Nothing like a little Shakespere to brighten up a Tuesday.
Monday, July 30, 2007
Sunday, July 29, 2007
Drew Carey come on down!
You're the next host on "The Price Is Right"
"The Price Is Right" debuted on Sept. 4, 1972, before many of you were even born.
Almost 35 years later, it's the second-longest-running game show ever. Only "Sabado Gigante," a Spanish language variety show, has been on the air longer.
Remember that one the next time you play Trivial Pursuit. Actually I heard they chose Drew because he was the only host willing to get neutered.
House about that
I knew the T.O. housing market was hot but.....a woman in the Beach got $650,000 more than her asking price in a bidding war....
Warning to perspective buyers: watch out for mumified babies in the attic.
....and that overnight line you might have witnessed downtown was not for faithful fans waiting for concert tickets, or Harry Potter novels, it was Real estate Agents waiting for the next phase of a condo development to go on sale. A condo that will not be habitable for three years!
Looks like GIGC and myself picked a good time to sell our house, but a bad time to stop smoking crack.
Lyin' feline ain't lyin'
A US cat that is reportedly able to sense when a nursing home's residents are about
to die is baffling doctors.
Oscar has a habit of curling up next to patients at the home in Providence, Rhode Island, in their final hours.
According to the author of an article in the New England Journal of Medicine, the two-year-old cat has been observed to be correct in 25 cases so far.
Staff now alert the families of residents when he sits down next to their ailing loved one.
I've been so creeped out by this story since I heard it, I repeatedly kick the cat off the bed at night.
What do sugar, tar, and water have in common?
No....It's not the newest version of Lucky Charms with "Sugary moons, tars and clovers".
No....They are not all items found in Linsay Lohan's pants, nor are the sexual lubricants for Drew Carey.
Wrong again....They are not elements when mixed together can predict death.
If you said they were all loads being hauled in transport trucks that have flipped over on major highways in the Big Smoke in the past 2 weeks creating commuter chaos you'd be right.
You were probably sitting in grid-lock like I was swearing your face off?
Where's Johnny Wad #4
Cross posted on Mitchieville
Friday, July 27, 2007
It's not like I expected anyone to camp out like they did for a certain other novel released in book stores last week, but here it is without further fuck-up: Chapter one of Handmade Heart.
Chapter One - The Honey-Wagon
“And in the end we will achieve in time the thing they call Nirvana and all the stars will shine for me . . . ”
There he was in a clearing by the road with a brooding wall of forest on either side of him— the man and his mullet. He was clothed in dirty, gray overalls, like an escaped convict after tunneling out of the joint. He was squatting, bent at the knees, his ass jutting out toward me in greeting, struggling with a red metal valve on the side of his truck. He grunted and cursed in a way oh-so-familiar to me. It took me back to a place before the recording of time- well, our time anyway— a time when we’d been young and full of possibilities.
He’d been fairly svelte when I’d known him back then, with just a bit of a paunch for a belly. However, to see him now, he’d really let himself go, trading in the Greek god for the fat Elvis and exploding in his dungarees with no prejudice to direction. He began to rap on the handle with a wrench he had pulled from a red tool box. The metal case was now currently on its side vomiting screws, nails, linchpins and a solitary hammer.
The truck itself, was a mishmash of knobs, hoses, and metal winches jutting out of the flatbed of a Hino amid twin Honda motors, the bookends for a huge steel tank. It looked like someone’s skewed vision where the future meets the disintegrating, rusted past. A gentle breeze brought a waft of its sun baked reek in a concoction of grease, oil and something disturbingly human. There was a bumper sticker holding the left taillight to the whole mess with the assistance of duct tape. It said “shit disturber,” and I knew right then, it was him. It had to be.
He hammered away at the valve. “Cum-mon ya frickin’ bastard-of-a-thing. Oooh . . . what elks can go wrong?”
The man ceased his grunting, his actions, and slowly stood up turning to face me. A full growth of beard hugged his mouth like a fungal infection. He shielded his eyes from the sun to place me in shadow as I approached. “Sparky? .... Is that you?”
“None other, Wally.”
I advanced on him cautiously, not sure if I should shake his hand. Who knew where it had been? Besides, he was also disheveled and sweating profusely giving him a translucent, sticky glow.
“Shit. Well I’ll be. John Sparky Malveen– Haven’t see you for . . . ”
“Along time Wally. Let’s just leave it at that . . . and shit is right.”
He extended his hand and I took it, dispelling my earlier thoughts of the man and his occupation like he was a leper, or an accused pedophile. I was suddenly struck with the need to tell him everything— My reason for being there right down to the last detail— but I couldn’t– not yet. I had been through much already just to get this far, but that would come out in time. Right now, I needed to suppress the sordid details. I needed to accept the moment in its simplicity. I needed him to just be Wally.
“I hardly recognize you without all your hair.” He snickered a wheezy laugh, grinning through his tanned, weathered skin and bush of beard. “ I bet you made some barber happy?”
“I needed a change. Cut it off in a fit of depression if you must know. Still have a lock of it tucked away in a drawer somewhere. Hey I didn’t exactly recognize you either.” I thumped his drum-tight tummy like a ripe watermelon.
“You know me Sparky. I always loved to eat.”
“And I see you still do. I think there’s entire countries that eat less, Grizzly Adams....I’m just razzing you Wally. Like old times.” I tapped the side of the tank on the truck that said, Gristle & Son’s Sanitary Services, and gave him a cockeyed look. “What the hell do you have your nose into now?”
“Don’t look at me like that. It pays the bills. I’m out here by myself. My own boss. Nobody at the office bugs me. I get my route and I’m gone. It’s not as bad as it probably looks.”
“Sucking the crap out of outhouses, could it look any better? So I guess that makes you what, a Fecal Wrangler or a Stool Vacuum Technician, maybe?”
“I prefer Waste Retrieval Engineer if you don't mind?”
“Just what the world needs, Wally, more engineers, to balance the scales with the lawyers I guess.”
“It’s people like me that keep your Johnny-on-the-spot sanitized and ready
“That’s all right Wally, I have indoor plumbing now,” I said.
“It’s not a glamorous job I’ll admit, but it pays all right and the fishin’s good up here– ”
“– and you don’t have to go far to get your bait, I’m sure?”
“It’s not like I get in there with a shovel, you ass. God damn it. It’s all done by the old Honey wagon here . . . ” He lovingly stroked the trucks’ main tank. “ . . . with pumps and hoses, now days it’s a lot cleaner, a lot neater, and a lot more practical.”
“I can see that. When everything’s working.”
“Exactly.” Wally looked at the valve and kicked it. “Son-of-a-bitch Mother-scratcher seized up on me. I won’t be gittin’ any more work done today.”
“Don’t worry Wally. If someone is in such dire need to use one of your . . . uh . . . plastic phone booths, I’m sure they’ll still make the call.”
“I suppose. It’s too hot today anyways. The heat’s really kickin’ up the stench.”
I waved my hand frantically in front of my nose. “I hardly noticed.”
“Besides, damn kids got in this one here,” he said. He thumbed to a blue plastic cube with a yellow roof. It was leaning slightly to the left beyond the tail of the Honey-wagon. “They set the turlet-paper on fire and nearly burned the frickin’ thing down. It’s all charred black on her insides.”
“It’s not like we didn’t do stupid things when we were younger.”
Wally reached down with some effort and more inaudible cursing to collected his tools. He picked up a hard-hat that had been laying out of sight behind the rear wheel carriage. It was more of a pith helmet really. Wally said it was all part of the uniform. “Just make sure you don’t pith into the wind,” I told him. A poor joke at best I know, but my weak attempt at humor was lost on him anyway.
I said, “So what happened to the electrical trade? That’s what you were doing when you left the band weren’t you? The struggle between ohms and amperage get to be too much?”
Wally informed me he’d quit being an electrician to start his own business when the 90's were coming to a close. “If you’re not working for yourself, you’re working for someone elks,” was the way he put it. He’d started a little thing called, Millennium Outfitters. It was a company providing emergency supplies to people in the event of catastrophes. “You know, water, non perishables, camping gear, small weapons that sort of thing,” he said. But when Y2K never emerged and the world continued to spin with ceaseless regularity, Wally was left with a garage full of gas generators and sling-bows, as his business went south and folded. It actually sounded like one of my birdbrain ideas, which started with the best intentions, then crashed in a fireball of ruin.
After, he’d looked for the easy ticket, driving around in old cars- Beaters, he called them- getting into accidents, trying to sue someone for restitution. He’d even worn neck braces in court like it was some cheesy court drama. But the money he’d picked up in the insurance settlements had been lost in the aftermath of three brutal divorces.
“Are you sure you’re not up here in the wilderness hiding out?” I’d asked him.
Now here he was, away from any remnants of those days, driving the Honey-wagon and wiping his ass on the alimony checks every two weeks before firing them off in the mail.
“So you see . . . I just got tired of it all. I traded in the Electrical Cherry Picker for the Ol Vac-mobile here and moved out to God’s green pasture.”
“Hell’s half acre’s more like it Wally. There’s nothing around here. What do you do for excitement . . . other than fish that is?”
“There’s not much to tell Sparky. It’s a simple life, I don’t need a lot . . . and there’s no stress. But enough about me, what brings you out here? Wha-chu been up to? The last I heard you were at that place . . . ”
“– It burnt to the ground.”
“I didn’t do it. There were plenty of people in line in front of me with matches for that business. But you know what Wally? You want to hear something strange? I worked in that damn fruit store for years. I could have whatever produce I wanted and never felt the urge to eat a damn thing. Now that it’s gone . . . I miss the taste of a Bosc pear, which is really screwed.”
“Why don’t you just buy a boss pear somewhere elks?”
“Bosc! Bosc! The brown ones!” I said, as if telling him the color would suddenly change his pronunciation. “Do you understand what I’m saying Wally? I hate Bosc pears. I absolutely loath them . . . the gritty texture. It’s like eating sweet sand....You know, If that place was still standing I’d probably still be there.” It was more of a statement to myself than for Wally’s benefit. “Can you imagine me at my age still doing menial tasks like taking out the garbage?”
Wally looked at the tank on the truck full of human waste.
“Sorry,” I said. “No offense.”
“That still doesn’t answer the million-dollar question; what have you been doing Sparky Malveen?”
“A little of this, a little of that. Right now I guess I’d say I’m an author. Wrote a couple of books.”
“Really. Anything I’ve read.”
“You read now Wally?”
“They’re not published yet.”
“I thought you said . . . ?”
“I did. I’m an author . . . just apparently not a very good one. I felt inspired, so I did it.”
“So are you here to do some research on Honey-wagons, you know, for your next uh . . . unpublished book?— God, the stories I could tell you. There was this old woman with fifty cats, a duck, a turtle and her outhouse was— ”
“— Seems intriguing Wally, but no. I’m here for a different purpose, a mission if-you-like. I’m interested to know what you think about it, in fact, everyone from the old band?”
“The Oral Blondes?”
“Uh huh . . . and you’re a hard guy to track down.”
“You drove all the way up here to see me first? I’m touched.”
“No. I said you’re a hard man to track down but I’ve already talked to everyone else. Doc, Skunk, and Grub. I just need to know what you think about what I have to say? Perhaps, even give you an opportunity to come out of the wild and back to civilization if you’d like.”
“So if I’m so hard to find, how did you know where to look, Sparky?”
“You mean besides Gristle & Son’s telling me you’d be here? A chance meeting with someone we used to know. Come on, let’s get something to eat and I’ll tell you all about it.”
Wally rubbed his stomach with admiration. “Now, you’re talking my language.”
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Ever since I showed you my tits last week you've been clamouring for more breasts...well I'm sorry! I only have the two.
What? Ohhhhh! Pottahawk tits you say? That's different....well I'm sorry! You've seen all the pictures I have.
But never let it be said that Ol' Strange wouldn't crawl across a room full of razor blades to drink a pound of your piss. That's right you ungrateful bastards....and once again I use you in the kindest possible way.
I have scoured the net to find you titty pictures from Pottahawk. Finally I have what you crave courtesy of my good friends at Canadian Girls Gone Wild....actually I don't know them from Adam. However, the beauty of it is, all I have to do is give them a link and I can rip them off to my hearts content.
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Just to put things in perspective: I'd have to be rejected by women I hit on in bars for the next six weeks to even have a chance of surpassing that number.
Let's hear it for the big loser: Part deux
As Michael Vick's career goes to the dogs.
The federal indictment of the star Atlanta Falcons quarterback and Nike endorser, in one fell swoosh has dragged dogfighting into the national spotlight.
Pick a subjective word for this blood sport. Vicious. Gruesome. Inhumane. Side-splittingly hilarious. Some sick souls would say it's honorable.
Whatever you choose, know this: Dogfighting is illegal in all 50 states. It's a federal crime. And it's happening in the San Joaquin Valley, where another barbaric excuse to gamble -- cockfighting -- is big business.
Perhaps Vick should have whipped out his penis and gone the cockfighting route?
Women are getting bullish
Women in the northern Spanish city of Pamplona, world-famous for its ferocious bull-running festival, are demanding their own version complete with cows instead of bulls.
Does that mean the women who run will all be plus-sized?
Women have been allowed to take part in the San Fermin bull-running for some years but they still represent a tiny minority of the thousands of runners who attempt to dodge 600-kilo bulls along an 800-metre course through the streets of Pamplona.
I say let em run with the bulls. They won't get hurt. Why I gored GIGC repeated just the other day and other than her repeated screams of pleasure, she seemed relatively unscathed.
Look out Barbie
Twelve inches high, these soft plush toys come in three beloved Bible characters ?
Moses, Esther and, of course, Jesus complete with biblical messages.
Like what? "Please don't crucify me." and "Thou shall not worship other plush dolls."
The doll's voice is activated when the child hugs its red heart. The simple but profound messages the dolls speak are at the heart of what these lovable teaching tools are all about. Here's a sample of those messages:-- I love you and I have an exciting plan for your life. (Jesus: Jeremiah 29:11)--
Say Jesus, did that plan including living paycheck to paycheck, with the government busting my balls for money I owe them, 7 STD's, a rare form of prostate cancer and a partridge...in a pear tree?
Sorry, I couldn't find out if the dolls were anatomically correct or not. "Moses' rope belt is hanging out of his robe. hey! That's not his rope!"
Wanna whole lotta puke
The world's first rock 'n' roll theme park, Hard Rock Park introduces Led Zeppelin - The Ride. This rock 'n' roll themed roller coaster will stand over 150-feet tall and feature a high fidelity onboard audio system that plays Led Zeppelin's hit single "Whole Lotta Love" while passengers are sent through a series of six inversions. Led Zeppelin - The Ride is a mix of classic rock 'n' roll and amusement ride thrills. Keeping with the theme, the loading station will be designed to look like a giant zeppelin.
Way down in side....woman....you need a barf bag.
The search for the perfect opening act continues
Private Sector is still searching for interesting acts to open their fall tour. The newest acts to throw their hat into the ring for your consideration.
Sasha and Sanchez: Magic act extraordinaire- Show stopper is when Sasha pulls 22 pairs of underwear from Sanchez's pants.
Chess Piece Face: An obscure They Might Be Giants cover band. Unlike the TMBG duo, CPF has only one member.
If you'd like to see Sasha and Sanchez or Chess Piece Face, send your choice with 2 Count Chocula box tops
to: Mitchieville, Ont. ONO FU2 c/o The Mayor's office.
Cross posted at Mitchieville
Saturday, July 21, 2007
Yet today I go to post the first chapter of HMH and find nothing but the blank page- which I guess is something if you want to get technical about it- So those of you who have faithfully followed the faux pas of Doc, Sparky, Wally and Wires will have to wait another week to see how these middle-aged men cope with another swing at the music industry.....hmmm....sounds familiar in an Entourage sort-of-way......or you can just go to the myspace page and get an idea how it turns out.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go download the new "Dirt Pipe Milkshakes". I'm pretty sure I used to date one of those girls.
Friday, July 20, 2007
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Wednesday, July 18, 2007
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Everyone's wild about Harry to the tune of $450 million world wide thus far. However, did you know the movie under went some serious script rewrites before it finally reached theatres? Here's one of the earlier drafts.
Monday, July 16, 2007
Sunday, July 15, 2007
I even had to miss the Mayor's blogfest party at the mansion. Guess I'll have to swing from the chandelier without my pants some other time.....maybe this Friday?
However, I’ve been left with a wealth of material I can’t post since most of it’s old news like Springtime for Paris-
Yup it’s been that long. Who cares about anything Hilton anyway? I mean when your favorite passage from the bible is...uh...that last one....Reservations?
A female jockey won the Queen’s Plate for the 1st time ever.
As far as I’m concerned women and horses should only be seen together in porn. What’s next? I suppose they’ll be wanting the vote?
As you read on Mitchieville, NASA has put the 6 million dollar bum rush on a toilet for the space station.
Hey guys! Have you ever head of Home Depot? $19.95.
A new study shows kids would rather give up TV than the Internet.
Sure. It's much easier to download porn and meet pedophiles.
I also learned that 7 out of 10 terrorists recommend doctors and Honest Ed died, but that’s all ancient news......OK except for Honest Ed. Wonder how long before the musical: Honest Dead?
I'm Lavigne on a jet plane
Just when it seemed Avril Lavigne was in the clear, her song writing ability and authenticity has been called into question again. Music buffs have pointed to Lavigne's new song I Don't Have to Try and made direct comparisons to Peaches' 2003 track I'm the Kinda.
Hey Avril. Steal some Sector songs will ya. We could use the publicity. Next week: Avril claims to be the first woman jockey to win the Queen's Plate.
Oooo that smell...
Researchers from the New York State Psychiatric Institute say they have found that a smell identification test can predict Alzheimer's disease. An inability to identify certain odors like roses or gasoline can show which people with cognitive impairment will go on to develop Alzheimer's.
Get back to me when you lose the ability to smell your own shit. If that's one of the odors, I'm gonna get Alzheimer's, but at least I won't be alone.
What's black and orange all over?
A U.S. jury found Conrad Black guilty of three counts of criminal fraud and the serious charge of obstruction of justice -- but cleared the former media tycoon of racketeering, wire fraud and tax evasion on Friday.
The convictions mean Black, 62, faces a maximum sentence of 35 years, if served consecutively, and US$1 million in fines.
Better get the bible open to Reservations.
We're #1! We're #1
Welcome to "Toker Nation". According to the UN Office on Drugs and Crime and based on a percentage of population, Canada now has the distinction of being the number one industrialized country in the world for marijuana use.
The 2007 World Drug Report by the UN Office on Drugs and Crime says that 16.8 per cent of Canadians between the ages of 15 and 64 either smoked pot or "ingested one of its derivatives" in the last calendar year.
In your face Micronesia and Papua New Guinea!
Where's Johnny Wad #2
Yup. I'm pretty sure I can't smell my own shit.
Cross posted on Mitchieville.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
In previous years we have been graced by the presence of celebrities including Elvis, Old St. Nick, Bubbles and Johnny Wad.
This year's line-up was equally impressive:
Randy Macho Man Savage and Big Papa Pump
Private Sector's drummer Brian Christopher pops his Pottahawk cherry.
Then there was that Wierd Al Viking Dude
And the creme de la creme....Bigfoot
the limits of respectability
chapter thirty-five - of respectability
The phone rang and Wires answered it. After a few acknowledgments he returned the receiver to its cradle. “The limo’s here Sparky, time to go.” I got up and grabbed my jacket. Wires put on a hip-length, leather coat and the two of us started for the elevator. Closing the door, we left the lavish suite and the last days of Bitter Romance behind us.
“We’ve been here all morning and I never asked you what happened to the others,” Wires said. He pushed the button for the elevator, lighting it up.
“I don’t know? I haven’t seen them in some time. I wouldn’t know where to start looking, if I wanted to find them, especially Wally. Last I heard Doc and Skunk got married.”
“To each other?”
“No but Lorraine and Magic did.”
“Yeah. They’re probably all enjoying domestic bliss.”
“You still working at that place?”
“Ultimate Produce? No, I got out.”
“You were there a long time weren’t you?"
“That’s a whole other story Wires. We don’t really have time now. Let’s just say,
currently, I’m between gigs. — Waiting for Walden to call if-you-will.”
Wires popped an unlit cigarette into his mouth in anticipation for the match he would ignite it with, a step-or-two outside the hotel. “I still think your true calling is in music Sparky. You guys had real talent. You should have gone places.”
“Timing Wires. You know that. It was never right for us. We always seemed to miss it by just a little bit.”
“You know it’s still there, all it takes is one song and you guys wrote some really good ones.”
“Spike didn’t think so.”
“Hey what did he know? After he and Casey divorced, he went postal.”
“And as far as I know he still works for the post office.”
The doors opened and in we stepped. Wires pushed lobby. The doors closed and I felt my stomach lighten as we descended. “Just because you were the one to become successful, Wires, doesn’t mean it’s in the cards for me.”
“You told me you were never satisfied with how it ended. You said things were left unfinished. Don’t you want to know one way or the other if it would have happened for you, Sparky?”
“I don’t know. It seems like a lot of work now.”
“What did you say, ‘Right now you’re between gigs?’ What do you have to lose? I’m just trying to return the favor, Sparky. You told me I was responsible for keeping Bitter Romance going all those years ago. How you could have never done it without me there. Now I’m telling you, I am where I am today, because I took your advice, and to a lesser extent Doc’s. I followed my desires. Do yourself a favor, go after yours.”
“Doc? What did he tell you?”
“Diversify and invest in anything to do with computers.”
“I don’t know Wires. I’m getting a little long in the tooth, I don’t see it happening. It’s a younger man’s game now. Besides, I don’t want to be one of those cash-grab rock-stars who is drunk on his own success and squeezing every last dime out of the adoring public in an auto biographical tale of how I got to where I am. I’d be appalled having my face on everything from tampons to pillowcase nighties for six-year-olds. The endless interviewers asking me, ‘What’s it like being the real you?’”
“You tell them, you’re the real you most of the time. That’s what I say.”
“It would just make me be what I despised about Space all those years ago.”
“You’re just making excuses not to try it again, Sparky. Space sells used cars for a living. I’m sure it’s far from the life he wanted to carve out for himself?”
“Success changes everyone, it’s inevitable. Our manager told us. I guess I’ve bought into the concept a little too much.”
Wires chuckled. “I know what you mean. I’m so self absorbed now.”
“Good point. Stop being such an A-hole,” I said with a laugh.
We were now in the lobby. I could see the black stretch limousine and the chauffeur standing by its side, waiting for Wires. The once timid Neville Whitmire had made it to the level the rest of the old band still dreamt about between snores on a drool covered pillow. We stepped out into the brilliant sunshine. Wires reached into his coat pocket and adorned some sunglasses. The driver open the door to allow him access to the back seat.
“You learn to adapt. Look at me, Sparky. We’ve been sitting in the hotel room all morning. Do I really seem all that different from what you remember?”
“You’re cleaner . . .”
“Other than personal hygiene? My personality, my demeanor, are they different?”
“Do you feel in awe to be around me? Have I been condescending in anyway? Have I treated you like an inferior?”
“Well then . . .” Wires laughed softly. “Listen to me. All these questions, I sound like Doc. I miss them. Doc, Skunk, and especially Wally. Say, hi, for me if you ever run into them again.”
“I will, Wires. You take care.”
Wires got into the back of the limo and its enveloping comfort of black leather. He paused to light up his cigarette and shake out the match. “Are you sure you don’t want to come? There’s a fully stocked bar in here. It’ll be fun and I can smoke, thank god.” He blew out a big cloud. I thought he was going to have an orgasm.
“Naw . . .I appreciate the offer but on second thought, I’d only get in the way.”
“Oh shit! I almost forgot! I want you to have this Sparky.” He reached into a black briefcase he’d brought with him and handed me a book. It was colorful and covered in high-gloss images. The art work was much more refined and sharper than I’d remembered.
“There’ll be more at the signing, but I wanted you to have the first copy of my new book.”
“Thanks, Wires. I always told you those drawings were excellent.” I looked at the title. “The Limits of Respectability, I like that. I’m sure it’s going to do well. Just like your others. You’re already regarded as the next Berkeley Breathed, or was it the next Charles M. Shultz? Personally I compare you to that Calvin and Hobbes guy?”
“That’s the one . . . I think?”
“It means more coming from you Sparky. Thanks for coming to see me. It was great to reminisce about the old days. Remember...all it takes is one song.”
The Chauffeur closed the door and returned to the front. Wires lowered the window and held his hand out in parting. I watched as the limo pulled away from the curb with our Wires in the back. I raised my own hand in farewell. I stood unmoving until the vehicle turned a corner and was lost from sight. I sighed and plucked Wires’ book from my tucked arm. I opened the cover. Inside, Wires had written:
To my friend John ‘Sparky’ Malveen, Good luck and success. All it takes is one song!
Your friend always,
Friday, July 13, 2007
How about, "Get your motor runnin'...head out on the highway..." Is that better?
Yes, today is Friday the 13th, which , if you live in Port Dover- not far from Pottahawk- it means something totally different than Jason slasher movies and superstitions. For today is the day thousands of bikers descend on your small town to party.
In recognition of this event and to get you in the mood, I recommend: Battle Axe- Burn This Town.
Not really a comforting fact is it? Especially if you live in Dover.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
Thank God! It seems after crapping a diaper full of worry my digital camera is back in working order. Simplistically put, it means there will be more Pottahawk 2007 pics posted in the near future and I'm fuckin' buying Kodak stock first thing tomorrow.
Thursday: A new game of "Where's Johnny Wad?" begins.
Friday: The babes of Pottahawk
Saturday: Celebrity sightings
Sunday: Match the body parts
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
OK, it's not 2007. This is older footage. Further more It's not even mine.
You see I had an unfortunate incident where my digital camera was introduced to urine tainted water briefly and the bells and whistles are on the blink.
The jury is still out on whether the pics can be saved....certainly hope so? Otherwise, gone are the snaps of all the hot babes, all the celeb sightings from Bigfoot to Flavor Flave, and a mighty fine breast exposure of GIGC as well. Yup, the Pottahawk Week Extravaganza I had planned has suddenly ended, in the words of T.S. Eliot, "Not with a bang but a whimper."
Boy the sponsor is going to be pissed. It was Schlitz Beer BTW, with their 2007 Pottahawk slogan: "Come on ladies....show us your Schlitz!"
Monday, July 09, 2007
Saturday, July 07, 2007
chapter thirty-four - time takes a cigarette
Journal entry- Day 1- Today is the beginning of a new tour, a new era, perhaps a whole new life for me. It’s funny how when you reach the bottom, (Absolute zero as-it-were), you can see with stunning clarity what has to be done. You must first lose it all, to realize what you have, and what must be achieved. We’ve been home for a week now. The time off has been nice but anything more than a week and I get antsy especially when there’s someone else sleeping in my bed. I may have lost a lot of weight out on the road, but it appears in my absence, Lorraine has gained some— in another person. There’s just one more unresolved issue to take care of. Something I couldn’t do . . . until now.
I had camped out on the couch since my return. How could I be upset at Lorraine? This had been coming for a long time. I hadn’t exactly been singing in the choir myself. My time away from home had not been an exercise in monogamy, and I was still checking over my shoulder occasionally, expecting Megan to reappear. I was surprisingly calm about the whole ordeal. There was no yelling, no screaming, no charging at the unfaithful with a butter knife. Or was it . . . I was just desensitized by the madness of the past few months? Anyway, it was good to be back in a hotel room and the familiar comfort of four solid walls protecting and embracing, like enveloping arms hugging me to a mother’s bosom.
We all sat around in a pre-performance powwow, pondering the future and waiting for Space to arrive with news of our next destination. Our head count had diminished since last we gathered in the same vicinity. Bronson and Casey had both decided to choose other vocations than subject themselves to the rigors of another tour.
“Just like old times huh, Wires? Pulling double duty with lights and sound.”
Wires shrugged and continued to puff on his cigarette as he sat cross-legged on one of the beds. Wally sat on the mattress next to Wires and Doc and I sat on the other one, across from them. Spike reclined in a lounge chair with his dark sunglasses over his eyes, looking at god-knows-what. The real hot topic of conversation had been my story of finding Magic in my bed when I got home and Wally was still harping on the subject. “That’s harsh guy. It’s one thing to find your woman screwing around, but with someone you know. Ouch!”
“At least we know what Magic’s been up to since he got home.”
I gave Doc a smirk and addressed my attention to Spike. “How come Casey’s not coming with us?”
“She found the band too stressful,” he said. He was still looking past me. It was like talking to a blind guy. “She’s staying home this time.”
“I thought you guys were . . . ?”
“We are. I’ll have to see what happens in the next few weeks.”
“I hope Magic doesn’t know where you live.”
Spike growled. “Doc!”
“What? Magic’s a good-looking guy. I’d have sex with him if I was a chick.”
“That’s enough Barlow!” Ok, now I could tell Spike was gazing directly at Doc. You could feel the heat behind those dark orbs. He gripped the arms of his chair, ready to rise up and confront our keyboard player further phone book or no.
“It’s Ok, Spike. Doc didn’t mean anything by it. Did you Doc?”
“No just a little humor, that’s all.”
“It’s not funny. Not for me. Not for Sparky.”
“Spike, it’s not like Lorraine and I were a relationship for the ages. We weren’t as tight as you and Casey are. The fact I’m not bothered by it has to tell you something.”
“It tells me we need to change things. Breathe some life into this band.”
No one responded to Spike’s statement and there was a glut of silence and fidgeting. Finally Spike broke in with his opinion anyway. “I’ve been mulling this over in my mind for sometime. Actually since we left Bugtussle. You know what we need to do? We need to revamp our style and our long range goals. No more Duran Duran, Tears For Fears, Spandau Ballet,— too bubble-gum. No more obscure cover songs no one’s heard before. No more Sparky originals, they’re too depressing. We need songs, more uplifting and aggressive. Stuff like U2, or REM. That’s where music’s going. We need to be on that train.”
“What do you mean, the stuff I write is too depressing?”
“It is, Sparky.”
“People can identify with songs like that, Spike. Life is misery much of the time, or were you not on tour with us?”
“No, they can’t identify, and neither can I.”
“Do you know why I don’t write happy songs, Spike? Well do ya? It’s because when I’m happy, I’m out enjoying life. When I’m pissed off, or angry, I write, I purge. I want the world to know how fucked up I feel. I want the filth and crap to go through the emotional grinder and come out on paper. I’ll probably get a ton of material out of my current living situation.”
“I thought you didn’t care?” Doc quizzed.
“I don’t . . .I care to the point of creativity.”
“It’d make a good country song,” Wally added. “Seven days since she left me and yet it feels like a week.”
“You’re entitled to your opinion Spike, but remember I’m part of this band too. If we can’t have compromise with this new direction you propose, then we’re in no better shape than we are now. You’d just be the new dictator.”
“As opposed to the old dic— ” Doc added, but was interrupted by the turning of the door handle. The door swung open. Our current dictator entered the room. Wires uncrossed his legs and stretched out looking upward to the ceiling but remained mute. Spike, somewhat agitated had leaned forward to the television and began to flick through the channels. Wally opened a bag of potato chips and shoveled handfuls into his mouth spreading the crumbs on the floor.
“So where are we off to next?” Doc asked, as he held out his hand to Wally for some chips.
“I spoke with Ron Huber.”
“The Ron Huber who double-booked us last New Year’s eve?” I inquired. “The guy who left us stranded several times with no gigs to go to. The agent with nothing but shit for rooms? Oh, that Ron Huber?”
“Yes. Be happy Sparky, there’s still an agent who’s willing to book this band.”
Doc moaned through a mouthful. “Huber makes Sleezyk look like an all-star.”
“Go on, I have to hear where were playing next,” I said.
“We’re at The Cave in Lexburough next week.”
“The cave? That’s sixteen hours from here, Space.”
“Just the first gig. The next four are close together.”
“Where? What’s close to Lexburough? Nothing unless he’s got us booked at service stations and roadside rest-stops. Christ we’ll be there for Christmas.”
“Look guys. We are back on the ladder.”
Doc spat. Potato chip remnants shot out of his mouth. “— at the bottom rung.”
“I’m not going, Space.”
“I worked very hard to get this Doc— What did you say Sparky?”
“I said. I’m not going. I’ve played The Cave before . . . remember. We spent the entire week hiding from fat inbreeds looking to get impregnated and have us take them away from their miserable incestuous existence. I couldn’t get "Dueling Banjos" out of my head for a month. No. Whether I need the money or not, I’m not playing The Cave and I’m not touring dives through Christmas. This is the last gig. I’m done after this week. I don’t need this shit. Whoever wants to come with me, is welcome.”
“I’ll go,” Spike said, as he continued to channel surf.
“With all due respect Spike— no. I want to do depressing music, songs about finding your ex-light-man in bed with your girlfriend, that sort-of-thing, you’d only be unhappy.”
Spike huffed and turned his back to me.
“What are you going to do Sparky, work nine-to-five somewhere?”
“If I have to . . . yes. I spoke with Skunk this week. You do remember Skunk don’t you Space? You unceremoniously fired her ass once. Maybe I’ll do something with her?”
“You can’t do this, Sparky. We have contracts. We can’t cancel.”
“No, you have contracts. I didn’t sign anything. It’s your problem. Listen Space, this is the last gig, Bitter Romance is no longer, it died when Walden booked us in Bugtussle like every other act passing through that hell hole. We can’t possibly carve out a career the way things are now. I’m moving in a new direction, that unfortunately, you are not apart of. Sound familiar? I wish you the best.”
“Sparky, think about what you’re doing, the bridges you’re burning.”
“I have Space. Those bridges have been swinging in the wind on the verge of collapse for some time. I want the chance to get to the next level. It’s not going to happen here, especially playing places like The Cave where no one cares what we play, or if we even show up. My decision’s final, I’ll finish the week but that’s it.”
“Alright! Fine! After all we’ve been through, quit! Doc can play bass.”
“Actually, Sparky’s idea sounds pretty good to me. I’m going to go with him and Skunk.”
“Is everyone deserting?”
“No just Sparky and Doc and me,” Wally added.
Space stood, his arms limp at his side, stunned. I’d grown accustomed to seeing the look on his face. Wires still said nothing, he just blew out smoke rings and listened.
“Enjoy your little mutiny boys, but I expect you to perform the week. If you aren’t going to be friends, at least be professionals!” Space stomped off, slamming the door behind him.
Wally jammed another handful of potato chips into his mouth. “I thought thhat wen thwell?”
After the show I approached Wires who was replacing the cover on the sound console for the night. Space and Spike, had left for the hotel immediately following the encore, and Doc was outside the club talking with a few friends who had come out to see us. Wally sat close by, half-in-the-bag, from a night of drinking on stage and off. He was eyeing a cute waitress who was clearing off tables and shooing the last of the drunken patrons out of the club.
“You didn’t say much today, Wires.”
“A man’s gotta do, what a man’s gotta do. Nothing I could’ve said today to change it.”
“Listen, I’ve talked to Doc and Wally and I know Skunk would be happy to have you join us in this new group.” Wires continued with the cover on the console and snapping it into place. “We could really use someone with your talent. You could even play guitar, follow that dream of yours.”
Wires paused as he clipped the last clasp into place and glanced up at me appreciatively. He sat down in his chair and motioned for me to sit on one across from him. He reached for his pack, taking the time to take a cigarette. I put my bass case down and obliged him, grabbing the closest chair. I could hear a drunk Wally behind me getting vocal with the waitress. “Ooooh you gots an ass like a sixteen-year-old . . . uhhh.”
“Thanks for sharing with us, Wally, but the Chub competition is over. Space won. Remember?”
Wally looked at me, glassy eyed. “Space won?”
“Yes, Wally. Space won. You bought him dinner last week.”
“Space always wins.” He slammed a fist down on the table.
“Not after this week,” I said under my breath. I turned back to Wires. He was wrapping up some loose cables from the floor and shutting down the effects. “Wires, we’d like you to come with us. This is a chance for you to shine and be apart of something special.”
“I appreciate the offer, Sparky. I really do. There’s plenty of people for me to hide behind but you already have two guitarists you don’t need a third.” He paused to take a drag. “I’m not sure you even need two. Skunk’s a hell of a lead guitarist. You really want Wally?”
I glanced over my shoulder. Wally was mumbling something about being an organ donor and he had an organ he’d insert into the waitress if he got the chance.
“He’s a good guy,” I said.
“I agree,” Wires responded. He blew out some smoke. “I’m just pointing out, if you are going to be a leader, loyalty sometimes has to suffer. Do you think Space was always the way he is now?”
“I’ve never known him to be any other way.”
“I grew up with him Sparky. He was very much like you are now, but he realized he had to make tough decisions to get to where he wanted to go. They are not always popular ones. Are you prepared to accept his role?”
“In answer to your question, Wires. Yes, I want him with me. I want Wally. I think you can balance. You can have leadership and have loyalty to one another. You are right about the guitars, three would be too many, but will you not come with us and do our sound? Wires, we need you.”
There was a thud as Wally passed out and his head hit the table behind us. He mumbled something about, “wearing panties on his head” and “a cold day in June.” Then he started to drool onto the table.
Doc stuck his head in through the door of the club. “Where the hell is Wally?”
“Sleeping beauty’s right there Doc.”
Barlow entered and stopped short of Wally’s position, studying the logistics of moving him. “Sparky, he’s heavy. Help me walk him out.”
“Just get him outside. I’ll be out in a minute, Doc.”
Doc coaxed Wally to his feet with a few, “Je-sus,’” thrown in there and Wally staggered out of the club with Barlow’s guidance.
“What did he drink tonight that messed him up, Wires?”
“He was sitting at a table with the birthday girl. The one out with all her friends.”
“Who was he putting the moves on?”
“All of them I think. They kept getting shooters and Wally drank with them. Or it could have been the pickle brine.” Wires motioned to the bar where the jar of pickles had once occupied a spot next to a pillar. It had been taken away.
“Poor Wally,” I said.
“Poor Doc, if Wally throws up that concoction all over him.” We both chuckled.
“You do realize, you don’t have a drummer for this new band of yours?”
“Technicalities. Wires, drummers are a dime a dozen. How hard can it be to find a guy? We’ll use a drum machine while we look for the right one. It’s not a problem. — Wires, this is the right thing to do, I feel it. I’m just spinning my wheels staying with Space and so are you. Come with us.”
“I can’t. My place is here. It always has been. Can’t you see that Sparky?”
“You’re staying with Space, after all he’s put you through? He doesn’t respect you, Wires. He treats you like afterbirth or shooters in pickle brine to use a recent example. You should be with people who appreciate your strengths and skills. People who appreciate you.”
“I can’t explain it, Sparky. Like I said, we’ve known each other a long time. There is respect there, it’s just on a deeper level and you don’t see it. He is what he is because of all this.” Wires swept his arm slowly around the bar and the stage. “He wants to succeed, he’s just been corrupted, lost his way. I feel I should be here. I can’t abandon him, not yet. It’s just not my time.”
“So that’s your final decision . . . to stay?”
“Here with him?”
“Yup. Here with him.”
“You can’t blame me for trying, Wires. I know we’ve got the rest of the week to go . . . but . . . I just wanted to say . . . You’ve meant a lot to me . . . to us. I believe we wouldn’t have made it through if not for you. You will be missed.”
“That means a great deal, Sparky. Uh . . . let me know when you play your first gig. I’ll come out to see you if I can.”
I got up, grabbed my bass case and started to leave. The place was deserted except for the odd clang in the kitchen and the gentle thwick, thwick, thwick, of bills being counted in the corner by the bar manager as he totaled the night’s receipts. I turned back to our sound-man. “Hey, Wires. Don’t be afraid to perform. Keep trying to get over your stage fright. You are meant for better things than this. Don’t be held back by Space, by anyone, promise me .”
Wires smiled his unmistakable smile, all rugged and GQ, the one belonging on a billboard touting the newest in manly fragrances. It was all the reassurance I needed. We’d all lied, and cheated, and stolen to try to better ourselves, but Wires, he had always kept his integrity. Doc, Wally and I, finished the week but on the first night at the Golden Horseshoe was the real goodbye to a man I respected and greatly admired.
Friday, July 06, 2007
Wednesday, July 04, 2007
However, since this year's holy event has not yet transpired you can see my dilemma.
Perhaps with a little photoshop I could fool the wouldbe PH surfers?
It's worth a shot don't you think?
Not very imaginative, I know.
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Monday, July 02, 2007
Sunday, July 01, 2007
But where ever you reside , it's good to have a break and I should be no exception here at Strangedaze.
Originally, the least I could do was to post nothing at all and give you some peace from my often inane blathering...... However, I'll go you one better and leave my rambling confined to this short passage. Enjoy the holiday.