Wednesday, February 28, 2007
I guess it’s a toss up between the ad for Tucker balls and Religious messages that have hounded my site over the past week. All of which has raised my ire. I found the Cat Oral ones amusing, but Trucker Balls? What’s next? Cock Sausage?
And I’m probably the most non religious person on the planet, but I find anyone who tries to push their beliefs on me, or anyone else for that matter, highly offensive.
So, ad sense has been moved...you know what?....I'm just going to delete the damn thing altogether. I’ll find my own affiliate programs. Something better suited and that makes more sense than the sense their pushing at Google.
Monday, February 26, 2007
I'm taking it easy today my friends. Every year the Oscars seem to wear me out a little, like I've been pile-driven, and I need a day or two to recoup. So this is the extent of today's post....what was up with Reese Witherspoon's chin anyway? Looks like someone either hit her with Kirk Douglas, or she bit off Ryan's manhood in the divorce and it's still lodged in her mouth.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
chapter fifteen - underwater dancing
Journal entry- Day 20- It’s been great hanging with Apples & Oranges this week. We’ve spent most of our free time with them at The Buzz Club, since it’s much nicer than Millionaires. Thumper has talked to everyone except Space who completely ignored him. He told us the reasons for his departure. It was just as we had thought. With everything that has happened on this tour, I can’t say I blame him. Space sent him home a day early and we will struggle through our last night with Wally handling double guitar duties. Initially Thumper was to leave on Thursday but the Bus station was on the other side of town in the other time zone and he arrived an hour too late to catch his transportation. Today Space finally told us his plan. He said he wanted to wait until all the pieces were in place before filling us in.
It was the end of another week for our bruised and battered souls. Apples and Oranges had told us to enjoy the surroundings of their hotel. Mi casa es su casa, they’d said, with a mon, thrown in there. It was exactly what we needed— an oasis in the middle of our endless touring desert to quench parched throats and rejuvenate withered egos. Wally, Doc and I sat in the frothing bubbles of a hot-tub next to a pool empty of occupants. There was a warm chlorine smell of sterility which brought with it a strange, comforting calm.
“I’m gonna miss this place,” Doc lamented as he looked around. “Indoor pool, hot-tub– ”
“— What about Thumper?”
“As long as there’s a pool and a hot-tub Wally, I couldn’t care less. He missed his family too much, so let him go home and be with them. Space was right.”
“— but Doc,” I said. “What about the midnight shopping cart races?”
“Yeah,” Doc agreed. “Thumper fit in the child seat easily and we were unbeatable.”
“— Or using him to steal food, so we could turn around and sell it to the band at half price?”
“He did look amusing as my pregnant wife with the mustache. But when is that ever going to work again? We’re through playing Nasty Tree.”
“Or those stupid fire-engine hats you bought him, with the built in sirens, you made him wear it in the mall to freak the locals out.”
“Ohhh, Those were good times.” Doc paused, and looked retrospective, like he was thinking back over the years when in actuality it had only been a few weeks. His eyes welled up with tears. “Thumper, that little scamp— ”
“See you’re gonna miss him.”
“When you put it that way Sparky . . . No! My place is here sitting in water that’s a hundred and one degrees.”
“No underwater dancing.”
“Not yet Sparky, but look at Apples & Oranges, they’re on the right track. This is the lap of luxury- grand opulence— this is how we should be touring.” Doc lifted a lobster red arm out of the water and twisted a knob next to the tub, setting the timer for another fifteen minutes. The hot-tub we were in bubbled and steamed as it sprang to life once more. A fine mist danced above the water and Doc Barlow let out an audible sigh.
Wires, Space, and Bronson entered the pool area. All had bathing suits on and towels around their necks. They sat in deck chairs close to the hot-tub. Bronson brought his feet up and locked to his body, in what appeared to be a yoga-like stretch.
“So tell us our illustrious leader. What’s this deal you’re talking about and how does it help us? Or are you going to continue to be all secret service?”
“Figures you’d be the first one to want to know Doc?”
“We all want to know Space, but I have the least amount of patience.”
“I disagree, Doc. That honor goes to Thumper and he’s no longer here.” Then Space began to unravel the intricacies of his phone conversations inside the truck-stop cubicle. It was apparent he’d been hard at work manipulating all involved, over the past days, to get us in the best possible situation. “I think we can all agree we’ve had enough of Sleezyk, mostly because, it appears from the bookings we are getting Sleezyk’s had enough of us. Do you know he now wants us to go to Bugtussle for another back-end the week after next?”
I groaned. “Bugtussle! Are you talking about Flap Jack’s? You gotta be fuckin’ kidding? That place is a career killer!”
“— Good fishing though,” Wally added.
"- Not in sub-zero temperatures."
Wally protested, "Ice fishing!"
Space continued. “— after this week with the truck and Thumper, we don’t have the cash to get there anyway. The trick is how to outsmart an asshole like Sleezyk. So I got to thinkin’ how his mind works. Buddy Bob’s is not his bar exclusively and he doesn’t want to blow things by sticking us in there with a new guitarist.”
“Hey, I don’t want to play there with a new guitarist either.”
“Right Doc. You’d rather continue to let Wally handle all the leads.”
“Point taken. Ok! I’m listening. — No offense Wally.”
“What elks is new?”
“I called Bob. I got to know him well enough the last time we played there. He tells me Sleezyk called him and said, due to complications, he’d be putting another act in there instead of us. I tell Bob, as far as we know, we’re playing his club not only next week but the week after too— the second week at half the price. Well you know Bob? The guy would sell his dick if he thought he could get a decent price for it. He wants the better deal. I tell him Sleezyk is convinced we’re jumping agencies and he’s pissed-off at us. He doesn’t want us playing Bob’s club. I tell him to call Sleezyk and tell him there’s been a mistake in the scheduling and he already has a local band coming in to do next week. So it’s settled we’re at Buddy Bob’s for the next two weeks.”
“Space are you f’n nuts and pissin’ crazy? We can’t afford any more pay cuts.”
“That’s the beauty of it Doc, we make the same regardless. We don’t pay agent fees for two weeks. Say hello to eight bills right there. We don’t have traveling expenses. Buddy Bob’s is closed through the day. We can rehearse and break in the new guitarist easily. We don’t lose on this deal Barlow.”
“Until Sleezyk eventually figures out we screwed him. Like when we don’t show up next week, or at Flap Jack’s in Bugtussle. What do we do for an agent then?”
“Oh Ye have little faith Mr. Barlow. That’s where Apples and Oranges come in. They love Wires and would do anything for him.”
“What can I say. I’m a loveable guy,” Wires offered.
“Apples and Oranges are handled by the Supreme Agency.”
“None other, Doc. He handles some big name acts out this way. Do you know Apples and Oranges’ manager Beeje?”
“He wasn’t at the army surplus and they used to have another guy. Martin or Matlock . . . something like that. That’s all I know,” I said.
“He doesn’t travel with them Sparky. He handles them out of his home office. I had a chance to talk with him at length on the phone this week. -Nice guy. -Apples convinced him to call Walden and rave about our performance at Millionaires and tell him to check us out. Walden’s always looking for innovative new acts to add to his roster. He books a club called The Matador. -The one with the pool and the hot-tub just like here, Doc.”
“That’s the place down the street from Buddy Bob’s”
“And Beeje told them we’re headed to Buddy Bob’s for the next two weeks. Someone’s going to see us from the Matador, when we’re there and report back to Walden first hand, so we have to be tight with the new guy.”
“With a guitarist who’s never played with us before? We’ll be as tight as two-bit hooker.”
“Sparky, you and Wires will take the truck and pick up our new man at the bus station when we get to Buddy Bob’s tomorrow morning. Doc, Wally. It’s your job to work with him on all the material."
-"I think it's understood Wally and I always get the shit jobs."
"We’ll run two-a-day rehearsals until things tighten up. It’ll be just like wood-shacking.”
“What’s the new guys name anyway Space?”
“Jeremy. Jeremy Hellfield but he likes to be called Spike.”
Wally moaned as he sank in the tub up to his chin. “Spike, Space, Sparky. Ohhh I can’t keep things straight.”
“I figure we have a one week window before Sleezyk begins to figure things out and dumps our ass for good. Everything has to be in place by then, new agent, new guitarist, new gigs. We can do this. -You want those A rooms you’re always bitchin’ about Doc? I’m given us the opportunity to achieve it.”
“What if Walden doesn’t like what he sees?”
“He has to Sparky. There is no room for error and no other alternative but going home.”
“We certainly can’t play Buddy Bob’s for the next twelve weeks.”
I had to admit, there weren’t too many times I had any admiration for Space, but this was one of them. Although risky, what he told us made sense. We couldn’t continue on and wait for Sleezyk to blow us out especially in a remote location like Bugtussle. We had to be proactive and for good, or ill, make our own bed. Space would continue to ooze sugar on the phone to Sleezyk for as long as possible, feeding him excuses as to why we hadn’t reached the next gig. It was going to take us three days to get there anyway. This time of the year the only people up in
those remote locations were Native Americans and as Wally had attested, ice fisherman.
We were joined by Apples and Oranges also sporting the swim gear and after a brief romp in the water we were all pool-side sipping various beverages.
“Is dis place bad-ass or what mon?”
“Ya . . . ya . . . ya . . . bad-ass.”
“What’s not to love?” Doc almost cried. “All your gigs this lavish?”
“No other way ta go mon, first class and ting. Walden treat us good, cause we treat him good.”
“Hey Apples whatever happened to that guy who used to do your sound and road manage you . . . Martin was it?”
“Awww Martin not wit us anymore mon. Beeje handle us now and we do our own sound from stage.”
“I heard that. What you fire Martin’s ass?”
“No mon, he really not wit us anymore.”
“Shit what happened?”
“We do dis gig outside Detroit. Day-off, we go ta da zoo. Everyting ok until Martin yells ‘Jah will protect!’ and leaps into da lion’s den. He standin’ wit arms out-stretched like he untouchable. He musta been high? Dat bumbaclut. Dose lions really bad-ass mon. Mess him up good.”
“Ya . . . ya . . . ya . . . Bad-ass,” Oranges added his head bowed out of respect as he chugged on a rum and coke, “Jah did not protect.”
“He couldn’t work wit us anymore. Hard to lift gear when you’s missin’ a foot and can’t see outcha eyes. Cha know what I mean?”
“So he’s disabled. Je-sus! You made it sound like he was dead,” Doc said. He breathed a sigh of relief.
“Oh-no, he dead mon. Dead as Bob Marley.”
“Ya . . . ya . . . gone wit God he is,” Oranges professed.
“Shit! How did it happen? Did he die from his injuries? I thought he survived the lions?”
“Oh yeah, he survive da lions. He can’t work anymore dats all. He get all depressed and ting. Flew home ta Jamaica. Died on da flight.”
Doc whispered to me. “Now do they actually mean Jamaica or are they talking about Boston?”
“No, Martin was actually from Jamaica.”
Doc returned to the conversation with our hosts. “How sad.”
Wally said, “That must have been creepy for the other passengers, having a guy die in the middle of the flight?”
“They didn’t know. No one know until they land and find his ass frozen in the under carriage of da plane. It was summer he didn’t even tink he need a coat. Frozen solid, dat bumbaclut. Real bad-ass way ta go.”
That night’s performance had an unusual jump in it even with Wally flubbing his way through most of the solos. There was an aberrant calm within our ranks and a feeling we could pull this off. It was an optimism missing from our emotional arsenal for some time. We were either headed for a more successful plateau or a dismal recess in the coming weeks, but tonight— for once . . . everything seemed to be falling into place. Like Martin before us, we had to leap into the den and hope Jah would protect.
Saturday, February 24, 2007
Friday, February 23, 2007
Steller cast and everyone is good. Jack Nicholson is good, Leonardo DiCaprio is good, Mark and Robert Wahlberg are both good. There's a bunch of Sheens and a host of Baldwins including the almighty Alec Balwin...all good, good, good. Even Matt Damon is good in this movie by Christ!
However, with a cast like this it should be more than good. It should be spectacular. Why, even Martin, He shoots he Scorcese has toned down the violence to a level barely making me lift an eyebrow.
I guess it’s like GIGC often says to me in bed. "After all this time with me the sex shouldn't be be good. It should be spectacular".
And she’s right. I admit it. I need practice. And that’s what I intend to do. I’m going to go out and practice with as many women as I can find until I get it right. I will be spectacular.....I’d do anything for that woman.
Enjoy the Oscars.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
In a perfect world this movie wins best picture. Why? Just my opinion. I like quirky films like this one. But realistically It won’t.
I guess I really identify with the dysfunctional characters. It’s like looking into a mirror at my own family; the neurotic wife; the father who despite his positive attitude and best efforts always comes up short; the son who’s taken a self imposed exile, choosing not to speak; the gay brother-in-law who tries to commit suicide; the pill-popping, crass-talking, grandparent and the chubby daughter with delusions of grandeur.....OK, we don’t have a daughter, but we have a cat and you should see him do his Super Freak routine.....his Macarena ain’t bad either.
Tomorrow: The Departed
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
The Queen was a good movie, however, I was disappointed. I waited for an actor depicting Freddie Mercury the whole film and he never appeared. All I got was James Cromwell as Prince Philip doing a very bad British accent, “I say lads, I nearly popped that stag with my trusty musket. Well, must run and tell the Queen Mum, ta-ta, pip-pip, cheerio, and all that sort.”
Believe it or not, he actually had three months of vocal coaching! I haven’t heard an accent that bad since GIGC tried her English accent which sounded more like a Southern U.S., Rastifarian, Baptist.
Helen Mirren did a remarkable portrayal in the lead roll. She looks like the Queen, she waves like the Queen, She even talks like the Queen- Cromwell are you taking notes? You know what? Why don't you just go back to trying to kill Jack Bauer....
All which leads me to believe she must be getting banged quite a lot by guys with Queen fetishes. "Come on baby! Knight my bishop and call me Sir Lance-a-lot.....No, leave the wig on."
In fact, I couldn’t fathom how many Queen Fetish sites there are on the internet.....thousands of them! I just opened one up in another window and I’m looking at it right now.....Oh wait that’s for something totally different....sorry....gotta go. Time to surf some porn.
Tomorrow: Little Miss Sunshine
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
Let's forget all the talk about this being Brad Pitt's best movie roll ever, he's in it for five minutes....maybe six....and that's why you don't see his name in the best actor category. Who does he think he is? Anthony Hopkins?....And Cate Blanchett pees in a pot, the guys on Iwo Jima still have her beat. Why am I even bothering?
Below is a YouTube review of Babel in seven languages.....Thanks Babosa.... It sums up everything you need to know about this movie in a poignant succinct way I could never convey. Watch it.
Tomorrow: The Queen
Monday, February 19, 2007
I can’t remember an Oscar year where so many films, with subtitles, were up for awards. Hmm let’s see, Pans Labyrinth, Apocalypto, Babel, Borat, Blood Diamond, The Last King of Scotland, Happy Feet.....and Letters from Iwo Jima.
Subtitles, aside I rather enjoyed this film. Flags of our Fathers is a piece of crap compared to this. I’m beginning to think Clint Eastwood made that film just so you’d see how much better Iwo Jima was. Kind of like watching Sly’s new Rocky, (a decent film), but then watching Million Dollar Baby right after it--- no comparison.
I feel Letters deserves to take film of the year, for the following reasons:
Little Miss Sunshine is a dark comedy and they never win.
The Departed is a Scorcese directed picture and he never wins.
The Queen.....Has anyone even seen this film?
Babel is this year’s Crash. Since Crash won last year....law of averages.
That leaves Letters From Iwo Jima, which also has other elements that are missing from the other nominated films.
For instance no one shits in a pot, eats weed soup, or commits suicide with a hand grenade.....OK, besides in The Queen......Hey! I thought you didn't see that film?
Sunday, February 18, 2007
chapter fourteen - apples & oranges
Journal entry- Day 16- Space called a band meeting to deliver the news from our agent. Wires has worked hard and the truck is now in a reasonable condition to travel. Hopefully we’ll be leaving soon. It feels like we’ve been here for weeks, yet it’s only been two days. Dirt, dust, cold and hunger will do that to you I guess? But some days unexpected things occur and today happened to be one of those days.
After a minuscule lunch, we sat around a square table in the diner’s interior--- Barlow, Wally and I at one end, Bronson and a grease caked Wires at the other. Space was still on the phone and Thumper stood next to him outside the booth, despondent, in anticipation of another call home. In our boredom, Bronson, Barlow, Wally and I, had been out exploring the surroundings. We had stumbled across an old army surplus store a mile and a half down a dirt road from the highway. An unusual place for such a business, but there none-the-less. It was an expanse of dead grassy hills poking up through the frozen tundra. It was littered with row-upon-row of jagged bombshell casings, hoodless transport vehicles, aging wooden crates and olive colored foot lockers. A tank turret peeked out from beneath netting and a host of other leafy camouflage. Perched amid the chaos between two search lights, and the skeletal remnants of a helicopter was a decrepit building— more of a wooden shack really— where other items peered out from shelves and hanging hooks on the inside of muddy windows.
Doc instantly slipped back into his William Shatner, “Captain’s log: The pla-net’s...terrain looks hostile. A grave-yard of weapons...cuts off our on-ly es-cape. Fortunate-ly we have...brought a-long an in-sig-nificant member of our crew...who is expen-dable.”
“Remember Bronson could kick your ass Doc.”
“I...was tal-king a-bout Wally.”
Wally looked at Barlow unconcerned, and began to chew on some beef jerky he had brought with him from the diner. A lone bell dinged as we opened the door and entered with the clopping of our boots on wooden floors. An old man, with more hair on his eyebrows than atop his head, sat unmoving behind a counter next to an electric heater and read us with suspicious eyes. “Morning,” he said.
“Hi,” we responded.
“We could probably get some cool things for the stage here, Doc.”
“With what money, Wally?”
“We could busk at the roadside for people’s spare change.”
“Getting coins tossed at us from speeding vehicles is not my idea of exposing our talent Wally. Je-sus! You come up with the most....”
A voice rang out. “Holy chit mon! Fancy seein’ yous here.” The voice and the figure it came from, sprang toward me in my stunned surprise. He clasped me on the shoulder and shook my hand vigorously as his companion joined him.
“Christ! Well I’ll be. What brings you guys here?”
“I axed you first,” he said.
“Wally, Doc, Bronson I’d like you to meet Apples and Oranges.”
“I’m Apples and he’s Oranges and together we’s Apples and Oranges.”
“I kind of figured,” Doc piped up, his sarcasm evident through a barrage of handshakes.
“Where’s our mon Wires?”
“He’s back at the truck-stop by the highway fixing our vehicle.”
Apples chuckled. “He always fixin’ sumtin’. Dat boy’s a miracle worker. Saved our ass a few times.”
“Ya, ya our ass,” Oranges added.
“How do you guys know each other?” Wally mumbled between bites of jerky.
“Apples can fill you in,” I said.
“We was playin’ at Da Beach, you know dat club?”
Doc perked up. “That’s a cool bar. Nice resort. Right off the lake in upstate. I know the place.”
“Dese guys was playin’ da other place in town...”
“---Other dive, you mean.” My attempt at color commentary.
“Me and Oranges was on da beach . . .”
“No mon. Da beach next to Da Beach.”
“Like with sand and stuff? Chicks playin’ volleyball, that sort of thing?”
“We was waterskiing. My first time and ting, real bad-ass. Oranges is drivin’ da boat. Big Ol’ boat, twin motors da size of ma body. I’m standin’ on da pier in ma skis, big coil o’ rope next ta me, scared as shit. Oranges yells at me, ‘Ya ready Ski-daddy’ and I yells back, ‘Let er happin’ capt’n.’ So Oranges dat bumba clut, guns it and da boat races off, real bad-ass mon.”
“Ya . . . ya . . . ya. Real bad-ass,” Oranges added with an appreciative snicker in his deep Lou Rawls’ growl.
“I’m holdin’ da grip and watchin’ da coil o’ rope disappear until dere’s no more rope. Pulled me right out ma skis mon. Right through da air and inta da water face first and ting. I hit hard and blacked out. Next ting I know, dis guy pullin’ me back ta shore. I can barely breathe. I feel like my belly done bust. He Standin’ over me, drippin’ and ting. Shaggy hair, work boots, wet bent cigarette in his mouth. My savior. My mon Wires. Real bad-ass.”
“Ya . . . ya . . . ya . . . Real bad-ass.”
“Fixed our sound too. Can’t say enough bout Wires mon.”
I inquired. “So you still doing the R&B thing?”
“Chit mon, gotta move on. Reggae gets us da gigs now and da ladies.”
“Ya . . . ya . . . ya . . . Da ladies.”
“Like The Police and Bob Marley?” Doc Barlow was showing more interest now.
“We do some of the white man’s reggae to gets in the door.”
“I didn’t know Bob Marley was white?”
“Naw . . . English Beat, Tears of a Clown, This bed’s too big without you, dat sort of ting. But we like Black Uhuru. Spongi Reggae, more hardcore. Spiritual don’t cha know. Music ta please God. Dats our stylin’. Wit lots o’ sensi. Real irie.”
“Ya . . . ya . . . ya Irie! Big spliff sensi! Jah will protect.”
A voice emanated from behind the check-out counter, “You boys gunna buy anythin, or just stand there all day jawin’ twon nuther?”
Apples made a sucking sound with his teeth. “Easy old mon!”
Wally began to browse again to appease the owner. Apples returned his focus to me, “Where’s you headed?”
“No chit. The A & the O’s doin the Buzz Club.”
“Buzz Club? That’s right across the street from Millionaires. I thought they closed that place down.”
“They did. But Orville bought it mon. Fixed it up and ting. Opened er up again. Make it nice.” Apples sucked his teeth again and this time was joined by Oranges.
“Orville the guy with the donut stand who sold those little– orbits?”
“That him mon, Orville’s Orbits. Bottomless cup of coffee but ya only get one cup. Boiled hotdogs in a kettle, fished em out with tweezers and a flashlight don’t-ya-know. Real bad-ass. The boy made him some serious cash. Jah has protected him well.”
“You guys have to come back and see Wires and Space.”
“Gotta motor mon. Maybe we stop by on da way out and ting but Playin’ tonight. Let’s hook up in town, spark up some o’ God’s finest.”
“Right on man.”
Apples and Oranges finished their browsing and left without a purchase.
“Interesting twosome,” Doc dead-panned. “From Jamaica I guess?”
“Boston born and raised.”
“What’s with the Jamaican accent?”
“Goes with the image I guess? Last time I talked to Apples they were doing R&B and he had this whole Barry White vibe going on.”
“Well they think Wires is God.”
“We get to the next gig in one piece, so will I.”
Within the hour we were on our way back to the truck-stop with a parachute backdrop, camouflage netting and flight suits for everyone, courtesy of Bronson. When we returned, Wires had informed us between puffs, Apples and Oranges had taken the time to stop by and say hello but more importantly Space wanted a band meeting and would be filling us in shortly with new information. To me it sounded too much like we wouldn’t be getting paid for a while.
So there we sat patiently, Doc leaning back on two legs of his chair; his arms crossed in front of him; the hint of a scowl on his face. Wally was the fascinated child. He looked down intently flicking a few fries from Barlow’s plate into a corner of the diner under a loaded coat rack. Wires and Bronson just sat silently, divided by an empty chair soon to be filled. I stared off blankly nurturing a black coffee for the eighth day of my java vision quest.
Space joined us and sat down, a stern look of resolve across his face. It seemed we’d have to sit through another tyrannical address from our drummer-in-charge. He informed us of Sleezyk’s rambling. How we were cut to doing a back end at Millionaires and we’re forced to scrap Buddy Bob’s for another back end, three times as far away, the following week. I thought I could almost see Space’s ass still smoking from Sleezyk’s verbal onslaught.
“You know why they call it a back end? Because that’s where you get the rod shoved.”
“Doc you’re not helping things.”
“Neither are you Space,” Doc shot back. “It’s only Tuesday. What are we supposed to do, sleep in the truck til Thursday?”
“Millionaires is giving us the rooms. That’s why we’re only getting half scale.”
“Great! We’ll all just eat at half-scale,” Doc snorted.
Space turned to our sound man. “How you doin’ Wires?”
“I’m still vertical.”
“I meant the truck”
“Ready to go.”
“Good! Ok here’s the situation.”
“Aren’t we going to wait for Thumper?”
“Thumper Manierka is no longer part of this band Wally. He can’t handle the heat . . . let him go be with his wife and kid. This is a man’s game, and if anyone else wants to call it quits, now’s the time to speak up.” No one spoke. “Bronson?”
“I just got here. I’m here for whatever.”
“Wires? Besides being vertical . . .”
“Wally?.... Wally! Leave the fuckin’ fries alone. Are you in or out?”
“In . . . there’s a chub competition going on. Remember?”
“I don’t get paid to go home.”
“You want out? Yes, or no.”
“No! Fuck NO! OK!”
Doc pouted but didn’t speak.
“Well, I’m waiting Doc. You need time to think about it? That’s as good as saying, no.”
Doc turned and glared at Space, “I’m in– but you need to follow through on your promises. Promises you made to Wally and I when this started. Promises you made to all of us. Where are the A gigs Space? Where’s the better money? The comfortable living conditions, the fuckin’ hot tubs, hot and cold running champagne, the silver plated napkin rings, naked chicks, underwater dancing? Where? Where? WHERE?”
Woe! Doc was really putting it out there.
Doc turned back to face me and continued to lean on his chair but he had certainly awakened the rest of us. Yeah Space where is everything you promised? It had all been deflected from the true reason we were having these problems. The very essence of the misery we felt. We were still struggling, still living week to week and barely getting by. Yet, Space always had money. He took care of the band’s finances and always ate in restaurants while the rest of us dilapidated and starving, fought it out over my food trunk.
“Give me a little more time Doc. Let’s deal with the problems at hand first. I spoke with a friend who knows a guy looking for a gig. Apparently he’s a very good guitarist and is willing to join us on short notice. He’ll be given a copy of our set list. He’ll learn the music and meet us at Buddy Bob’s next week.”
“Buddy Bob’s? I thought we were heading north next week?”
“Yeah, well fuck that gig, fuck Sleezyk and fuck his agency . . . just fuck that creepy bald cock sucker! We are going to dump him before he dumps us. I’m tired of not having everything too, Doc. We are going to let him believe we are going to that booking. But we’re not going to show. After Millionaires, we’re done with that bisexual prick!”
“Is he a pitcher or a catcher?”
“Wally . . . who the fuck cares, OK?”
“What are we going to do for an agent Space?”
“I’ll work it out Sparky. No hot tubs and underwater dancing yet Doc, but give me time. I’ve made a deal.”
Saturday, February 17, 2007
Friday, February 16, 2007
Linds was the only one with the balls to take me up on it and roll out her potty mouth.....It's why I love her so: The potty mouth and the balls and not as in testicles....you know what I mean.
Following is her post, for that post. Enjoy, and may God strike you down if you don't visit her Blog!
In a recent "survey/meme" I did online, it contained the question "What word do you use far too frequently?"
My response was thus:
"Fuck" or variations thereof... Fucked. Fucking. Fucker. Fucks. Fuckable. I'm such a dainty lady.
It's just such an awesomely versatile and powerful word; It's verb, noun, adjective, descriptor, exclamation, emphasis word... It can be used in so many different ways. It can even be used to accent itself! "You fucking fuck!" is always one of my favourite nastier snipes at inanimate objects. All of which I shouldn't use in front of my Grandma. (And usually don't.)
My favourite fridge magnet I've got on the fridge says: "I suppose saying Fuck you would be unprofessional?"
Be afraid for my children, dear ones. They are going to be the kids that have a shirt that says something like "My dad could kick your dad's ass!" or "All daddy wanted was a blow job." I'm well on my way to being honky Surrey white trash.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
I've been amazed at the common thread all actors seem to share: The callous ability to fall in love quickly; to get married within hours of consummation; to fall out of love even quicker; and hide behind "irreconcilable differences" in a divorce a week later.
Seems to me, with a craft that demands so many hours in a multitude of exotic locations, you'd have more sense about getting hitched.
If it was me, I'd just make my millions and fuck when the need presented itself- three,four times daily. After all, isn't that why you're given a trailer?
But breakups are good for tabloid business and sell advertising on car wrecks like E-True. So it shouldn't come as a surprise so many are throwing their hats into the Anna Nichole baby ring vying for paternity....Who's next? Ellen Degeneres?
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
And let's put the rumours to rest. By out of my element I don't mean I'm currently wearing assless chaps in a gay biker bar.
Tuesday, February 13, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
Sunday, February 11, 2007
chapter thirteen - hello, room service
Years ago we sat around at the truck-stop, in the middle of nowhere, because we had no choice. Now, Wires and I sat around at our leisure because we chose to. The perfect podium to rehash the past while having a good laugh at our own expense.
Wires grabbed his pack of cigarettes from the table and went to pop one out of the opening. There wasn’t anything inside. He reached for the phone. “You want anything from room service Sparky?”
Doc Barlow’s old Groucho Marx routine came flooding back into my head, Hello room service. Send up a room. “No I’m all right.”
Wires dialed and waited. A voice, hardly discernable babbled into Wires’ ear as he ordered another pack of Marlboros, and another urn of coffee– black. He finished with “No. That’s fine. Thank you.” He set the phone down into it’s cradle. “Looks like Doc finally got his way, you and me both drinking our coffee black.”
“You’ll be pissing like a fire engine for hours.”
“It’s only half past eleven. We’ve got time. Another hour at least before we have to be where we have to be.” He had spoken in his usual monotone, but to me, it seemed he’d almost sang it. A little jingle, “before we have to be– where we have– to– be!’”
A siren raced by somewhere in the distance, snaking through the city below us. The sun shone with a brilliance, I felt I’d not seen in many years. Perhaps since the day in desolate destitution, next to the Ghost, with its broken axle, on the verge of losing yet another member of our entourage--- an oppressive weight, with no hope and no future, encroaching on us all. The glowing orange ball was now rising above the massive bank tower and stalked us from outside the window. Yet, there had been the same sun, years apart, shining through the cold--- through the uncertainty.
“I have to tell you. I had so much respect for you after those two days out there in — What was the name of that place? Doesn’t matter— ”
“— Just doin’ my job.”
“You worked ceaselessly Wires. Sleeping on cases of Valvoline; matted hair; no shower and skin brown as dirt.”
“The work had to be done. And see, the grease finally came out.” He held his hands out to me with his palms upward.
“God Wires! The truck’s broken, we’ve barely escaped the last gig with our lives, we’ve lost one light-man and then Thumper just up-and-decides he’s had enough . . .”
“Could you blame him, Sparky? Space was always riding the little guy . . . and Wally. Remember he would tell Thumper, there was a good chance his baby girl was probably going to grow up to be a lezbo prostitute, or on the wrong end of good wife beating.”
“Oh yeah. You’re right, no wonder he packed it in. Hey I wonder if she did? – You know, become a lady of the night?”
“If she had, I think we’d have read something by now about Thumper hunting Wally down and killing him.”
There was a moment of levity and we both chuckled, before turning another page in our reminiscence. “You have to admit it, Wires. There was some serious voodoo going on with the band at that time and the bottom hadn’t fallen out with the agent yet.”
“Yet, we persevered.”
Again my mind played and I heard Wires croon, “Yet we per-se-vered!” as if our meeting was an endless rendition of show tunes— a musical for an endless live audience of the masses. The uproar we’d caused with the bar and its owner in Nasty Tree, plus the fact we’d be late arriving to Millionaires, had not sat well with our agent. He was a shady character named Murray Lesyk, who we referred to as Murray Sleezyk. He was a fat, bald asshole who wore suits, a notch above shabby, in an effort to improve his reputation. His face was a scribble of Don Johnson five o’clock shadow across chipmunk cheeks surrounding a small bow of his mouth. He had been responsible for past blunders of double bookings and insane distances of travel between gigs. I wondered why we continued to use such a boob? Space had insisted, “Sleezyk was a musician in his own right before he was an agent. He believes in character building through paying your dues, Sparky.”
“Yeah Space, but do we have to pay everyone else’s dues in the process?” It seemed to me there was an awful lot of interest on top of those dues, and we’d been
playing the roachy dives for sometime. There were also rumors that our illustrious gig-broker swung both ways and saved the really juicy gigs for his bands that put out, (usually down on both knees, in the privacy of his office). He’d had designs on our small Thumper until he heard we were losing our only asset. The ruckus at the bar had been bad enough, but now he rambled on to Space about “integrity,”and, “professionalism.” He wondered aloud if we had, the fortitude to do this for a living? It was there Sleezyk had slowly, but surely, decided to dump us a day and a half drive from home. Grabbing us by the grapefruits, (so-to-speak), through the phone line and squeezing til the glass was half empty.
“Sleezyk booked a back-end at half scale because we were late, remember?”
“It was either that or nothing at all, Sparky. Three days is better than no days. It’s not like we had anyone who was willing to blow him. The only reason he booked us in the first place, was because Space told him Wally was into the old Neil and Bob, and he took it as a sexual metaphor for fellatio instead of realizing he was talking about Neil Young and Bob Dylan.”
There was a knock at the door. Wires answered and a tray was wheeled in with the order. A lone carnation decorated a vase in the center. Wires tipped the guy. I tossed the carnation onto the previous tray from the morning, to join the other flower now wilting slightly.
Wires sat down and reached for the coffee cups. He poured me one anyway. He unwrapped the pack and grabbed an exposed cigarette with his lips, followed by the unmistakable odor of sulphur as he struck a match and lit up.
“Well it looks like Sleezyk got his wish. Hypothetically he fucked us up the ass.”
“I know Sparky, but our luck began to change. For a while anyway.”
“Remember Apples & Oranges?”
“How could I forget them?”
Saturday, February 10, 2007
I’ve set aside this post, not only to recommend excellent additions to your music collection, but to make amends with sects of the population I may have offended in my posts during the course of the week.
It looked like I was going to get through the week without having to apologize to anyone, then Anna Nicole Smith kacked. Now, I have so much to choose from— religion, fat chicks, dead people, cross dressers, addicts- I’m not sure what I could post to cover everyone?... Thank you Anna Nicole!
Since I’ve already done the dead, did the addicts last week and I’m forever apologizing to the religious zealots anyway, I’ll try to kill as many birds with one stone, with no pun intended to the dead, animal activists, or the addicts.
As not to further offend, cross dressers, animal activists, the overweight, and the makers of stupid hats, this week I recommend: My Turtle's Dead! by Weela Gallez
Friday, February 09, 2007
That’s a picture of her BTW for those of you who’ve been living at the bottom of an outhouse with a digital camera.......Come home Herb! It’s cold out and Mom’s getting worried.
After all, this is the Friday link and that’s what I’m going to do. I’m not going to sit here and discuss how someone must have told Anna Nicole, God was an old fuck who has lots of money so she better get up there quick.
I will however, direct you to our old friends at the Death Pool so you can see how many people cashed in with correct predictions she’d kick the bucket.
Besides Anna Nicole will always be here with us. She will live on in the embodiment of female impersonators everywhere in Elvis proportions....you know, “fat Anna Nicole” or, “thin Anna Nicole”.
So, go to the link and while you're there, why not sign up? Pick you're own soon to be dead guys.......and no, I'm not on the list.
Thursday, February 08, 2007
When looking for a handy sex aid, many of us turn to the produce aisle for inspiration--- I know I did when I worked in the industry--- and a dildo or masturbation toy may be as close as the refrigerator or fruit bowl.
While the humble cucumber and its comrades have served well, there are some more elaborate creations out there for the right devious mind. Take for instance....
The Classic Cucumber Dildo
The cucumber is a time-honored favorite from the refrigerator. Now it's been updated with a bullet vibrator and a celery stick clit stimulator.
Cut off the end of a cucumber and dig a hollow in it about twice as long as your bullet vibrator. Cut a length of celery about four inches long. About an inch from the open end of the cuke, cut a hole in the side just big enough to fit the celery. Push the bullet vibe all the way in, then insert the celery stalk, pushing it down behind the bullet. You'll feel the vibrations deep inside while the celery ridges tickle your clit. You'll be halfway to a tossed salad in no time.
The Papaya Pussy
The super slick flesh of this fruit combines with smooth slippery seeds creating a sensation you won't soon forget.
Select a ripe papaya long enough to fit your penis but small enough to hold comfortably in one hand....if you're Bob Noxious you'll need two papaya.
Cut a hole in the round end (not the stem end) a little smaller than your penis. Remove most of the pulp and loose seeds from the inside, leaving some attached to the sides to make "ridges". The papaya is ready to use at this point, but you can also add vibration. At the stem end, cut a small hole through the meat of the papaya perpendicular to the tunnel and slide in a small bullet vibrator.
Cucumber Melon Ball
Once you get past the image that this thing looks like a Disney character you should be fine. Insertion of a cucumber dildo into the melon base is so it an be "ridden". Also note the addition of a vibrator and a second ridged cucumber for clit or anal stimulation.
Cut two holes in a melon a couple of inches apart. Size the holes so that your cucumbers will fit in snugly. Cut a few inches off the end of a cucumber, carve ridges into the surface, and hollow out the base to fit a bullet vibrator. Cut a small notch in the base to accommodate the wire when the piece is inserted. Fit the bullet in place and insert the cuke section into one of the holes, then push the other whole cucumber into place in the other. This can be ridden facing either direction, with the vibrating element pressing against the clit or anal area.
English Cucumber Double Dong
You and a friend can share your love of produce with this two-ended toy. Select the longest English cucumber you can find. One with a curve to it is ideal. Near the center of the cuke, carve out two small holes in which to insert your bullet vibrators. You can leave the vibrators sticking up a bit to nudge your clit(s). Added, are some textured jelly cock rings for extra stimulation.
I can't wait to watch GIGC try this one out.
Japanese Eggplant Wand
These elegant eggplants have many advantages as a sex toy - they're long, smooth, slightly pliant, come in a variety of sizes, and are often gently curved. Installing a bullet vibrator by carving out a hollow near the stem end of the eggplant is advised. As a clitoral tickler, note the frilly kale leaf. To insert the kale, poke a hole through the eggplant with a skewer or small knife and thread the kale stem through. A little vegetable oil "lube" can ease the way.
Bell Pepper- Asparagus Clit Vibe
In general, it's best to stay away from peppers when making sex toys from food, however the following is an exception for this sweet red bell pepper--- GIGC is allergic to the green peppers. To make this toy, carefully cut the bell pepper on the diagonal so that the "bump" inside below the stem remains intact. Remove all seeds and trim the inner membranes around the protuberance. With a corer or knife, cut around the stem and remove it, leaving the rest of the cap intact. Carve out a hollow where the stem was and insert a bullet vibe. For an optional anal tickler, cut a small hole below the vibrator and insert a sturdy stalk of asparagus with a base wider than the tip. The asparagus can rest against the anal area.
I don't suggest inserting it, but if you do, cover the entire toy with a condom in case the stalk breaks.....And for God's sake never add cheese sauce....I won't be doing that again.
One Potato Two Potato
This hefty yam promises to be mighty filling, while a small potato serves as a side dish. Cut an inch or two off the end of a yam or sweet potato. If the other end is pointy, carve it down and round it off. Use an apple corer to remove flesh from the inside of the yam, carving out a hole long enough and wide enough to insert a slim vibrator. This dual vibrator has an attached bullet, slipped into a small Yukon Gold potato, also cored out.
Oh yeah! Pass the butter!
Zucchini Carrot Combo
Zucchinis are a favorite alternative to the classic cucumber dildo. Here there's additional baby carrots for clit and G-spot stimulation. Cut a couple of inches off the end of a zucchini, carefully hollow it out, and insert a slim vibrator. Near the base of the zuke, make some small circular holes 1/4 to 1/2 inch in diameter. Cut off short lengths of baby carrots and insert into the holes. Adjust the height of the bumps depending on how wild a ride you want.
This tropical fruit is just the right size and shape for an exotic sex toy. Select a starfruit that is underripe and firm. Cut a small hole in the stem end and hollow out a cavity just big enough for a bullet vibrator. Insert the bullet (if it's not waterproof, you may need to cover it with plastic wrap to protect it from the juice). The starfruit's ridges are perfect for gliding along your clit, and produce unique sensations when inserted.
Now if you'll excuse me I'm going to the market to pick up a few things.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Top 10 movie plane crashes of all time.
Top 10 annoying kids in movies. Aren't they all annoying?
Top 20 guitar solos of all time.
And their crazy fans.
The top 100 worst porn titles of all time. THE ANAL GIRLS OF TOBACCO ROAD 2 : VAGINA SLIMES, Kinda says it all doesn't it?
Tuesday, February 06, 2007
I just finished watching the commercials for the Super Bowl.....most them anyway...I fell asleep, and Robert Goulet snuck in and fucked with my shit.
What I'm trying to say here is, the commercials this year were sub-standard at best. I guess everyone was too wrapped up in paying for the spots to put much thought into actually entertaining the public.....and now I have an hour of my life I will never get back.
If you must watch, they are all here. My recommendation? Watch the stuff with beer and animals....the career builder spots were also ok....forget the rest.....Remember....Robert Goulet. You've been warned.
Personally, I'd rather watch how sushi's made. I've seen it and it's a lot like this except with less singing.
Monday, February 05, 2007
When the dust cleared and the last of the bones had been picked through and counted, Jade "Jugs" Monahan *slut* was crowned the wing eating champion, taking home the $5,000.00 first place prize.
In her wake, nine other male finalists--- including The Pit--- stood in awe of her voracious appetite for meat, proving why women are more successful in porn than men.
Although, setting a new personal best with 55 wings, our beloved Pit could only manage 2nd place to Monahan, *child abuser*, who defeated all her advisories with a final count of 60 wings.
Jugs * rug muncher* was a late entrant, earning her spot in the finals only last week, by sucking 65 off the bone.
Despite a valiant effort, The Pit was so upset after his performance he barely finished his six chicken dinners, but hopes for a rematch against Monahan *fecal eater* in the spring.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
chapter twelve - corned beef & ass cabbage
Journal entry- Day 14- We stopped for breakfast, Space’s treat. He didn’t eat much but it didn’t stop the rest of us from pigging out. Really seems like he’s had a change of heart after last night but then again, I believed Bruiser was going to let us leave the party too. We’re headed for a bar called ‘Millionaires’. Not only is it on the border between states but it is also on the meridian between two time zones, with half of the town an hour different from the other. But for once we have lots of time to get there.
After a lengthy stop and a top-up of the Ghost’s tank, we were on the road with bellies full and four hours more to our next gig. Wires had alerted us to the odometer. It was ready to turn over. Seven clicks to two hundred thousand. You have to understand how important an event like this is to us— to all men. Vehicle milestones are serious business. It rivals the dick hydraulic thing I was trying to explain to Space earlier. If size doesn’t matter, distance certainly does. It was like the popped cork of New Year champagne bubbly, like finally nailing the damn birthday pinata, or the building sexual orgasm and eventual leap off the precipice to release. We all gathered around as we sped down the highway like it was bottom of the ninth with the bases loaded. Let the countdown to bliss begin.
We spent more time in this truck then we did with our families. We knew more about one another than we did about ourselves, sometimes in less than favorable fashion. On an eight-hour trip between gigs it’s hard to hide bodily functions, the farting, the harvested noses and the ripe pickled smell of unwashed arm pits. Everything leaving the body was quickly discarded, from the eye booger, to the flatulent air, to the hair follicle. Nothing was saved. Yet, only moments ago it was part of the greater scheme of things, a precious member of the body’s community. Once it left however, moving out of the vicinity, crossing the border into the greater, wider, world of the macrocosm, we rolled it, flicked it, flushed it, hid it in Kleenex, or horked into blades of grass by the roadside. It’s as if this entity or projectile was like second cousins marrying. Inbred with an offspring of albinos and mongoloids--- a dirty little secret to be swept under the carpet.
All these are my observations of this planet and the human casing I must inhabit. The prison of flesh and blood, the cage of bone and pulsation, pumping, oozing, slimy, guts and innards. Of course there are the frequent zones of pleasure making life within this frame work tolerable. Yet, everyday is a struggle to maintain, lift that, brush this, rearrange those, itch these, pick at them. I’d seen, heard, and smelled, far too much of it from my fellow band-mates. I preferred the stealth sneeze when digging into the nostril of choice although, others like Wally, had no shame and thought nothing about being in up to the knuckle or worse.
The air was ripe with anticipation. The moment was at hand. Two and zeros across the board, when Wally let loose. “Whew! Smell what just came out of me.”
Everyone howled and moaned as Wally’s nauseating odor, thick and putrid, attacked nostrils at will. Windows and vents were quickly opened.
Why is such a natural bodily function such as the expelling of gas put under a microscope either for humor, or embarrassment? To Wally, it was none of these things. It was just as normal as putting on the morning coffee, or plugging in a guitar cable and strumming the first sweet cords of your favorite tune . . . The man could win talent shows he was so adept at singing through his sphincter. I’m not bringing up the farting issue just so I can grab my little piece of the pie and become a squatter on terrain already laid down by some of history’s greatest comics. It was just the actuality of people I traveled with, and mainly Wally. The protests were loud and swift.
“Someone should invent a gasmask for you ass, Wally!”
“Yeah! Lordy, that’s weapon’s grade flatulence.”
“Good god! Is there a poltergeist in here?”
“Better call a priest to administer last rights before he decomposes further.”
“Sorry guys but I’m always like this when I’ve had too much nervous excitement.”
“You did that on purpose. Right when the odometer clicked over Wally!---Shit we missed it.” The odometer read 200,000.1.
“It always amazes me, Wally, that you can do that on command,” Doc said.
“It’s a gift. What elks can I say?”
“At a moment like that, I couldn’t fart to save my life,” I added, then realized how stupid my comment sounded. I mean when would I ever be in a position where I’d have to fart to save my life?
There was a sudden grinding of metal on metal.
“Shit, Wally! What did you do? Does your scent carry that much power it can mess up man and machine?” All I could think was, we’re going to have to unload everything and piss on the floor again. “What is it, Wires?”
“I don’t know?” Wires started to navigate the van to the road’s shoulder.
Space gazed upward as if waiting for the Almighty to strike him down. “I swear trucks have a mind of their own. They know exactly when to break down. They know you forgot to fix the heater and it’s sub-zero outside. They know to overheat when you have no coolant and no money.”
Wires glanced at Space. “Well thankfully we aren’t in the middle of nowhere this time.”
We rolled gently to a stop and the grating of metal ceased also. We piled out grateful to be away from the potency of Wally’s little aerosol present. I was amazed. It wasn’t cold considering the flatness of the land and the time of the year, where the wind is capable of ripping you a new asshole. And a new asshole was the last thing Wally needed. The sun was a brilliant white and on any other day there would have been cause for rejoicing. Today however, it hurt my eyes, piercing my pupils with a strange aggravating intensity. I needed a set of dark ‘gods’, what we called sunglasses back then, with the lenses so impenetrable that they could render the midday sun to twilight.
Wires inspected the front end with Bronson. Both got down on all fours and peered into the undercarriage of the Ghost like synchronized mechanics. After a few minutes Wires reemerged. “It’s the axle. It’s cracked. Just a matter of time before it goes completely. I think if we turn around we can make it back to that truck stop and get it fixed.”
“Whatever you feel’s best Wires,” Space said.
Wally grumbled. “To think we’ve got fourteen more weeks of this.”
Doc was still fanning his hand across his face.“And to think we’ve got fourteen more weeks with your ass.”
We boarded the van and slowly Wires pulled out onto the road. A three-point-turn had us headed back to the truck stop and the service area located there. We lumbered into the station and halted next to a garage with silver, steel doors on a pull chain. Wires turned off the ignition and went in to talk to the mechanic. He returned with a cigarette dangling from his lower lip, “Well, I’ve got good news and bad news. We can repair it. In fact, the mechanic is going to let me work in the bay to save us on labor. The bad news is we have to wait here for the part to come.”
“How long is that going to be?”
“A day. Day and a half maybe.”
“That’s not good enough. We have to be a Millionaires by tomorrow night at the latest. Shit, Wires is there no other way?”
“Not unless you want to walk there with the equipment tied to your back, Space.”
“Just great! I’ll go call the agent. See if we can work something out.”
“You’ll have to wait for Thumper to get off the phone. He raced over there as soon as we stopped,” Doc said. He pointed to our little guitarist already in the booth pumping money into the slot.
“What, is his wife some sort of demon, bitchy fuck? ‘Make me cum now!’ Christ!” Space trudged over to the booth and began pacing back and forth, rapping on the door impatiently.
Doc and I strolled out to the road. It appeared desolate in all directions. Nothing but gray asphalt cutting a path through windswept barren fields of tall grass. In the distance we spied a Greyhound bus. It’s windows, bordered by chrome and steel, glinted in the sunlight. It pulled into the station and up to the pumps. It was an older model bus with curtains on all the windows and blue flames stretching the length of the body. The word, Chartered, was embossed across the front above the wind screen. I recognized it right away. “Oh great, Badd Kredytz.”
“It’s a band I auditioned for once. They said I was too portly . . . well actually, I think they used the word rotund. But either way I didn’t fit their image. That’s their bus.--- Fuck I hate these guys. They’re such pompous assholes.”
Badd Kredytz was one of those big hair bands full of themselves. They were more concerned with an image than whether the music they played sucked, or not. They were an amalgamation of power ballads and power struts with the obligatory double D, misspell, and Z’s replacing S’s, all bands of their genre seemed to have in their name.
The bus settled to a stop, and the door swooshed open. A tall blonde guy with big hair, sunglasses, zebra, spandex pants, a black blazer with padded shoulders and green high-tops emerged. Behind him the rest of the band filed out, equally overdressed, and took to posing next to the bus like runway models. After all, someone with a camera, perhaps the mechanic, might want to snap a few shots.
Big-hair-spandex-guy paused to adjust his dark shades and toss a fuzzy green boa over his shoulder before heading our way. It was like one of those sure things in life: the rule of avoidance, a little two-step from side to side. Where despite your best effort to get out of the way of the person you’re approaching, you still manage to come face to face.I would have to do my best to be pleasant. “Hey man great to see you. How are you?” I said.
The guy looked confused. Then he snapped his fingers. “Oh you’re the bouncer from that club in that town . . . uh . . . where we played . . .”
“I auditioned for you once— Johnny Malveen— You were looking for a bass player.”
“Oh right. Yeah cool. Malvin.” He was smiling and nodding like he knew all along, when he still had absolutely no clue who I was. In all fairness I had dropped quite a bit of weight since I’d been performing every night. Combined with not getting paid enough to eat, it made for an effective little diet.
“So ugh– Malvin . . .”
“Malveen,” I corrected.
“Right! What brings you here? You pumpin’ gas? If so, we need diesel.”
“No. I’m on tour with a band. – Oh forgive me. This is Doc Barlow our keyboard player. — Doc this is Benton.”
“Benton D. Struction.” Benton offered his hand and Doc took it.
“So are you guys like Christian Rock fags or something?”
“Woe, Doc, buddy...hey,” Benton laughed as he rubbed his heavy metal bracelet, “Easy on the religious music, guy. I mean that’s like me askin’ where’s Sneezy, Sleazy and your other dwarf chums?”
“I just thought with a name like that . . . there’s a lot of biblical reference going on. I mean which one of your band is Fire and which one’s Brimstone?” Doc thumbed to the rest of the band, now adjusting their crotches to achieve maximum bulges before flipping their hair and settling into new poses. The gas attendant tried not to take notice and started to fill their bus.
“Benton and his band play lighter anthems, Doc, that kind of thing.”
“As in cigarette lighters, Doc old boy.”
“The scars on my frontal lobe are still healing, but yeah Benton, I managed to figure that one out.”
“— And heavy rockin’ the chicks dig.” He did a small pirouette and let out a , “yeow!”
“Cool dude, you guys rock.” I said. I think I might have thrown up a little in my mouth with those words.
“You know it.”
The truth was they sucked. But it was the standard musician to musician praise. Even if he was a pretentious ass, I could slag him later and I was sure at this point Doc would be a willing participant.
“You guys getting juice for your ride too?”
“No. Our, ‘ride’, is being repaired at the moment,” Doc pointed to the Ghost next to the garage. Wires was sitting with his back to the wheel watching our conversation from afar. A cigarette dangled between two fingers as he rested his arms on his knees.
“You guys travel in that thing? Man you’re brave. Where’s the band sit, in the trailer? You need to get yourselves a cool ride like ours. Used to belong to Loverboy. Got it for a song.”
“Power ballad I’m bettin’,” Doc said.
“You know it! Beds in the back, bitchin’ sound system, TV and Atari fuckin’ computer dudes, one hundred and twenty-eight K of memory. Luxury and comfort from mile one, only way to go.”
Doc rolled his eyes. We were both a little envious. How did such a lame ass band with such an idiot for a leader deserve to ride in the lap of opulence?
“Where you guys gigging next?” He asked.
“Millionaires. Over in the town of Borderbridge.”
“God I hate that place. We did it couple of weeks ago.”
“Naw...crowd kicked, but the town’s fucked. We were constantly an hour late each night because of some time zone crap.”
“That’s right. I heard about that.” My heart pumped shit for him.
“You ever hear of a watch?” Doc said.
“This guy’s funny Malvinni.”
“Malveen.— Why didn’t you guys just stay at the hotel?”
“That dump? We need comfortable digs. Stayed at the Holiday Inn across town Baby.”
Doc inquired. “So....where you guys headed next Benton?”
“Cool that club rocks,” I said. Doc gave me a sideways glance. The one I’d seen from him before that said, “Sparky are you nuts?” We’d nearly come out of there one drummer short— twice now— and here I’m tellin’ Benton the “club rocks.” I could almost read Doc’s thoughts, “Sparky! You didn’t get the audition OK. Let it go.”
“You guys played The Oasis? Cool.”
“A few years back. It’s the last date for us on this tour as well. Can’t wait to get there. How bout you?”
“Cherry poppin’ dude. First time and we’re gonna rock the joint, tweak those nipples and make ‘em red. The town will be walkin’ bowl-legged for weeks after we rock it.”
“What you down for?”
“Five more gigs guy, then home to the old lady.”
“Better lay some heavy pipe in the next few weeks to tie you over then, huh?”
“You know it dude. My dick’s already hard.”
“I think I can help you out Benton. There’s this chick. She hangs at The Oasis. She’s hot. Does all the bands that play there. You should look her up.”
“Really? What’s her name?”
“I can’t remember. She’s like incognito or somethin’. A couple of years back she went by one of those stripper names like . . . oh— What was it Doc? Help me out.”
Doc rolled his eyes but decided to play along. “Sherif’s Daughter?”
“That’s it! Sherif’s Daughter. Doc’s got a better memory than I do. Less fat on the brain I guess? Anyway you gotta look for a guy name Bruiser.”
“Yeah you’ll recognize him, tall guy with a mullet, a real clumsy gimp. He hangs at The Oasis. He’s always got a broken nose, or cuts on his face and bruises on his eyes. Probably be walking with a limp.”
“Bruiser! I get it. Cool dude.”
“Tell him you’re a friend of our drummer Space and you want to get down and dirty with the Sherif’s daughter. He’ll understand and set you right up. But talk slowly because Bruiser’s a little retarded. He had some-kind-of disease when he was a kid— Tic-tal-aroo or Diffugus of the hole— Whatever it was, it messed him up.”
“Right on! Thanks Melvin.”
“Right guy. You know it! We’ll look the limp Gimp up, when we get into town. I know all the boys are hungry for a little ugh!” He trust his hips outward into an imaginary girl and swirled them slowly in a circular motion like he was stirring a drink. “You know a little corned beef and ass cabbage!”
“You won’t be disappointed Benton. I can guarantee it. We’re still talking about that place. Believe me.”
“Yeah– hey we’re gassed and ready to gun so . . .” Benton pointed at us with both fingers and made a couple of clicking noises with his tongue. “On the flip side dudes.”
Doc whispered out the side of his mouth as Benton returned to his compatriots. “I hope those fingers are the first things broken.”
I responded, “You know it guy!”
“Is it just me or does Benton remind you of Space?”
“You mean the old Space.”
“Oh right. I forgot. It’s still Christmas morning for Ebenezer Space,” and Doc started to do a scene from A Christmas Carol. “Boy fetch that turkey in the window, you know the one I mean?”
---“ What the one as big as me?”
“ Oh...Yes! Yes! What a delightful boy . . . fuck!”
Doc left me standing by the pumps as he headed into the restaurant. I watched Benton and the boys peel out, with the blaring thunder thud of AC/DC’s, “Highway to Hell”, rumbling from within in an appropriate sendoff. I watched them roll out of sight. I smiled to myself and walked over to where Wires sat. His greasy hands still clutched the remnents of his lit cigarette and Wally was there too, still bitching about how we were cursed. Space was now in the phone booth gesticulating madly with someone on the other end of the line and I could see Thumper and Bronson in a cubicle, sipping coffee, inside the dinner.
The dust was still settling from Badd Kredytz’ boisterous exit as Wires squinted and looked up at me. “Friends of yours Sparky?”
“Certainly not after today Wires. Remember the old Klingon proverb ‘revenge is a dish best served cold’?— It doesn’t get any colder.”
“Hmm,” he responded. “Well, to see eternity in a seed, one needs vision rather than eyesight--- Confucius. Let’s hope the vision’s not too eye opening for you Sparky.”
Doc returned, with coffee for all--- of course it was black.
“You won’t be happy til you take over the world will ya Doc?” I said, as I surveyed the dark java.
We all sipped in silence until Doc spoke, “By the way. I overheard Thumper telling Bronson, he’s leaving the band.”
Saturday, February 03, 2007
This week there has been too much talk about crack why even the Google Ad Sense touted, concrete "crack" repair.....See what I mean?
As not to further offend any more drug addicts I recommend: The Addicts Sing- Various artists.
Friday, February 02, 2007
I want to play a game.
For months now you have been coming to this site--- pontificating, self absorbed, never reading, staying for mere milliseconds and clicking onto another page as fast as you can....You've been putting yourself dangerously close to developing Carpal Tunnel.
Now, it is I who will prognosticate.
Before you are two links.
Link #1 Link #2
One of these links holds the key to returning here safely, while the other....holds the potential of six more weeks of winter....a nasty proposition to destroy all hope of you feeling the warmth of the sun.
Which will it be Random Blog Reader?
You have thirty seconds.
Make your choice.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
Now it’s time to meet the pretenders for the Grand Chicken wing-off.
Jade "Jugs" Moynihan (2-1)
Allegedly ate 63 wings in 10 minutes last week to qualify for the finals. She has squeezed her way into a spot as a ligitimate contender. Hopes to use the winnings to move from her fridge box to a more spacious dumpster and buy more crack.
Rick "Bushy" Lisko (10-1)
Claim to fame: He recently ate a seven-legged, transgendered deer that he'd run over with his vehicle. Story here.
It’s not just bad news for the Bears on Sunday, it’s "Bad News" Bartor Manning (25-1)
No relation to Peyton, but is a second cousin, twice removed, to Eli. Also known as El Diablo to his friends he once ate a Creative Touch blender due to impatience, when he couldn’t wait for the mashed potato shake. Favorite dish: two tire irons, with a side of cabbage and a small nest of baby eagles in barbeque sauce.
Harlan "the Tunnel" Martinez (50-1)
Can eat 14 kittens and an oil painting of Omar Epps in seven minutes.
Freddie "Sandman" Gooligon
Has been eating 2lbs of dirt in Inner Mongolia for the past two months in preparation. Note to self: Cancel culinary trip to Inner Mongolia.
Darla "Wing Whore" McGeggie (80-1)
The only other woman in the field of ten. She says she has been too busy dating hunks to train for Sunday's final. The question is: Hunks of what?
Tony "Squint" Bibby (100-1)
Doesn't expect to win Sunday, he's just going, "to score all the luscious wing groupies".