Saturday, March 31, 2007
The "My Sweet Lord" display was shut down by the hotel that houses the Lab Gallery in midtown Manhattan.
Come on! What's wrong with an anatomically correct chocolate Christ? Think of the fun kids would have trying to find the two Easter eggs.
Keep the tip
If you're gonna smoke that pipe, you should have a convertible. At least that's the message being sent out by South African researchers this week in hopes to combat the further spread of AIDS by trying to convince men to lop off the foreskin.
I agree. Winter's over guys. Lose the turtle-necks. Off with his head!
I can’t get no...
Satisfaction that is, unless you’re a teacher, movie star, president or CEO of a company according to a recent survey that lists those titles as the jobs where individuals find the most satisfaction.
Seems to me Porn Star would be pretty high on the list too.
Some funeral homes are now offering webcast viewing and services for those who can’t make the trek to pay their last respects. Lazy bastards!
Can you believe it? Man, people will watch anything...well at least it’s commercial free.
Keeping my cheese dry
Under the same heading of “I have nothing better to do with my life”. While it may not be as exciting as watching paint dry or grass grow, cheese lovers can now go online and watch a 55lb. block of cheddar mature 24 hours a day.
Here's the link for cheddar vision if you're interested.
On a personal note: Don't look Derek!
I just saw it age! Did you see it age? Wow that was fun. Let's watch some more.
For the cigarette companies, it was Joe Camel. Now, methamphetamine manufacturers are accused of borrowing a similar tactic — using cartoon characters and candy flavors to lure teen users.
Chocolate, peanut butter and strawberry? They're not just ice cream flavors, they are the new taste of meth, the latest way dealers and manufacturers are packaging their goods in an ever-changing drug economy.
...I just saw the Cheddar age some more! No wait....it must be the meth?
Ahead by a 1/2 century
Hells Angels turn 50 this weekend.
I'd tell you where the party's going to be, but then I'd have to kill you.
The Ira resolution
OK enough already in this conflict between Iran and Brittan. The Iranians say the Brits were trespassing in Iran’s waters. The English say they were in Iraq. Can’t we just split the difference and say the British were in Ira’s waters. That’s a 3/4 admission of guilt, or victory depending on what side you’re on. I’m sure guys named Ira wouldn’t care with Passover coming up and all.
The Da Vinci inquest
Dan Brown was cleared by U.K. courts of copyright infringement for his blockbuster book The Da Vinci Code, but who will clear Ron Howard for making that awful movie?
For what it's worth I believe Dan Brown did not plagiarize the material. Some people are just jealous when authors come up with creative ideas on their own.
For example, I'm writing a new novel.
It's a tale of intrigue where a famous sculpture of a Chocolate Jesus has been stolen by Iranian radicals led by a Catholic Cardinal and held for ransom.
Losing hope, the government turns to one man, Ira a card carrying member of the Hells Angels turned Porn Star, who in his attempts to retrieve the Jesus, uncovers a much deeper plot to rid the world of all sweets and force everyone to eat cheese. In fact a 55lb cheddar bomb is set to go off....in one year, if demands are not met.
Captured and alone Ira is fed raspberry crystal meth and threatened with the torture of having his foreskin removed, but what his captors don't know......Ira's Jewish.
That's all I've come up with so far but as you can see it's easy to be original.
Friday, March 30, 2007
Thursday, March 29, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
And with the sun smiling down I couldn't help thinking summer was finally within reach, which made me think of chicks in bikinis, which made me think of the world cup of cricket for some strange reason-- a silly game that takes a fort night to play....damn! But back to thoughts of chicks in bikinis.....what you too?
Let us dream together my friend.....perhaps of chicks in bikinis playing cricket? If I may be so bold?
Oh yeah! That's it. Dance you little nymphs.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Gives new meaning to the term "Bat pole" doesn't it?
Why the red face Batman?
Part 1 of 12
Sunday, March 25, 2007
chapter nineteen - men and their fascination with hydraulics
Journal entry -Day 23- My first thought today was, I’m hungry, screw the food trunk. I’m going to splurge and get something to eat in the restaurant. Real food. Something not from a can, or a box, or if it’s processed to shit, I’m not going to know about it. Doc is up, and he and I are heading down for a traditional offering of bacon, eggs, home-fries, toast and a big glass of O. J. After last night we owe it to ourselves.
It was 11:00 A.M.. Everyone else was still sleeping, burned out from the emotional duress of the previous night, but not Doc and I. The day was burning bright and everything seemed to be more vivid. The checkered table cloth was a radiant red, the laced curtains— a delicate lily white, my coffee— a black mirrored pool of steaming liquid. Although it seemed a little cool outside, you couldn’t tell with the way the sun blazed its warmth through the window next to the table where we sat. I basked in its loving embrace, letting it take me. “I can’t believe what happened last night Doc?”
“Everything happens for a reason.”
We started to rehash the cause and effect, which now had us sitting across from each other trying to figure it all out, from the utter chaos on stage, to Spike’s fisticuffs with the cowboy. The Shit-kicker, as I had referred to him, had the shit kicked out of him by our rookie guitarist-wack-job, and strange as it now seemed, it had helped more than hindered. Then there was Space, and his generous serving of reprimands for everyone. And finally, the unexpected knock at the door, from a man none of us expected to see again. There was also the ensuing conversation. It started with the big guy with the beard speaking first.
“Guys, my name is Graveyard but my friends call me Gravy,” he said.
I thought Space was going to drop to all fours, right then and there, and begin kissing Gravy’s feet. The rest of us looked up at him from our seated positions, as if suddenly struck by a heavenly vision. He seemed taller and even more ominous standing before us, but I realized it was simply forced perspective. That entire last set we’d been looking down on him, and suddenly the roles had been reversed. Other than telling us his name he hadn’t said anything. Yet, we were convinced, here was our savior ready to lead us to Walden’s promised land and Doc’s underwater dancing.
Gravy spoke slowly and deliberately in a low, gravel growl. “I wasn’t really sure if your band was the right one for us, but at the end I had to admire your spirit and feistiness in the way you handled yourself.” He chuckled lightly. “That’s just the attitude we need and what we’re looking for....intensity. A band who can hold their own when the going gets rough, and believe me it can get rough out there. I just had to check with my partner to make sure we could still take you on before I got back to you. Sorry it’s so late. Time's an issue and we needed an answer from you sooner than later.”
We must be the best band they’ve ever seen to want us this bad?
Space reported with appreciation, “As you can see we’re all still up.”
Gravy grunted and shook his head up and down slightly. “Musically it’s passable. I don’t care much for that bebop-pop, stuff you guys play. I’m more of a blues-rock traditionalist, but if you can maintain the intensity level and the entertainment value, then I have an offer for you.”
Spike’s going to have to beat up a lot of audiences. What kind of bands, is this Walden guy looking for?
Space said, “You must have spoken to Walden then, Mr. Gravy?”
“It’s just Gravy and who did you say?”
“Gary Walden, the agent. Supreme Agency? He sent you out to see us. You own The Matador Club . . . right?”
“I don’t know any Gary Walden, or Supreme Agency, but I have been in The Matador. I hang there with The Jokers.”
“Who are The Jokers?”
“The JMC, the Jokers Motorcycle Club.”
“So you weren’t sent here by the Supreme Agency?”
Gravy was becoming impatient. “No! Look guys, my club is sponsoring this year’s Biker Boogie. There’s bikers from all over the country, coming to this town next week and we’re having a huge bash. One of our bands dropped out at the last minute and we need a replacement by next Friday. Like I said. I don’t have much time. I just happened to be in Bob’s tonight and saw you guys play. I like what I see, and I’m offering the gig to you. You want it or not?” Gravy folded his arms across his massive chest just as he’d done when he sat in the club watching us
unimpressed. His biker jacket made a leather squeak as he did so. With all the studs and pins decorating the shoulders and back, the thing must have weighed a hundred pounds?
Space paused for a moment, then spoke. “We’re interested. What are the terms?”
“You start next Friday at dusk— hour on, an hour off— until the sun comes up. We pay you Twenty- eight bills plus all you can eat, drink and fuck. What do you say?”
“What about our gig at Bob’s? We’re supposed to play here next week.”
“Come next Friday there won’t be anyone to play to. This place will be a ghost town. Everyone including Bob will be at our function. You can either play to thousands of wild bikers for more money, or no one at all. The choice is yours.”
“Good. I’ll be back tomorrow with a contract.” Gravy had said all he needed to, and left abruptly allowing us to ponder this strange twist in events. It would be some time before any of us would see our beds with this new infusion of exhilaration.
Our breakfast arrived. The eggs steamed, the toast glistened dripping with butter, the bacon was crisp and aromatic. “God! What a wondrous day Doc. Twenty-eight hundred for one night. That’s more than we make in a week,” I giggled. I jabbed an end of my toast into an egg yolk.
“Yes sir! Simply glorious Sparky. I’m even going to buy– you– breakfast.”
No one had said shit when Gravy left. We’d all been in shock. Once the information began to take root our hands at each other’s throats, had turned into a virtual love-fest of back slaps and high-fives. All our problems had been temporarily swept under the mat. Wires had been the only one who showed any trepidation. He’d sat back with his usual cigarette perched between two fingers when it wasn’t in his mouth, deep in thought. He knew Gravy hadn’t stopped the bleeding of our agent problem, he’d only applied a band-aid. However, we weren’t
thinking about tomorrow when our today had turned out so wondrous.
Doc Barlow and I finished our meals, paid, and started to leave when I ran into Megan coming in, as we were on our way out.
“Doc, I’ll catch up to you later.”
Doc pointed at me and made a clicking sound much like Benton had done at the truck-stop, then sauntered off whistling South Side of the Sky, by Yes.
I caught up to Megan. “Hey! I thought you were going to come up to my room last night and . . . how did you put it?.... ‘Fuck me senseless.’”
“I only fuck guys with ten inch dicks!” She was obviously still pissed at my snarly exit the night before.
“Oh, and you expect me to cut off two inches just for you?”
She paused for a moment. There was the hint of that devious smile again. All was forgiven. “How are you at giving massages?”
“I don’t know? Why don’t we sit down and discuss it?”
Megan said coyly with a sly wink, “So twelve huh? You must be very proud?”
“Maybe later, we can get together and you can swallow my pride?”
“Hmm . . . Mr. Confidence. Sounds like you don’t get many complaints about your sexual prowess with your attitude.”
“I wouldn’t say that, it’s just that I never listen to them when I do.”
“What’s with you, Jekyll and Hyde? You’re like this totally different guy today, all happiness and sunshine.”
I told her of what had transpired including the Biker Boogie offer.
“I could have told you all that. I know Gravy. We party sometimes.”
“Here’s the funny part Megan. We thought Gravy was the owner of The Matador sent to check us out and report back to this new agent we want to represent us.”
“Oh how could you mistake Gravy for him, they’re totally different. Gravy’s much taller.”
“You know who I’m talking about? The owner of The Matador?”
“Yeah he was in last night too. He saw your first set. Why did you think Bob was so happy? He told Bob you guys are going to take away his business this week, you’re so good. Remember, I told you?”
“You didn’t tell me that! Fuck me! This day just keeps getting better and better.”
“You think so? Just wait for tonight.”
“Tonight? What about this afternoon?” I had come to terms with my infidelity long ago. I’d tried to remain faithful while on the road. I went as far as calling home after I had spurned my first advance. Perhaps I caught Lorraine in the middle of one of her favorite TV shows, or at the beginning of her menstrual cycle, but she had seemed totally disinterested in my effort, even a little annoyed at my intrusion. “Damn it woman! I’m a man! It is my ingrained need to procreate the world, and I’ve just turned down such an opportunity and you act like you don’t give a shit. Fuck that!” And that’s exactly what I did the next night, when the same girl appeared in the bar to see our band again.
Megan and I chatted as I waited for her to finish her meal. Later we’d adjourn to her place and I would explore the age old study of, men and their fascination with hydraulics. “Penis goes up!’” It was the best day ever! Until I realized, I was late for our afternoon rehearsal with psycho Spike and the boys.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Cripes! So sensitive. I'm sorry to all the overly-tall, rare-air-breathing, amazons out there. OK? With my apologies I recommend: Big George
Next week, New releases will be moving to Friday.
Friday, March 23, 2007
Perhaps you've notice recently, I've been relying on YouTube and shorter posts that better conserve my time? It's because I will be returning to my summer schedule shortly.
In past years this meant blogging once a week until the fall. However, this year I am trying to keep up with the daily Blog to see how it goes. Subsequently, you'll probably see more posts- like the one below -with less fanfare, but high in "what the fuck was that?" content.
Now I know where they got the creepy puppet laugh for Saw.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Wednesday, March 21, 2007
Look! You can't have them both. It's Little People Week, remember? And today we study the cream of the crop. The top 10 of the bottom half of the vertically challenged if you will.
I don't expect you to watch all the videos. After all I don't want you to lose sleep, or cause you excessive eye damage, but video evidence is there if you need it.
10. Hervé Villechaize
Hervé Villechaize is probably best known as Tattoo on the TV series Fantasy Island, where he rubbed elbows with Ricardo Montalbán and got paid an inordinate amount of money to utter the phrase “De plane! De plane!”
According to his Wikipedia entry, Villechaize “insisted on being called a midget, rather than ‘little person,’” and “proved a difficult actor on Fantasy Island where he continually propositioned women and quarreled with the producers.” Right on, little guy. That just earned you the #10 spot on my list. You sure didn’t get it because of your singing abilities. (See video below.)
9. Nelson de la Rosa
Before he tragically passed away last year, De la Rosa, who was a close personal friend of Pedro Martinez, held the distinction of being the world’s shortest actor. Standing in at just over 21 inches, he was only slightly longer than my buddy Orson's wang, but considerably more pleasing to the ladies. Check out how he drives those Dominican women crazy as he suggestively dances with what your neighborhood apothecary would instantly recognize as a mortar and pestle. Come on everybody! Dance! Dance! Dance!
8. Gary Coleman
At 4'8″?, Gary Coleman just barely meets the requirements (4'10″? and under for males) for being considered a little person. It was a tough call deciding between him and Emmanuel Lewis, but I ultimately went with Coleman because he and I have a lot in common.
We were both kings of our respective domains back in the early 80’s - he was the only star in the “little black kid” sitcom genre, and I was the only child in my household. Then along came a newer, cuter rival - Coleman had to battle Webster for America’s affection, and I had to battle my little brother for my parents’ affection. Later on, we both had some legal troubles, we both ran for governor of California, and I can’t be certain, but I’m pretty sure we’ve both accidentally killed a hooker. You and I are kindred spirits, Gary.
Wee Man is perhaps the greatest midget skateboarder ever, although I’m not quite sure how much competition there is in that category. Here is the video of him dressed as an Oompa Loompa skateboarding down a busy sidewalk. For everyone who saw him that day, it was probably the strangest sight they had ever seen…at least until they saw those pics of Lindsay Lohan’s snatch.
A lot of people think of Verne Troyer as a one-hit wonder. They think he got lucky landing roles in those two Austin Powers movies and he probably won’t ever approach that kind of success again.
Don’t let those naysayers bring you down, Verne. I’ve seen you on The Surreal Life and I just know that you’ve got a lot of films left in you. You just have to keep your boozing under control. KnowwhatImean, Verne?
5. Tony Cox
The name “Tony Cox” might not immediately ring a bell with you, but I can almost guarantee you know him. His two biggest roles were probably the limo driver in Me, Myself, and Irene and Santa’s elf in Bad Santa. He’s also played the role of an Ewok in Star Wars Episode VI: Return of the Jedi, and its subsequent porn counterpart Star Whores: Return of the Browneye, but I doubt you’ve seen that one.
4. Danny Woodburn
Like Tony Cox, Danny Woodburn’s name might not be familiar to you, but I’m sure you’ve seen him. Remember Kramer’s friend Mickey on Seinfeld? That was Danny Woodburn. He made this list due to his outstanding role on maybe the greatest sitcom ever, not because of the stupid commercial seen below. I’m sorry, I just couldn’t find the Seinfeld clip anywhere on the web, and neither Larry nor Jerry would return my calls. It’s like people make a few hundred million dollars and they stop being your friend. Jerks.
3. Bridget the Midget
My two favorite things in the world are midgets and porn....OK......better make that just porn. Bridget the Midget is the world’s most famous midget stripper/porn star, and she’s also my ideal woman. Think about it - she’d be really cheap to take out to dinner, she could never hog the covers, being next to her would always make you feel huge and manly, (pssst!....well endowed), and most importantly, she couldn’t beat the crap out of you when you try to stand up for yourself and have your buddies over to play poker once a week…heh, not that anything like that has ever happened to me before.
2. The Rice Twins
You ever fall asleep on the couch while watching TV and wake up in the middle of the night? You’re not tired anymore, and the TV is on already so you decide to see if there’s anything worthwhile on the tube at 4 AM.
Some guys are selling samurai swords. CLICK. An episode of The Golden Girls. Dang I forgot how hot Blanche was. Ugh, Estelle Getty. CLICK. Ron Popeil is slicing and dicing something. CLICK. People talking about selling real estate. Hold up. Are those twin midgets dressed in business suits? Yes! I’ve got to see what these little guys are talking about!
Those two guys were John and Greg Rice, two self-made real estate millionaires. They used their status as midget twins to push their Cashflow Generator system and were very successful. John tragically passed away a couple years ago, but Greg is still going strong. Here’s a clip of the two brothers doing a commercial for a pest control business that they had a stake in.
1. Warwick Davis
If you’re making a list of the greatest midgets ever, one man is clearly head and shoulders above the rest, figuratively, that is. He’s had roles in Star Wars movies, Harry Potter movies, had numerous TV appearances, and played the lead in several Leprechaun movies as well as in his crowning achievement, Willow way before there was Lord of the Rings. Back when Ron Howard actually made good movies to inspiring James Horner scores. If you don’t have Willow in your list of top 10 movies ever, then you either haven’t seen it or you’re just a damned fool. Either way, you should stop reading now and rent the movie. It will change your life.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Midgets make great wrestlers. Midget tossing is a cool game to play and midgets are also news worthy when combined with tragic events.
But, did you also know they're great dancers?
Man, just think of all the midget trim those dudes must get?
Monday, March 19, 2007
On such an auspicious occasion you would think I’d devote an entire week to bashing religion and all its zealots. However, if you know me, you know I don’t need a special platform to do that.
So, I will stick to my original plan and present Little People Week--- most of which I am loving ripping off from Matt over at Brohans--- where all the posts will revolve around little people.
First off, I’d just like to apologize to any little people that this post might offend. I know that some little people consider the use of the word “midget” to be equivalent to the use of the “n-word” to describe black people.
I am obviously not a midget (Haha, could you imagine a midget and his stubby little fingers trying to type on a keyboard?), so I can’t really speak about the validity of that comparison, but I know that there’s one important distinction between those two groups of people in my mind at least - black people can hurt me, midgets cannot. (No midgets can hurt me, not even black midgets. To illustrate my point, I’ve included a handy color-coded Venn diagram which I created in just under 3 hours.)
Clearly, the majority of black people can hurt me. However, midgets who are black are part of the small subset of black people who cannot hurt me.
Now that we’ve established that I can use the word “midget” with impunity, let’s get right down to it. You'll need to brush up on your midgetology before we can go any further. The following links are suggested for just such a purpose. The A, B, C's of midgetdom. Check them out and I'll see you tomorrow.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
chapter eighteen - the graveyard shift
Sometime later, when the dust had cleared and the last of the patrons had moved out, Wally was drinking water, recovering slowly. He had a wet cloth pressed to his mouth and shooed away the heavy girl who had tried to comfort him. She left in disgust and with Wally’s Chub point. Space and his lead in the competition were safe for another day.
“Interesting stage show.” It was Megan.
“I wish it was,” I responded. Wally looked up with pathetic puppy dog eyes. “Wally, this is Megan.”
“Like the chick from The Exorcist?”
“No Wally. That was Reagan. I said Megan.”
“Megan Gable.” She offered her hand and Wally shook it. He kept a wet cloth over his mouth with his other hand.
“So . . . you end all your shows like that?”
“No, just tonight.”
“Good. I’m not sure, Bob has that many spare tables.”
I didn’t exactly smile at her repartee.
“Poor baby, you’re all tense. You need someone to come up to your room and fuck you senseless, don’t you?”
“I got news for you Megan I’m already fucked. The whole band’s fucked. But thanks for your pathos.” I turned and left her, shocked at my callous remark. Wally shrugged his shoulders and followed behind me.
We all sat in Space’s room except for Spike and Casey who had been excused. We were to discuss career direction . . . or what was left of it. Our leader paced back and forth searching for words before he finally spoke. Our little Hitler, getting ready to invade us with his verbal barrage. “Of all the nights to fuck it up! All my hard work! All my phone calls...” On he went, My, my, MY!— MY ball, - MY bat, - MY BAND! Blah-de-blah-blah . . . but we listened and no one said a word until he was done.
Doc spoke up. “Well you hired the guy. He’s already missing something . . . what with the cockroaches, and that J curse thing, and then he practically kills one of our audience members. We don’t have many people coming to see this band as it is Space, we can’t have Spike killing them off one by one. Did you see him? He almost decapitated that guy with his guitar.”
“Forget Spike for a moment would you Barlow?”
“Horse corsets! One more swing of his instrument and it would have been, Off with his head! Lopped off with a clean incision like a scythe!”
“Barlow shut it! The problem is the agent. He’s going to get the report we’re unstable and attack audiences and god knows what else? Forget the fact we sucked the last set.”
“The last two sets actually, if you want to get technical about it?” Doc wasn’t very good at holding his tongue.
“Shit! It’s endless gigs in Bugtussle for us,” I moaned.
“Bugtussle? We’ll be lucky to get a gig playing by the roadside leading into Bugtussle after tonight. You think Sleezyk will take us back Sparky. He’s going to be pissed at us when we don’t show up this week as well as next week at Flap Jack’s.”
“We can’t go back to that asshole Doc!” Space was adamant. “Everyone knew it when we started to walk this road. There is no turning back. Sleezyk is no longer an option. It’s up to us now, and only us.”
“What do we do then? We don’t have an agent.” Wally said.
Doc had a slight edge of disdain in his voice. “We have to think of something and fast.”
“– And what about Spike? What if he broke his hand fighting?”
“He didn’t. But I’ll tell you Sparky I feel like marching over to his room and breaking it for him after tonight. That was a selfish act. He should have had more sense.”
“What, let his wife get raped in front of him? I would have gone ape-shit-mental too. Can any of you say you wouldn’t?”
“Doc, she shouldn’t even be here. If he’d left her home none of this would have happened.” I lamented.
“I still say Midnight Cowboy got what was coming to him Sparky.”
“It obviously has cost us Walden, judging how fast the biker left when all hell broke loose?”
Wally began to panic. “How do we even know, the big burly biker dude was the guy Walden sent? What if . . . if . . . the agent was the guy Spike attacked? My god!.....What elks can go wrong?” Wally began to moaned and put a hand to his hip. “Oh my back— ”
“— Relax Wally. It wasn’t him.”
Wally continued, “ . . . and he just attacked him like that. He’s not going to book us after getting Spike’s guitar in the head.”
“Wally! It wasn’t him!”
“Christ! What if Wally’s right?” Now I was beginning to sound like him. “How do you know Space? Wally has a point. It could have been him. He was a big guy and had that biker look in a, Peter Fonda, Easy Rider, sort-of-way.”
“I know it wasn’t him, Sparky, because an agent wouldn’t have acted so unprofessional. Also, he would have come alone, not with two buddies. Walden dosen't associate with people like that. My concern is, now he won’t associate with someone like us either.”
“All I know is, Spike’s crazy. We can’t have a guy like that in the band. It’s only a matter of time before he murders one of us in our sleep with hedge clippers.” Doc brought his hands together. “Snip!”
“You can room with Bronson, Doc! Would you feel safer? Shit!— I was this close to getting Walden. This close.” Space showed us a tiny gap between his thumb and forefinger.
There was a knock at the door. It cut into our debate like a knife, slicing our argument to silence.
The knock came again, louder this time.
“Who the fuck is that at this hour?” Barlow mused.
Wally winced.“Maybe the police to haul Spike away?”
"Then they've got the wrong room you fool. Should be the one with the thumping killer boot."
The knock came again.
“Everybody hide!” Wally insisted. He opened up one of the dresser drawers as if he had intentions of climbing into it.
Doc even offered, “Here Wally. Give me your foot. I’ll help you in.— Just answer the door Space.”
Space pulled the door open slowly. The hall was poorly lit, but from the hulking shape of the figure punching a void in the midst of the door jam, the man was unmistakable. There stood the big guy with the beard.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
I am sorry.
As for the little people, I'll devote an entire week to your cause at some point in the near future. Don't you worry.
I was going to apologize this week for the offensive cartoon, but it's going to take some time to find an album with a dead hooker on the cover. So, to the Irish and the lovers of St. Patrick's Day-- which pretty much includes us all-- this is your lucky day. I recommend the aptly titled following:
Friday, March 16, 2007
Thursday, March 15, 2007
All I have to say is, "People get your priorities straight! Cockfighting is a stupid sport whether you wear the obligatory helmet, or turtle neck you were designated by parents, or religion at birth".
Contestants are half blind, having only the one eye, and personally, I don’t have the stamina anymore. It seems every time I want to do battle I end up pulling my groin and the threat of injury is constantly prevalent.
So, I for one say, it’s about time they outlawed the sport for good. Let us return to more civilized ways.....duels with pistols at ten paces.
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Monday, March 12, 2007
It sucks going back to work on Monday especially when its an hour earlier than you expected. So for you my friends, something to cheer you up and perhaps best represent how you feel about the work week ahead: The Departed- The entire movie in 2 minutes.
Sunday, March 11, 2007
chapter seventeen - buddy bob’s
Journal entry- Day 22- Can I tell you? I’m nervous as hell about tonight. Not about the music. It will sound all right. It’s the unpredictability of what is before us. It almost feels like my first time on stage . . . ever!
The real fear, the true adrenalin rush, comes from performing for the first time. Singing, jumping, flailing about, in front of total strangers with their undivided attention addressed to you can be unnerving. You might as well be naked for all the world to see, it can have such an effect on you. You can dismiss standing in front of a class apprehensively spouting Shakespeare to your peers. That’s nothing! By lunch your classmates have already forgotten, you stuttered your way through a soliloquy. Even the anticipation of asking Carolyn Irmington to the prom could not compare to the amount your skin crawls as you climb the stage steps for the first time. With experience and confidence, the feeling becomes less overwhelming— the butterflies smaller and easier to digest . . . but the first time out of the gate? There is nothing in my life to equal it in my opinion. I didn’t have much time to contemplate it either. Perhaps in retrospect a good thing? Otherwise, I might have just scampered away to hide under the biggest rock.
When I was starting out in my first band, we organized a concert to combat the boredom of a small town that closed-up shop not a minute past six every night. It was, likewise, a podium to showcase our abilities to the expansive world outside our garage garrison. The band I was in would headline. There were two opening acts. Initially there had only been one, but the first act, a band named Rough House, had fired their bass player two weeks before the gig. The jettisoned member had quickly assembled a new collection of minstrels and demanded satisfaction by being a part of the show. Against my better judgement, I relented, and he and his band Free Spirit, were inserted into the lineup in the opening slot. I felt if they sucked badly enough, an unruly crowd would make sure they didn’t overstay their welcome. Perhaps having at least one act that blew, would detract attention from my rookie status? Besides, I had to contend with the larger picture, promoting, and arranging the finer details of a concert.
Eventually the night came and the people began to arrive, and arrive, and arrive. Christ, there really is nothing to do in this town after six. Although I’d surrounded myself with the best musicians, I still felt vulnerable, stripped even of my sensibilities.
Free Spirit were a bunch of first timers too and I felt a certain empathy for them. The keyboard player, a young girl barely into her teens, was the most unsettled of the bunch. She was inconsolable once she spied the packed house awaiting her. She demanded that we set up her electric piano behind the amps so she would be hidden from view. We assured her we would comply to her demands, but proceeded to put her front and center once she was out of sight. I have witnessed true terror on only a hand full of occasions. It was the way chiseled war veterans looked when they spoke of the horrors of battle. How they watched a buddy die right in front of them and were powerless to do anything about it. The look of repugnance on her face when she discovered she would be seen by all was similar. Courageously, she was pushed, and poked onto the stage by her fellow band-mates. They all took up their instruments for the opening cords of Castle Walls, by Styx. To this day I can’t recall ever seeing someone in live performance hold lyrics in one shaky hand, as they sang and played their keyboard with the other. Nor to this day, have I ever witnessed a band restart the same song three times, before they got in chorus deep. The first stoppage, was to give the stunned girl a chance to actually play in unison with her band and try singing in key. There was silence from the audience in a, pin-could-drop, sort-of-way. The second halt was to tune the instruments.— Cue the crowd unrest in a fidgety murmur. The third failed attempt, was when someone tried to put them out of their misery by pulling the plug. Now I could hear increased grumbling from the mob with a few cat calls. They plugged back in, and set out to start the same song, for a fourth time. Immediately there was all-out hostility from the riotous throng as they heckled and booed. The girl in her panic and humiliation, ran from the stage in tears still clutching her lyric sheet. The rest of the band with a, “Thank you very much. We love you. Good night,” soon followed her. My god this is horrible. This can’t be happening? All my planning, all my hard work, it’s going down the drain right before my eyes. There won’t be an audience left to perform for, if I don’t do something quickly.
Rapidly I rushed to Rough House’s dressing room to alert them. They were needed ASAP to soothe the savages. Out they ran in single file, in matching T-shirts, with the stenciled image of the band’s name, emerging in a puff of smoke out of a dragon’s mouth. I swear the ink was still wet. I let my head fall into my hands in disbelief as Huey, Dewy and Louie, took the stage. This would be the worse night of my life and I hadn’t even made it up to perform myself. Visions of the uproar danced through my brain with the lifeless corpses of Rough House strewn about in a bloody mess, their dragon logo ripped to shreds, or worse, an empty echoing hall. No one left to play to. But disaster did not come. The little band that could, with a tenor sax player doubling the missing bass line, started into Wipe-out, by The Safari’s, and the crowd went wild. All this went through my mind, in Buddy Bob’s as I stood looking at our stage from a distance. I was a million memories away from my first performance, on the precipice of oblivion. Now it was a shadow, a ghostly haze of a triumph over fear long ago, barely remembered, like the smoke drifting from our fog machine and dissipating into nothingness.
The stage looked spectacular. Bronson had done a magnificent job putting all the elements together. Our trip to the army surplus had not been in vain. The parachute now hung directly above the instruments. The stage had various forms of tank netting and ripped green and black fabric draped across the amps and drums like bracken— all overgrown and weed-like. It cloaked anything remotely musical, transforming it into a pop-culture battleground. Most of the effect was achieved by various back-lighting Bronson had strategically placed to cast eerie shadows. Currently, only a soft white light shone above the chute in a slow chase sequence, and the episodic blink of a strobe gave the appearance of far off lightning through brooding clouds. At least the crowd had something cool to look at if the music sucked.
We convened by the bar for a head count. We were all wearing our new army flight suits. I was in beige, Wally, Space in forest green, and Doc meandering about in an olive motif with a red tie tucked into his shirt giving him a scout master ambiance. Spike wore his leather jacket over baggy, black, zippered pants and Jackboots, his face still framed in his dark shades. Does this guy ever take them off? For the first time . . . well ever . . . we actually looked synchronized. Not to the extent of Rough House and their dragon logo T-shirts, but I would say we looked in unison with one another. The zipper on Wally’s flight-suit was pulled down well below the navel, exposing a hairy rug of chest hair and a hint of what lay lower.
“Je-sus Wally, are you wearing any underwear?”
“Bare as the day I entered this world Doc.”
“We said look commando, not go commando you ass. We don’t want to scare off our audience.”
“Come on guys. It’s just a little honey for the Chubs. I have to catch up. Space is still beating me.”
Defiant as ever, Space said, “Chubs, Wally? I haven’t seen a decent Chub since we blew into this town. What if the guy Walden’s sending out to see us shows up tonight? I want him to see the band not your shlong! You’ll ruin all my hard work!”
With a huff and a moan Wally relented, and tugged his zipper upward a couple of inches. Wires started the intro-tape. With Bronson guiding us by flashlight, we all made our way to the now darkened stage. Everyone had an aura of nervous energy. It wasn’t like we were playing for a packed house, it was only Monday. However, Walden’s emissary could show up at any time to check us out, and would probably do so on a slower night, when his own club was well below capacity.
The first set went off without a hitch. Spike was tight with the band even as he performed with us for only the first time. Bronson was right on the mark with the lighting, and the sound was crisp, and clear with the right amount of bottom end. We were energetic, animated, and even playful. Casey danced by herself in front of the stage, and soon others joined her, spinning, and grooving effortlessly, as we deftly navigated from song to song, to the set conclusion. Even Space was more rhythmically laid back, and the songs sounded pleasantly paced.
Wally had pulled his zipper back below the navel as he left the stage, and was sitting with a rather heavy girl dressed in a frock with a brocade vest, chatting her up. Spike sat with Casey, and the rest of us were standing at the bar wondering aloud, whether Walden’s mystery man had seen and heard the masterfully painted aural canvass of set number one.
Doc was anxious. “Was he out there Space? Did he see us?”
“No Barlow. As far as I know he wasn’t here. I can spot those guys from miles away.”
“Shit! That set kicked ass.”
“We’ll just have to sustain the momentum Sparky.”
Someone touched my arm. “You guys are really good. Best band we’ve had in here in some time. Bob’s very happy.”
Bob’s very happy at the money he’ll save, having us here two weeks. I turned to look into the eyes of one of the waitresses. She was standing next to the bar awaiting her next order. She was tall. My height. “Thanks for the compliment.”
“Actually I’ve only worked here for a couple of weeks, but you’re the best band so far.”
“Oh? Great! My ego is through the roof,” I said.
“My name is Megan.”
Hmm . . . not an ‘L’. Perhaps I can forgive her comments?
“Sparky,” I said. We shook. Her eyes were a dark, deep pool matched by her hair which fell in folds around her face. There was a hint of a devious smile, and a more than ample bosom fighting for my attention.
“Is Sparky your real name, or were your parents just hard up for a pet?”
“John. John Malveen. It’s the band that’s hard up for a pet since Thumper left.”
“It’s a long story.”
“So what’s it like, being in front of an audience?” She turned to the bartender. “Charlie come on, number four’s waiting for their drinks.”
“When everything clicks. It’s the best feeling there is. There’s nothing like it.”
This girl definitely doesn’t mince words. She’s very forward. I like that. Charlie the bartender placed the drinks on Megan’s tray.
“Even fucking,” I responded. I looked at Charlie. “You know— as opposed to odd fucking.” Charlie gave me a scowl to let me know he was not amused. He left to serve his patrons at the opposite end of the bar.
“I’d love to be able to do what you do. Just to be a part of it all.” She nodded toward the tray. “My order. We’ll have to pick up our fucking talk, later John.”
“Just try and stop me.”
She thrust the tray up on her left hand and gave me the old, touch and squeeze, with her right before wading through a throng of customers by the bar. Oh yeah! She’s interested.
When the time came to take the stage for the second set, it didn’t run as smooth. Spike knew the material, but his attention seemed to be wandering. He was blasting power cords when he should have been strumming, and doing outrageously long solos. A guy had sauntered in with two friends between our performances, and sat with his buddies to our right, as he ordered pitchers of beer from Megan. He wore a straw cowboy hat, and farmer-john’s undone on the left side, exposing a busting white T-shirt trying to contain his chest. The guy was a brute, a real shit-kicker and his friends were no slouches either. Shit-kicker began eyeing Casey as she danced and twirled in front of the stage. She seemed oblivious to his wagging tongue and greedy eyes. Spike, on the other hand, was well aware of his intent, and was on a vigilant slow simmer of hack guitar noises.
Somehow we made it through the set and found ourselves in a group at the side of the stage. Wires, Spike, Bronson and I.
“Did you see that fuck! Eye ballin’ my Casey?”
“It really didn’t look bad from where I stood,” Wires offered.
“That cowboy’s lucky I don’t go over there and break his nose right now.”
Oh god, I thought. I hope someone’s hid his killing boot? “Have you seen the size of that guy Spike?” I looked at Bronson. “– You don’t feel like fighting tonight do you?” Bronson shrugged. “— He could squeeze you on toast and pick his teeth with your bones.”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass. A man should know better than to . . . to shit in another man’s backyard.”
“Eloquently spoken,” Wires mumbled. He brought a match up to kiss the end of a fresh cigarette.
“Spike calm down man. Hold it together. One more set that’s all,” I pleaded.
Space approached us, a little on edge. “Spike what the hell are you doing up there?”
“He’s ok Space. We’re talking with him. Just a momentary meltdown.”
“Momentary meltdown? It lasted all freakin’ set. We can’t have that. I had to tell Bob it was a sound problem.”
Wires blew out a gust of smoke and uttered. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
Space turned his attention to our guitarist and peered into his dark orbs. “I know, you know the songs better than that Spike. You have to be on this set. Do you understand? Walden’s guy could show at anytime.”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“There’s a guy checking Spike’s wife out, Space.”
“So fuckin’ what. Deal with it. I need Spike to focus on playing. Get your ass kicked after the show.”
Wally joined our gaggle. “You might as well give me a point now Space.”
Space continued with his verbal sandpaper. “For what? That thing you’re sitting with Wally? Be thankful I don’t deduct points. That’s not Chub-stock, that’s livestock. Anyway, do you mind? We’re having a serious conversation here. Something beyond your comprehension.”
“You don’t have to be so con-den-sending.”
“Apparently I do Wally. I do have to be con-den-sending— Remember what I said Spike. Get it together.” Space turned back to Wally before walking away. “Oh, and by the way? FYI. The line you sing in Girls on Film, is two minutes later, not, scuba-de-be-bop.” Space spun around and stomped off.
Wally slumped himself down into a chair and blew out some air making a, phewwt, sound. Spike walked over, grabbed Casey by the hand, and angrily paced to the bar.
“It appears guys, the asshole is back from his brief vacation,” I said.
“Ah . . . Space’s under a lot of stress.”
“Don’t defend him Wires. He didn’t defend you to Bob, when he blamed the sound, and there’s no need for him to lay into Wally like that.”
“I agree . . .”
“So do I,” Wally added.
“— but Spike is a little . . . twitchy.”
“And he seems somewhat unpredictable,” Bronson attested.
“Everything surrounding this band is erratic Bronson,” I said. “So Spike’s outlandish. We’ll get used to it— ”
“— Or die trying.”
“After all, we got used to you Wally.”
Doc Barlow swaggered over to us and stopped, a beer in his hand, “Gentlemen!—
Discussin’ our newest member Stevie Blunder, are we?”
“Eccentricities Doc, that’s all. We all have them.”
Wally spoke as he took in a deep breath. “Spike certainly has been blessed with his fair share it seems.”
Doc responded. “Yeah, but we don’t go around burdening each other with them,
especially in the middle of a Billy Idol song, Wally. Like when Sparky thought the world was going to end, he was a true professional about it. It didn’t affect his performance one iota. Remember that?” Doc needled me with his elbow.
Bronson had a hard time swallowing the information. “Sparky thought the world was ending?”
“Doc’s right,” I laughed. “I remember, for years, preparing anyone who’d listen for that day. And when it came, there I was, sitting on a bus in traffic, sixth minute, of the sixth day, of the sixth month, 1984.”
“Is that in homage to George Orwell or Iron Maiden?” Bronson asked.
“A little of both with a touch of revelations thrown in there.”
“I thought you didn’t believe in religion,” Wires stated.
“I don’t, but there’s some fine readin’ at the end of the bible when shit’s blowin’ up real good.”
Wally listened intently with gapping mouth, “How’d it turn out Sparky?”
“The end of the world?”
“We’re still here, aren’t we? Shit Wally.”
Space came running over to us. “He’s here!”
“Walden’s guy? Where?”
“Walked in five minutes ago. There! Second table from the front on the left side. NO! No don’t look at him.”
A droll Doc responded. “Oh, we certainly don’t want him to know we’re here. Do we?” He rolled his eyes. Wally had dropped to the floor and was hiding behind one of the tables. “Wally get up! There’s no need to hide. The man’s not a bounty hunter.”
“What the big burley biker dude. Are you sure Doc?”
“Beeje said he was a big guy with a beard and he looked like a biker,” Space informed. “That man, is a big guy with a beard who looks like a biker, wouldn’t you agree? Someone get Spike. We’re going up now.”
I protested. “It’s only been twenty minutes.”
“I say we go now and that’s all you need to know Sparky. Got a problem? Take it up with your union representative. — Ok let’s do it.”
We took the stage for the last set of the night. Although musically we were tighter, despite our hope, Spike was again elsewhere and began hurling insults at the grinning Shit-kicker during songs. Casey had not heeded her husband’s warnings, (or her attention span being what it is . . . forgot), and was up dancing again. The cowboy and his posse had moved their seats closer to the dance floor and were trying to get Casey’s attention between downed glasses of draft. The Shit-kicker was making mock humping gestures to his friends who egged him on.
I could hear Spike even through the music, yelling at the buffoon. “Don’t you look at my wife!” He was now walking to stage-right for every solo, and glaring maliciously at his nemesis.
I grabbed him by the shoulder between songs and hissed in his ear. “Spike for Christ’s sake calm down! Is it any wonder you’re going to die from the curse of the J’s? You’ll bring it on yourself!”
The big guy with the beard sat staring at us with arms folded, looking unimpressed, as Spike continued his belligerent ways and butchering the songs. I began to panic. So much was riding on this set, on every song, on every cord played. The big guy with the beard had to like us and report favorably back to Walden, or we were screwed— stranded miles from home with no agent to book us. With one song to go, we had to get through it. My god, we’re going to be chased from the stage. Humiliated like the poor girl all those years ago. I bet to this day she still can’t hear Styx without crying? I ran over to Doc who stood behind his keyboards on Spike’s side of the stage as Wally M.C.’d the last song of the night, Golden Earing’s, Twilight Zone. It was the big blow off, flash pots, strobes, fog machine the whole shootin’ match. We just had to get through this one number
and we were home free. “Doc, you have to watch Spike. I don’t know if he’s going to make it man. Grab him if he looks like he’s going to go ape-shit and leave the stage. Wally’s gotta sing this one, and I can’t grab him with the bass on.” Doc gave me his standard, thumbs up rocker pout.
The Shit-kicker was so into Casey he didn’t pay any attention to Spike’s tirade and began trying to lift up her skirt as she whirled by him. We started into the beginning cords of Twilight Zone. Doc began his voice-over. “Somewhere in a lonely hotel room, there’s a guy starting to realize that eternal fate has turned its back on him . . .”
I looked at Spike warily. He was unmoving, his eyes fixed solely on his potential target, but at least playing in time with us....for now.
Wally sang. “It’s 2:00 A.M., the fear is gone . . . I’m sittin’ here waitin’ . . . the gun still warm . . .”
The flash pots didn’t go off at the beginning of the song like they were supposed to. The smoke machine was running low and gave off a steamy, powdery burning odor, as it spat out the last of its liquid in a slippery goo to the right of the stage. A corner of the parachute had come undone above Doc, and hung partially obscuring the big guy with the beard’s vision. Great the whole nights unraveling right before our eyes. Where the hell’s Rough House when you need them?
I could see Wires from stage and the unmistakable embers of a cigarette bouncing up and down in the darkness as he approached the front of the club. He pulled out a pen-light flashlight and began adjusting something on the flash-pot in front of Wally. On we played. On Wally sang.
“Help I’m steppin’ into the twilight zone. This place is a mad house. It feels like being cloned . . .”
The big guy with the beard was leaning to one side trying to see what was going on; his arms were still crossed; his expression still devoid of excitement.
The obnoxious Shit-kicker was now licking between two fingers while Casey smiled, and his friends laughed.
“Don’t you fuckin’ be rude to my wife!”
Wires apparently fixed what he was looking for and turned back to the sound console.
“My beacon’s been moved under moon and star . . . where am I to go once I have gone too far”. . .
The parachute ascended lower. Doc was holding part of it up with one hand while playing his synthesizer and still managed to sing his back-up. “Woah- ohhh”. . .
Wires had returned to the sound board and was busy flicking toggle switches. He disappeared beneath the console and began inspecting cables and plugs.
The Shit-kicker stood up and approached Casey with an outstretched hand.
“Don’t you fuckin’ . . . touch . . . my . . . wife!”
Wally sang. “Soon you will come to know when the bullet hits the bone.”
The big guy with the beard got up to leave.
The Shit-kicker now had his hands on Casey’s hips. He pressed his body tight to hers and began to grind with her. His lips inches from her neck caused sudden panic in her eyes. His hands began moving slowly upwards toward her breasts.
“Get your fuckin’ hands off my wife!”
“When the bullet hits the bone!”
Wires jiggled a plug. The flash pot went off right underneath Wally. A puff of smoke enveloped him and he disappeared from sight.
The big guy with the beard stopped and turned toward the stage.
That was it. Spike had seen enough. He screeched— an animalistic howl really— and leapt forward. There was a horrible discord as Doc’s chest hit the keyboard in an attempt to hold Spike back. Spike’s shirt ripped in two as he sprang from the stage, directly onto the drunk dotard knocking him back into his table, and sending his two friends flipping backward over their chairs. The table collapsed under their weight, splintering into a hundred pieces, and Casey fell to the floor.
The parachute gently cascaded downward as it lost its grasp of the ceiling. It covered us and Wally as he waved and coughed through a haze of smoke and sparks.
Doc and I clawed our way to the edge of the stage as Space continued to play and Wally continued to hack up a lung into the microphone. “Help I’m huch! Huch! Twilight Huch’”. . .
We were in time to see Bronson as he fought his way through a small circular crowd to Spike’s position. Our guitarist still had his instrument, plugged in, and around his waist, as he continued to pummel the huge behemoth. Both of his hands were flailing and in between punches his guitar came across like a third fist. TWANG! Right into the Shit-kicker’s head. The cowboy raised his arms in a useless attempt at defense.
The Shit-kicker screamed. “Get this Jackass off me!”
Spike growled. “What did you call me?!”
“Shit Doc, the curse of the J’s!”
Wally was still waving his hand frantically through the smoke somewhere beneath the chute, as his lungs tried to expel smoky debris.
Space’s voice could be heard through the P.A. as Bronson and the Shit-kicker’s buddies tried to separate Spike from his victim. “Thanks for coming out. We’re Bitter Romance, here all week and next.....hopefully..... Goodnight.” This was followed by a lone cymbal crash, Wally’s weak attempt to pluck a cord in unison, and the Twang! of Spike’s guitar striking the head of his victim yet again. It resonated through the club.
The Shit-kicker cried helplessly, “Get this jealous jerk away from me...Fuck!”
Spike growled louder and kept swinging, drunk with rage.
Wally tried to make his way blindly from the stage and slipped on the gooey mess from the fog machine, landing flat on his back with his guitar sticking straight up. Underneath the parachute he looked like a mummified body with a huge hard-on.
With a little help we managed to separate everyone, although Spike was still raving on at his foe. “Don’t you ever touch my wife again! I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you!”
The Shit-kicker was stumbling around taking errant swings at an invisible boxing partner. His forehead had been opened by Spike’s guitar and a gash had produced a substantial amount of blood running down his face into his eyes.
I looked around, but the big guy with the beard was gone.
Slowly the chaos subsided and everyone was adequately separated and calmed down. The Shit-kicker was escorted from the club by his buddies with a dish towel pressed to his wound and Space ran damage control with Bob the club owner.
Doc stated emphatically,“Well, that could have gone better.” We helped Wally from under the canopy. He was all black faced, his hair slightly puffy in the front. He looked like the dupe of a forth grade science experiment gone awry.
“I nearly got killed up there,” he blurted out.
Doc looked at me and shook his head. “I think I’m developing a phobia now Sparky. Liticaphobia.”
“What’s that Doc? Fear of hiring the wrong guitarist?”
“No. Fear of a lawsuit.”
Saturday, March 10, 2007
So to say I'm sorry to all the non-believers, be they atheists, agnostics, or neo agnostics, ( I guess they're the ones who don't believe in the Matrix?), I recommend the following new release: A. A. Allen's, God is a Killer.
Friday, March 09, 2007
If you're a lazy bastard like me, you probably just move on with so much as a raised eyebrow. I understand it's a lot of work to move the cursor to the link.
Hell, I break a sweat just Blogging. But today, I have a link that even the laziest person among us will want to check out. Potentially it has the power to make your life so much easier.
I'm talking about the beer launching fridge. Go on. Muster up the energy. Click the link. Watch the video. Tell me I was right.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Take for example Apocalypto. With all the Jew bashing Mel has participated in and the number of Jews running Hollywood, it’s just simple math. There's not going to be any golden-boys for Ol’ Braveheart.
Sure he'd see the dangling carrot of a nomination or two. However, when you lambaste the toothless old hooker over the price of the blow-job, you might as well say goodbye to that sweet fellatio....believe me I know.
So, post Oscars I finally got around to watching this film, which I must say, other than a few short comings, I actually enjoyed.
Following is my real time review of Apocalypto:
0:04:38- What did he say?
0:04:51- Did you catch that?
0:05:17- Why don’t they just speak English?
0:06:23- Got to admit killing the pig and eating the innards was cool.
0:22:06- What the hell are they saying?
0:27:45- Wow! So much blood.
0:32:58- Are you sure this isn’t a Scorcese film?
0:34:19- Is that Mel with the bone through his nose?
0:39:31- OK that must be Mel with the face paint and the goofy hairdo? Definitely something Riggs would do.
0:41:28- If the small fat kid is Mel...Wow, good makeup job.
0:41:32- What did Mel just say anyway?
0:41:39- Read the subtitles? Is that what that is?
0:41:55- I NEVER LEARNED TO READ! *sobs* I'm going to go Blog. (What a paradox)
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
Top 10 Simpson's Intros.
Worst music videos of all time. Thank God there are only 6 of them.
Top 20 Manliest movies.
Top 10 greatest 80's movie bad-asses.
Now that you're machismo is at an all time high, let's look at the Top 10 gruesome sports injuries......Don't look GIGC! Yet I wonder where the clip of the guy at the World's Strongest Man is? His leg broke while he was carrying a fridge on his back. And the minor league goalie who lost his glove and had his fingers sliced off by a passing skate....and....OK I get it. Enough!
Maybe we should have done this one before the sports injuries? Top 10 video games to play while stoned.
Finally, A month of Kama Sutra positions done by chicks. 28 in all. I guess that would make it for February? Sorry for the delay.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
Monday, March 05, 2007
Now, to you, I pass along the words of wisdom on how to achieve maximum bulge.
#1 The Steely Dan
Made of: A tube sock full of stainless steel beads, topped with a pair of golf balls.
Ideal for: Solemn occasions, like giving the eulogy at a friend's funeral. The Steely Dan is high on bulk but low on rigidity and protrusion, projecting a calm, stable energy over the mourners without giving the awkward appearance that you're experiencing sexual arousal at the thought of their loved one's death.
Make sure to: Avoid rupture of the sock and spillage of the beads. Always double-sock this one.
#2 The BeastMaster
Made of: An athletic supporter coated on the outside with double-sided tape. Then, before leaving the house, attach a live ferret.
Ideal for: Intimidation, intimidation, intimidation. No one wants to meet you in a dark alley with two feet of bulge thrashing and hissing across your groin.
Added advantage: the furious squeaking and hissing make this the only crotch bulge on the list that can be heard over the phone. "What's that sound? It's my bulge, asshole."
Make sure to: Not wear this on a date. Ferrets have a horrible odor that would be unacceptable for a groin anywhere. Except Europe.
#3 The Cock Lobster
Made of: One live lobster, you can choose the size according to the occasion. Simply rub some raw fish on your scrotum and let the lobster grab on with his pincers. Mistaking your testes for prey, he'll hang on for 12 to 16 hours.
Ideal for: Sympathy. This bulge is the opposite to the BeastMaster. The excruciating pain of lobster claws on your manhood will twist your face into a continual mask of tragedy. Expect steady tears.
This one is perfect for apologies or bitch-out sessions with the boss. One look at you wincing and biting your lip and hearing you quietly begging God to let you die, and they'll know you're sorry. Al Capone said it best: "Beastmaster for doing the crime, Cock Lobster for doing the trial."
Make sure to: Keep an eye out. The smell of lobster can attract a host of predators, from raccoons to sea gulls to bears.
#4 The Escalade
Made of: A bottle of Cristal champagne, fitted into a leather Louis Vuitton adjustable crotch bottle harness.
Ideal for: Any time you're in the line of sight of females, my friend. The ultimate symbol of wealth and virility, this bulge can be seen from 100 feet away if worn with the right pants. Also, positioned perpendicular to the groin, this foot-long protrusion is ideal for people who dislikes hugs.
All right this is the one I'm going with!
Make sure to: Avoid breakage. Not recommended for contact sports.
#5 The Commander in Chief
Made of: A deflated football, partially filled with warm clam chowder.
Ideal for: Just ask its inventor, one John F. Kennedy.
That's right, folks, this is The Bulge That Changed History. When Kennedy faced Nixon in the first televised debates of 1960, the audience who heard the debate on radio declared Nixon the winner. Those who saw it on TV, however, overwhelmingly went Kennedy. Why?
Because Kennedy was packing The Commander In Chief, broadcasting his distended groin into the zeitgeist of the free world once and for all. The people heard Nixon talk tough on Communism. They saw Kennedy had five pounds of dong.
Look around and you'll see "The Commander" is making a comeback in a huge way. In a nation longing for change, growing fearful of terror just as JFK's America lived under the looming Soviet shadow, this bulge's time has come once again.
In your own life, this classic is ideal for first impressions, such as job interviews or meeting the parents of your future bride for the first time. Good heft and volume, yet comfortable and form-fitting. A natural look that speaks of quiet authority.
Make sure to: Avoid leakage. Just ask George W. Bush, who planned to unleash his "Commander" in 2003 after landing aboard an aircraft carrier. Unfortunately, the G-forces from the flight ruptured the football, spilling most of the chowder down his thighs. When he stepped off the plane he unveiled to a shocked nation a bulge not even a quarter of the size he planned:
I just made you look at George W's crotch!
Sunday, March 04, 2007
chapter sixteen - driving in the last spike
Journal entry- Day 22- We met briefly with Apples & Oranges this morning to say our goodbyes. Strange as it may seem, meetings like this, where you cross paths, rarely happen on the road. I’m still drinking my coffee black. It’s becoming tolerable. The mood of the band is still upbeat and we are ready to give Space’s plan a try.
After a short one hour journey down the highway, (quick by our standards), we unloaded the equipment into Buddy Bob’s. It was just as I remembered it, a country bar, done over disco, and left to rot into the 80's. It had a nice five-foot-high stage with enough room for the gear and still room to move. Surrounding the bar were placards of wagon wheels bolted to the walls through their large wooden spokes. A huge mirror ball hung precariously above the dance floor, silent from casting its beams. The stage was bordered with rope lighting flowing off the sides and it ran the length of the dance area— much longer than it was wide. Beyond, tables started at its edge and plugged the club backward, up two levels with a capacity for four-hundred. The scent of stale smoke hung in the air like some unseen foe and Wires was quick to add his allegiance.
The rest of the guys started to set up in preparation for an early sound-check. Wires and I dropped the remaining cases on the floor and left on our way to the bus station. It was time to pick-up Jeremy ‘Spike’ Hellfield.
We were on time but the bus wasn’t.
The station had a greasy, filthy look to it. The walls were a puzzle of cracked plaster and the air was thick with the smell of diesel. The place looked deserted, devoid of vehicles and visitors. In fact, we had to look twice to make sure this was actually the bus station and not an abandoned building awaiting an invitation to the wrecker’s ball. A balding middle-aged man with thick coke bottle glasses making his eyes bug-out, assured us from behind the ticket wicket, we were in the right place, and the nine-forty-five would be along, “presently.”
Wires returned to the Ghost and I sought out a pay phone. I would take the lullaby in boredom as an opportunity to call Lorraine.
The booth was located at the side of the station. It had very little protection from the elements, bolted to the wall by, what seemed to be, a solitary “L” shaped brace. The glass partitions on either side were etched with the spider webs of graffiti. I blew warmth into my fingers and punched the appropriate buttons to place my collect call.
After a series of clicking Lorraine answered and accepted the charges.
“Hey Lorra— ”
“Johnny, thank god you called.”
“What’s wrong!” Had there been a death in the family? Had someone broken into our basement apartment?
“It’s our landlords.”
“Lorraine! I nearly shit myself. Don’t do that....What is it now?”
Lorraine lowered her voice to a whisper like she was about to tell me a terrible secret. “I saw them all go into the family room.”
“So? It is in the basement and not part of our apartment. Are you going to freak out every time they come down to do their laundry too?”
“Johnny you don’t understand. They had these black boxes attached to their hands and their foreheads.”
“Like an airplane black box?”
Her voice was shaking now. “I don’t know,” she said. “They’re in their right now, chanting. It’s scaring me.”
“Maybe they’re part of some demonic cult and they're going to need a human sacrifice?”
Lorraine burst into tears.
“Look,” I said. “It’s probably some Jewish ritual? They are Jewish after all.” In years to come I would find I had been right. The boxes she spoke of were known as Tefillin, a leather pouch which contain the scrolls of Torah passages and is bound to the hands and between the eyes for prayer.
Lorraine’s terrified voice cracked over the phone.“That’s not all. They brought some sort of liquid down for me to eat. I think they’re trying to poison me?.....Maybe for before the sacrifice?”
Rather interested in this new development, I said, “What does it look like?”
“It has big blobs of some-sort-of dough . . . I think?” I could almost see her poking it with a stick from a distance.
“Is it ticking?”
“I...I don’t think so.”
“Eat it, or call in the bomb squad,” I said. I was sure it was simply Matzah Ball soup, but didn’t know if she had floaters, or sinkers.
I had wanted simply to place a courtesy call. “Hi Lorraine, Don’t worry. Everything’s fine here.” — that sort-of-thing. For once I wanted to be spared the drama. Now, I found myself, becoming a little annoyed at her constant blather. After all I had problems of my own, like being in the middle of nowhere on the verge of losing our agent, while I waited for our new guitarist. A guy who could very well be a psycho in his own right. Thankfully the rest of conversation was succinct and I was walking back to the truck to wait with Wires.
We sat in the front of the Ghost, yawning like expectant fathers. The wind whipped against the cube’s exterior making the vehicle shudder. Mixed with the grayness of the day and the dandruff patches of falling snow, it only added to the desolation.
Mercifully, a greyhound bus appeared in the distance. It gradually grew in its approach, until it stood across the road from us— the nine-forty-five at ten-twenty-two. In a sigh of exhaust and squeaking brakes the door swung open kicking up dust, dirt and swirling cyclones of snow. A few passengers began to depart.
“That has to be him, Wires. Look.”
A figure in a ripped, black, leather, biker-jacket, dark sunglasses, and short, black, spiky hair, emerged at the bottom of the steps carrying a guitar case in one hand and a massive brown suitcase in the other. He was small of frame and reminded me of Thumper after an extreme make-over.
“Holy shit Wires, Space has hired one of the Sex Pistols. Are you sure this guy is aware of the music we play? I can’t exactly envision him pounding through Duran Duran songs.”
“Space, says he knows.”
“Who’s the chick with him?”
“Don’t know. Someone he met on the bus I’m guessing.”
“Well she’s getting off here too. And for someone he just met, they sure look the same.”
The woman also had a leather jacket, except shorter and more form fitting, with padded shoulders. She too had close cropped spiky hair, only bleached a shade shy of white. Like her man, she also sported dark shades, but boasted a tight fitting leopard print skirt with Doc Martins and holes peering out of the knees of her black nylons. They stopped to collect another suitcase at the luggage compartment on the side of the bus. The driver handed them another brown case larger than the first, with wheels. They moved off to the side and settled, looking around with the suspicion of escaped felons until they spied the Ghost. Slowly they moved toward us as the girl struggled with two hands on the larger case. She dragged it more than wheeled it.
Wires and I filed out the drivers-side and halted in front of the truck to await our newest acquisition. Wires continued to pull on a cigarette. I continued to rub the sleep from my eyes. I wasn’t used to being up this early even on off-days and speaking to Lorraine always made me lethargic.
“She looks— ”
“— Skanky?” I said.
“I was thinking more along the lines of worn.”
The two approached and stood facing us. Amid pants of exhaustion, the woman chewed the hell out of a stick of gum with an open mouth, making a sgluck sound. The guy stood with his head cocked to one side, and his feet slightly apart like a gunslinger. I was convinced he was going to pull a knife and roll us for the last of Wires’ cigarettes. Instead he spoke. “You Bitter Romance?”
“Well, two of them,” I said. “This is Wires and everyone calls me Sparky.”
They both stood their ground, unmoving. sgluck . . . sgluck. I began to fill the verbal void. “They call me Sparky because I come up with creative ideas and Wires . . . well he fixes . . . things...” I trailed off.
“Spike,” he said, his neck still broken and askew, giving me that sideways glance. Still void of emotion he followed it up with, “This is my wife Casey.”
He brought his wife? On the road? His mother fuckin’ wife? Wait a minute! Who does he think he is? Significant others, DO NOT, travel with the band. No chubs, no girlfriends . . . And definitely no WIVES. This was a breach of security. One partner would tell another partner and so on. It was all over. My stealth other life of sexual exploration with women outside my relationship. Didn’t this Spike guy know? There is a band code to uphold. What happens on the road, stays on the road, but not if there was going to be a. . . . a. . . . wife!”
“Like Hi,” she said, all bubbly between smacks as she twisted the gum around her tongue. She reminded me of an excited puppy humping your leg repeatedly and I had an insane urge to hit her with a rolled up newspaper.
“Like . . . Hi yourself,” I responded. I was breathing a little easier. It was quite obvious we now have two Space’s in the band. “Hey you and Lorraine should get together. You’ll have a whole-lotta-nothing to talk about.”
“Shall we . . . ?” Wires blinked and gestured toward the Ghost as another butt was crushed under his heel. We helped them with their bags and hopped in single file. Wires fired up the engine and with a groaning of gears shifted into first. Off we rolled.
“Tell us about yourself Spike.”
“Been playin’ guitar since I was ten. Wrote my first song at fourteen. I was in a band called Pleasure Palace, up until four weeks ago. You ever hear of us?”
“I don’t get out much.”
“We did a lot of Clash, Pistols, Ramones, The Damned.”
With a sly wink and a raised eyebrow, I nodded and turned slowly to Wires. “Sex Pistols,” I said.
“That’s about it. Not much to tell.”
“Ut hem, Baby!”
“Oh yeah and Casey and I have been married for two years now. She’s my number one fan.”
“That’s great Spike, but I’m not sure Space, or the rest of us for that matter, were expecting you to bring someone . . . sorry . . . your wife . . . on the road with you.”
She beamed with pride. “We go everywhere together.”
Spike acknowledged. “I thought . . . you know . . . she could roadie for us. It’s not like we’d need an extra room and she wouldn’t cost much . . . and she’s already here.”
“I think you should discuss this with Space,” Wires said. “He handles the money.”
Wires was right, but I didn’t see how there could be room for one more at the table. The money pie was already sliced too thin and most of us were on the Bitter Romance fiscally forced diet.
I said. “So why Spike, you know, other than the hair? Interesting moniker.”
“Yeah I like it. It’s like dragging your balls on cement. It kicks ass.”
I didn’t care much for Spike’s imagery. “I don’t know, I like Jeremy Hellfield too. It has a ring to it. Flows off the tongue. It sings.”
“Nobody calls me that!”
“Yeah nobody calls him that!” Casey echoed.
“— Nobody calls me that!”
“It’s ok Baby, I don’t think he meant anything by it. You didn’t mean anything by it did you Sporky?”
“Sparky,” I corrected. Why does everyone have such problems getting any of my names right?
“Tell him you didn’t mean to say that.”
“Say what? Would someone please fill me in Jere— ”
“No. I didn’t mean to offend you. I was just curious. Weren’t you Wires?” I said, looking for some assistance from him.
“What’s the big deal Spike? Shit! It’s just a name! Christ! Did you get teased in school or something?” I was getting pissed. Truthfully, I was still upset about the whole wife thing.
Casey was petting his shoulder with one hand and running the other gently through his hair. Spike was also unduly agitated. She whispered things in his ear. Probably things like, “It’s ok snookie wookums,” with the occasional sgluck, of gum.
Just swallow it already!
Spike sat unmoving staring ahead like he was made of stone. It was a struggle between suave and edgy, fighting for supremacy in the same body, fuming somewhere behind his dark shades. For a brief instant I would have switched places with Lorraine, no problem.
Casey finally spoke, “Spike has a fear. A pho . . . a pho— ”
“— A phobia? A phobia of what?”
“He doesn’t like the letter J . . .”
Welcome to my world pal. The horror stories I could tell you about the letter L. Lorraine was just cherry on that cake. It seemed all my dating life I’d run into that dreaded letter in an endless stream of Laurie’s, Lisa’s, and Laura’s trying to take command.
“...Too many great artists have died with the letter J in their name. Like . . . like . . .”
Spike spoke up. “The curse of the J’s man. Aren’t you aware? Jimmy Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Bryan Jones, John Lennon, John Bonham, John Belushi . . . I’m not safe with a name like that.”
“. . . I don’t know if anyone’s pointed this out to you Spike, but you’re not exactly famous like those other people were.”
“Not yet he isn’t,” Casey added. She turned to Spike and smiled. “But one day. Isn’t that right Baby?” She changed to her, baby doll snookie wookums, voice and kissed his cheek with an accentuated pucker. “And we want to be prepared. Don’t we?”
“All right. So you won’t be sponsoring the letter J on Sesame Street, I can accept that. Geesh! I’m sorry I asked. How was I to know?” I threw my hands up in the air in surrender. “Spike it is!” Somehow this seemed like the tip of the idiosyncratic iceberg, an immobilizing obstacle jutting out of the depths, ready to torpedo our already sinking ship into the freezing waters of the north Atlantic.
We finally, arrived at Buddy Bob’s and after brief introductions, Spike and Casey spoke privately with Space and then went to find their room while the rest of us prepared for sound-check.
An hour passed until Casey appeared and sat on one of the stools at the far end of the bar without her husband. She was still dressed in her bus clothes. We were ready. Space was applying the finishing touches to his drum kit, placing his various trophies of women’s lacy underwear at various junctions. Some things never change. Under Wires direction, he started smacking the snare drum repeatedly while our sound-man fiddled with the equalizers on the main sound console. Bronson was in the process of hoisting our newly purchased parachute backdrop in a canopy above the stage. It looked impressive especially with the lighting. At least we’ll have no problem impressing the new agent visually.
Doc approached Casey. “Where’s Spike? We’re almost ready to try a few.”
“He’s in the room. He said he could be a while.”
“Je-sus girl. We don’t have a lot of time to get it together for this shindig. It’s important he’s punctual.”
“Doc, let’s just go get him,” I motioned.
She told us their room number and off Doc and I stomped.
Once up a flight of stairs, we arrived at their door, midway down a long corridor. From inside we could hear someone stirring around followed by a click, click, bang, click ! Doc was about to knock but halted. “Sparky what the hell was that?”
“I don’t know?”
Click, click, bang, click!
“There it is again! What the fuck’s he doing? Eccentric little bugger isn’t he?”
I didn’t have time to let Doc in on the Curse of the J’s so I just nodded affirmatively.
Click, click, bang, click!
Doc finally knocked after the next sequence of sounds. We heard Spike bellow from within, “Enter!”
Doc opened the door. Click– darkness. Barlow tumbled forward and I fell on top of him and what I perceived to be Spike’s big brown suitcase. I grunted and Doc yelped, “Je-sus! Sparky!”
Click– light, followed by a loud BANG!
Click- darkness again.
“Sparky! Get off me . . .”
Click- light. BANG! We looked up from our entanglement to see Spike directly in front of us, peering frantically from side to side, on all fours, in a British flag T-shirt, white underwear and socks, holding one of his boots in his hand. The blanket had been ripped from the bed and hung over the window blocking out all daylight. The lone lamp had been pulled down from the night stand, Spike clutched it with his free hand. Click– darkness. Click–light. The boot came down on the floor. BANG!
“Spike, for god’s sake. What the fuck?”
“What’s he doing Sparky?”
“Forget that. Where’s his pants Doc?”
We were on our feet again looking down at this creature Space had hired to help lead us to the promised land. Spike peered back up at us, his eyebrows visible above his dark shades. “Cockroaches,” he said, in a hushed tone as if they might hear him and scatter. “This room is infested with them. I’m killing every last one of those little fuckers before I do anything else.”
He sent us into darkness yet again. Click, click, BANG! Click.
“Oh my heart! Oh my heart!” Doc clutched his chest in feigned fright to cover up the fact Spike was beginning to creep him out.
“Spike stop it! Don’t tell me you have a phobia over cockroaches too?”
“That would be insectophobia,” Doc put in. He paused. “Why? What other phobias does he— ?”
“— Casey, she can’t stand bugs and I can’t stand to see her upset. I’ll eliminate anything to keep her happy, including these nasty little..” Click, click, BANG! Click.
“Je-sus! Sparky make him stop.”
“Would ya shut up for a minute Doc.— Shit Spike, did you ever think the easiest thing might be to change rooms. We don’t have infestations in ours. I’m sure you’re telling us the truth about the roaches even though I don’t see any squished corpses, just a bunch of boot scuff marks on the floor boards.”
“They’re elusive as hell.”
“I’m sure they are, but we have to start rehearsing and it’s a rather pressing need at the moment. So perhaps you could just put the boot down for now and we’ll deal with this problem later. We’ll get some bug spray or something ok?”
“No this is the only way to be sure,” He shook the boot at us.
Doc and I exchanged looks that said, Holy fuck! This guy is psycho, of course, I’d been on the bandwagon since the bus depot.
Spike finally relented after our continuous pleas of, “Just put the boot down and back away from the bugs!” He finally agreed to follow us downstairs and put some pants on, thankfully not in that order. As he plugged in, Space approached Doc and I who were with Wires at the sound console. Wally sat close by with his feet up on a table as he wiped his guitar neck with a soft cloth.
“What’s the hold up? You know how important this week is going to be to us.”
“We had to hammer out a few issues with Spike.” I then proceeded to inform them of recent events in the room as well as Wires and my knowledge of Spike’s Curse of the J’s phobia.
Doc was stunned. “You mean he also has coulrophobia?”
“What? He has a fear of clowns?” Wires inquired. “That’s what coulrophobia is Doc.”
“It can be two things....or did I dream it? Really Wires I knew that. I was just testing you. Anyway it could be worse, he could have ergophobia like Wally . . . That’s fear of work Wally.”
Wally turned to Doc, stuck his tongue out and returned to wiping his guitar.
“Look I don’t care what the problem is. Spike is our man now and things have to work out. So work them out. Christ! It’s like baby sitting when it comes to you guys. Focus. There can’t be any more fuck-ups. I thought I made it clear? Too much is riding on this week. We’ll get him a new room and no one calls him anything but Spike. Got it? ...Good!...Wires fire up the sound.”
Eccentricities aside, Spike was prepared and knew a bulk of what we asked him to learn before he got here. We felt confident we could make it through the first night with minimal mistakes and scheduled further rehearsals for later in the day and the following afternoon.
Spike was now at the bar, with Casey’s arms around him, waiting for a new room key from Space. Bronson and Wires continued to apply finishing touches to the stage and Wally had rushed off to eat something.
“That went better than I expected.”
“Me too, Doc.”
“At least Wally and I don’t have to spend too much time working with him on the songs. I’d like to minimize my contact with him anyway. That boy gives me the hee-bee-gee-bees.”
“It’s probably best if we all do that.”
“Do you ever wonder, Sparky?”
“About what? Why we do what we do? Why we put up with this crap for shit money? The long hours for minimal reward? Yeah, all the time.”
“No, Why the fear of long words is such a long word in itself? Hippopotomonstrosesquippedaliophobia.”
“Sometimes I don’t know about you Doc. Maybe you’re the one we should be limiting contact with?”