up in the dressing roob.”

“I gotta tell you Sparky. I’m a little frightened at what we’re going to find.”

I didn’t say anything but I shared Doc’s pessimism. This was not the time to have to deal with a new problem especially one Arsehole Party had created.

Friday, December 07, 2007

The booze can-can

It's Friday which usually means a long weekend of drinking is just ahead. But why just crash in a pool of your own vomit when it's all said and done?

Hook up with others like yourself for some after hours boozing fun and double vision when the bars close down. note: the Max Webster reference. (Max Webster were like the anti- Kanye West of their day)

Here's a great site from our good friends at the Modern Drunkard to direct you in the best after hour bar

Womanizing 101

Actually there is no such site. I thought there would be, what with my hero Governor Swartzenegger and all, but no such luck. So boys, you're on your own.

Or you could just pick up a copy of has John Barrymore in it. He was like the Kanye West of his time.

Digging all the way to....Scotland?

Chinese Buffet anyone? Here's a list of them. Strange, but my search yielded a restaurant in Glasgow, Scotland.....hmmm....what to have the deep-fried thistle or the sweet and sour haggis?

New release this week

Lately friends, I've had a hard time focusing- too much racing through my mind I guess? That, mixed with recent health problems, womanizing, excessive boozing, and Chinese Buffet binging, have made me a sad state.

If you're like me then perhaps you need this album to help return you to a peaceful centre.

From the same people who brought you "Teaching Spanish to Your Dog", and, "Yoga for Gay Bikers", and "Kanye West- Man or Myth", I give you "Breathing Exercises in Asthma and Bronchitis".

Don't know how it'll help for the womanizing, excessive boozing, and Chinese Buffet binging, but it's worth a shot and it's already given me ideas for what I want to do to my hair.

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Tuesday is Evel

It's Tuesday and I'm still thanking people for the Private Sector show last Friday. However, I did notice the crowd was a little less than we had hoped for. There were people who had sworn their allegiance to being there, yet, bailed at the last moment.

After further review I now understand they were distraught over the recent demise of one, Evel Knievel, who died the very same day as our performance.

So as a tribute, today, Evel has the numbers all to himself.

10 great Evel Knievel videos.

Monday, December 03, 2007

Friday, November 30, 2007

HMH #19

Chapter Nineteen- Divine intervention

The men were nearly on us and we had resigned ourselves to confrontation. How could it get any worse? The shock of knowing Arsehole Party was our one and only savior in the weekend fiasco had dropped us to the bottom of a bottomless pit. Let the fists come. I would take my beating. Ohhh thank you Jesus. Then Phil and Johnny would come in and cart our sorry, blubbering, pummeled ass out of the casino for good this time. There was no way this evening was going to magically rescue itself.

But the fists did not come. The blood did not flow, and the carnage would not disgrace the floor of the Tiger Lounge. The men stopped in their tracks by some invisible force field and decided to back off. The force field we knew as Tiny appeared to our right and stood next to our side. I guess our would-be attackers felt the beating they were going to inflict on us could be taken under further advisement, especially when one of them flippin’ homos was pushing nine feet.

For all I or Doc cared, they just as well should have pounded us to a bloody mess rendering us to an unconscious state. Arsehole Party was the last thing any of us needed. How could we ask him to step in? He was the guy who had wrecked any chance of us maintaining cohesion and moving forward all those years ago. We hadn’t exactly parted ways under amicable circumstances. However, without Grub at full capacity, how could we continue on in a weekend gone so sour? Without a reliable drummer at the helm we were nothing more than a garage band dry humping the pillow of fame and fortune. Then there was Skunk to think of. No love lost between her and Arsehole Party— absolute and undeniable. Toying with the idea of having those two in the same vicinity could be catastrophic— a rift in the space-time-continuum. Doc and I knew it. We would be better off in the eye of the storm instead of the swirling winds of controversy and mayhem. Either path from this sudden fork in the road seemed perilous. It reminded me of Doc, Wally and my journey up to the studio- how disastrous a misplaced foot could be. I wished to keep out of the shit this time. I was already without shoes, would I dare to risk what was left of my bruised and tortured soul?

Tiny was sucking the hell out of a coke, through a straw as Matt Morgolis crooned another ballad. His voice cascaded like chocolate through the speakers to the delighted squeals of most of the females in attendance. I watched as Arsehole Party pounded his snare drum. His lips moving silently in unison to the beat, but I knew the word he uttered. “Bam! Bam! Bam!” It was his unmistakable trademark.

Tiny reached the bottom of his glass with vacuous pulls on his straw. An ice-cube clung to the open end of it, devoid of liquid. I began to place unattainable landmarks on a momentous decision. OK, If Tiny actually sucks the ice-cube through the straw, we ask Arsehole Party to join us in the studio. Doc looked at me, his face suddenly drawn and gaunt as if his locksmith mind had picked my thoughts. This was going to be a hard call to make and a harder consequence to live with.


No one spoke on the way home preferring to labor in thought over the night’s events, or in Tiny’s case, nod off and sag his curly mess of locks on the top of my head. With the weight I already carried on my shoulders, it was a burden I could do without. Doc stared straight ahead with the windows wide open as the rumbled hum of the Hino’s diesel engine plowed through fragrant check points of manure, wet grass and skunk.

The radio blared. It was capable of AM only and spouted some spiritual talk show where callers received advice from guest hosts in the encouragement to donate to the sponsoring ministry.

“So do you feel the decision you made in this matter was the right one?” The host asked the caller. His voice dripping with feigned compassion as if he were speaking directly to me.

“I...I don’t know?”

“Look into your heart,” he instructed. “Do you feel Jesus there?”

“I...I don’t know?”

“Must we listen to this crap Doc?”

“It’s either this, static, or Tiny’s snoring.”

“Have faith in the Lord God Almighty and all your choices will be righteous ones. I
encourage you my child to find it in your heart to make a donation and Jesus will come.”

“Where have I heard that before?” I responded dryly.

“Maybe Miss Agnes listens to the program too?”

“No doubt.” I listened as the host encouraged another caller to donate in an effort to cure the pain of a lost love one.

The next caller lamented, he had been losing his hearing over the past months and needed God to help him get it back. He was practically yelling through the radio.

The host replied with a calm and even voice. “Release your hold on the material world my brother. Share your wealth with Jesus and he will deliver un to you the cure you seek. Amen!”

“Whaaat?!” The man yelled.

“My brother, I said release your hold . . . ”

“Grease my hole?”

The host yammered in frustration before catching himself.“Release! Release!....Brothers and sisters perhaps we should take a moment to hear from one of our good Christian sponsors.”

“WHA...?!” The caller yelled again before being cut off.

“You know Doc, no matter how much money we could donate. I don’t feel optimistic we’d see divine intervention coming our way.”


Everyone was asleep by the time we rumbled back up Faith Sound’s long winding driveway with even longer faces. We parked next to a circle of gnomes in emerald green and pink robes, rejoicing around the fallen Tower of Babel. There was also a new acquisition Miss Agnes must have added to the lawn in our absence. A stern porcelain Mosses now hoisted his tablets aloft and warned us to, "Keep off the grass!"

Doc groaned as he brought the Honey-wagon to a halt. “I don’t mind telling you Sparky, I get very creeped out by this whole gnome village they have here. I keep thinkin’ that they come to life when we fall asleep and have little gnome orgies.”

“I think Miss Agnes would view your comments as extremely blasphemous, Doc my man.”

“Yeah, well I have a good mind to have a yard sale tomorrow and sell those fuckin’ things. Except, they’d probably all find their way back here somehow after nightfall and murder me in my sleep. Shit it’s so Outer Limits. Every time we return here there seems to be more of them. Is there some Gnome Wrangler in the barn slowly releasing them into the wild?”

“That’s one vivid imagination Doc.”

Doc continued to spew. “Just look at that Sparky.” He pointed an accusing finger down at the turf from his perch in the driver’s seat of the Hino. “Where on earth do you go shopping for a John the Baptist lawn jockey? Huh? Where, I ask you?”

I flicked Tiny in the ear and awoke the sleeping giant. “We’re back at the studio Tiny. Time to get out.”

“Quietly,” Doc insisted. “We don’t want to rouse the whole house now.”

Wally, on the other hand, was not among those who slumbered peacefully. He was coming out of the control room in his socked feet with his guitar, as we tried to enter without a sound.

“Burning the midnight oil Wally? I thought you were bushed?” I kicked off the shoes he’d lent me for the evening.

“Working on the song. I couldn’t sleep anyways and didn’t know what to do with myself. Everyone elks just went to bed. Skunk was falling asleep while she was recording.”

“Doesn’t surprise me. That girl could sleep nestled in a roaring jet engine.”

Wally inquired. “So? How did it go? Do we have a drummer?”

“Not now Wally. We need sleep. It’s going to be a long day tomorrow and tonight was emotionally draining to say the least.”

Wally let well enough alone and let us pass to our creature comforts without further inquiry. He stood at attention with his acoustic guitar as if he were the member of a color guard saluting passing dignitaries. We headed for our respective sanctuaries and sunk into the enveloping softness of beds unmade. The band was fragile as it was and adding another unstable element would very well, push it past the brink to hostile. I wanted only to get to bed as if somehow the morning would deliver better news and wipe tonight away like a bad dream. As calamities go this night hadn’t been any different from others. In fact, there had been times I could recall, laboring in the much worse category. A long forgotten history numbed and faded by the passage of time, a million heartbeats ago.

I fell asleep thinking of Arsehole Party and the blown showcase so many years removed from the present. A night which had been far worse than anything we’d experienced this weekend. It was a night that had caused the eventual death of the Oral Blondes and set us all on our paths to mediocrity.

New release this week

Suddenly, I'm no longer nervous about performing tonight.

WATN file #5

The Atomic Rockin' Riff Rooster

Instrument: Lead Guitar

Influences: Stevie Ray Vaughn, Da blues, grilled cheese, Converse All Stars.

Member from: 1985-1990 and a brief appearance in ghostly form at Sparky's Cove in Brewerton N.Y. Nov. 3rd, 2007.

Reason for leaving Private Sector: Beats me.

Favorite saying: "I was just going to call you."

Last known location: Look up......waaaaay up...north of Toronto and I'll call Rooster.

Rumor has it: All his Friday nights are booked.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

WATN file #4

Michael Spencer Arsehole Party

Instrument: Drums

Influences: Welly boots, A spot of tea with a wee nip of whiskey.

Member: 5PM, Jun 3rd, 1990- 4:32:07 PM, Aug. 26th, 1990

Favorite saying: "If I got a spoon could I 'ave a taste of that Mate?" - "The guitarist is stepping on everyone else's dick Mate."

Left Private Sector....actually was told to leave....really was forced out......drop kicked into oblivion.

Last known location: "Just sittin' around the house with my balls hanging out Mate."

Rumor has it: Lives in a box underneath the Hog's Hollow overpass.

Just kidding Michael.....NO I"M NOT!......No really, no hard feelings........I hate you......No I don't................*cough* Imbecile!