Friday, September 28, 2007

HMH #10

Chapter Ten- A chicken in hand is worth two in the bush

With each step our reverence grew and our spirits sank. The vision before us was anything but alluring. It rose up in the moonlight- daunting, ominous, eerie. We achieved the top of the hill and pounded on past the carcasses of rusted farm equipment, sunken and overgrown with weeds, tendrils of which, hung off chunks of aluminum siding. The path melted into gravel ten paces from our position leading past a barn, then the house, and eventually a route to roads unseen. The barn’s roof was partially caved in on the right side. It was leaning on the stone casing of a silo like a drunk on a lamp post. The structure itself, reeked of rot, decay and wet hay. It was dark and silent with no indication it contained livestock of any kind. It was however, abundant with the scurrying and fluttering of nocturnal activity and easily added to our angst.

Quietly we crept up to the house, with its twisted shutters and creaky weather vane. Its uninviting presence was cause for stealth and alarm. I’m sure we all felt the rising urge to scurry back the way we’d come. Nearby a chain hung from the whispering branches of an old oak tree, lonely for dog, tire, or hangman. The happy chirping of the crickets, evident in the field not long ago, had all but ceased to a suffocating silence. Inside the house, a light burned brightly from an upstairs window— surely the flickering tongues of some fire from the depths of hell.

We gathered at the foot of rickety wooden steps leading up to a pillared veranda and an entrance way. It was faded and veined in cracked paint hiding cowardly behind the ripped mesh of a dirty screen door. The veranda sported a worn swing-chair with a faded, banded awning and a wicker rocker next to which, sat a bucket of sand hosting a bonsai garden of cigarette butts.

“What now?”

“What do you think Wally? We just stand around here all night waiting for the owner to come out? Say I think I see three dark figures out there on my lawn. I should go out and say hello. Yuppers...that would be the friendly thing to do.”

“No need to rub it in Doc.”

“Who’s going to knock?”

“I will ya pansies!” Doc bravely climbed the steps. They groaned with every footfall. He rapped loudly on the screen door and it shook from his fist.

“Careful Doc. It looks like you might knock the damn thing down if you hit it too hard.”

Doc rapped once more with less force. The light upstairs was joined by one on the first floor. A voice from within gibbered. “Alright hold yer horses. I’m cumin, I’m cumin.” The door opened slightly and a curious hawk-like eye peeked out through a sliver of light beyond a link of a gold chain lock. “Whacha wantin at this hour?” The eyeball said.

“Sorry to trouble you sir but we appear to be lost. We were on our way to a recording studio. It’s near here– ”

“– Don’t know of any stew-dee-o and I don’t want no visitors.” The eye said and shut the door.

Doc rapped again shaking the frame this time. “Sir. We need help. Can we use your phone?”

“Watch the dang door!” The eye said, as again it opened a touch. “Don’t got no phone. Don’t need no phone. Can’t help ya. Go away.” Again the door slammed shut leaving us to our growing desperation.

Doc yelled out from our side of the barricade. “Is there a hotel, or restaurant near here?....Any place where we can get help?” There was no answer from within. “How about food? Do you have any food you can sell us? Chocolate bars, sandwiches, anything? We’re hungry. We have money.”

There was silence, and then we heard the sound of a series of chains being unlatched from their holders on the opposite side. The door opened wider this time.

I turned to Wally. “The almighty dollar wins again,” I said.

The eye had brought along a face and a body this time. The composition was one of age and suspicion. Rough calloused hands hung at the end of long, bony arms. A ragtag adornment of denim and flannel hung in folds around a skeletal frame to varicose lines of blue stretching from ankles to slippered feet. The old man had sandpaper stubble of grey surrounding his mouth, void of teeth. The gritty shadow traveled along his cheek bones to grassy ears beneath a bald cap of freckled spots. Bushy brows sat atop the ski-slope of a nose ending in a jutting configuration of nostril hair and cartilage.

“Do you have some food you could sell us?” Doc repeated trying to maintain eye contact beyond the nose.

“I got chicken if yer interested?”

“How much do you want for it?”

“How much ya got? It’s a whole chicken.”

The art of negotiation: Lesson #1- Get the other person to establish monetary value first.

“How about ten bucks?” Doc began.

“Forty.”

“Forty dollars? No way,” I protested.

“Fifteen,” Doc offered.

The old man began to close the door slowly.

The art of negotiation: Lesson #2- The person who is willing to walk away has the upper hand.

“Twenty.” The door closed further.“Twenty-five but that’s our final offer.”

“Done!” The old man said, swinging the portal open again.

“Wait Doc. Sir is the chicken cooked?”

“No it ain’t. You have to cook it.”

“How the hell are we going to do that? None of us smoke. We don’t have a lighter. What are we supposed to do, rub two sticks together?”

“I’ll sell you some matches, but it’s my last pack. If the lights go out, I’m in the dark. You’d have to make it worth my while.”

“Five bucks.”

The old man scoffed. “Five bucks? Don’t insult me. I may have been born yesterday, but I wasn’t born last night. — Twenty.”

“This is madness,” I proclaimed. “Twenty for matches? Shit, even five is way too much.”

“We’ll give you seven and not a penny more,” Doc insisted.

The old man looked at Wally. “That’s a nice yellow shirt you got there boy. — Ten plus the shirt.”

The art of negotiation: Lesson #3- Always ask for something extra in return with each counter offer.

I couldn’t believe the balls of this flimflam artist. “I’ve heard of giving the shirt off your back, but this is ridiculous.”

“Doc, I can’t do that. What will I wear? I’ll be ringing the dinner bell for the mosquitoes. They’re already sucking me dry as it is now.”

The old man said nothing and stood clutching onto the security of door behind the screen.

The art of negotiation: Lesson #4- The loser is usually the one who will break the silence.

“Doc just give him the twenty and lets get out of here.”

“Sold!” The old man clavered. His happiness was duly noted.

“Sparky! Shit! Fine! Twenty for the matches.” Doc looked back at me. “Where did you learn to haggle?”

“Do you really want Wally walking around without a shirt?”

“You boys drive a hard bargain, but I’ll get you what you need.” The old man closed the door and hooked up all the chains, leaving us in the darkness while he went to retrieve our purchase.

“Where does he think he lives, Fort Knox?” I blurted with dissipating tolerance.

“OK guys. Fork it over. We need forty-five dollars.”

“I hope there’s nothing else we need to buy? We’ll be broke,” I said. I reached into my pockets and tossed a twenty in Doc’s direction.

“I had everything under control until you spoke, Sparky.”

“Sure you did. — Twenty-five dollars for uncooked chicken.”

Wally grunted, as he handed over a ten to Doc. “You said this weekend wasn’t gunna cost me anything Sparky.”

“Stop bitchin’ Wally. Does your car need of a new radiator?”

The old man returned and opened the door with agonizing deliberation. Doc handed him the money and he gave Doc a small pack of wooden matches. He also passed out a burlap sack apparently with our poultry. Doc handed both items to Wally. The bag slipped through his fingers and thudded to the veranda. It made a noise. Baaawk

“Whadafuc?” Wally retrieved the bag, untied it, and I peered in. “There’s a live chicken in here.”

“You sold us a live chicken?”

“You asked for something to eat. I said I had chicken. You said ok. I obliged. Our business is complete. Goodnight boys.” The old man slammed the door shut and began his Houdini routine of fastening all the chains one last time.

“You old fuck! Open this door right now! We want our money back. — Son of a bitch we’ve been pooched and hood-winked.” Doc pounded away while we all screamed obscenities. We heard an upstairs window open. We moved off the veranda so we could look up and scream some more. The old man was there leaning out on the ledge with the black steel casing of a shotgun pointed directly at us.

“I said our business is complete! Now get off my property, unless you want to buy something to kill the chicken with? In which case, I have a rusty razor I can sell you for fifty smackers.” The old man began to cackle in a hideous tone. Effectively, it told us we should leave before we got some added buckshot for our trouble. One free shot in the ass with every chicken sold.

“You’re crazy!”

The old man cocked the rifle. “Go on and git! Right down to the road and don’t stop. I’ll be watchin’.”

“But we need to go the other way,” Wally whispered.

“Just do as he says,” Doc responded. “Alright we’re leaving!” Slowly we backed away following his instructions and started down the gravel road. Once we were out of range, the gun retracted and the window closed. There we stood; three hungry idiots with a box of matches and a burlap bag with our chicken inside. Baaawk.

“We have to get back to the Honey wagon.”

“And walk past that crazy old ass again. No way.”

“What do we do now Sparky? Je-sus this is all your fault. I told you your directions were fa-kucked.”

“We’ll have to lay low for a while before we can double back. Who knows how vigilant that old kook is going to be? I propose we continue down this road, find a clearing and build a fire while we wait it out.”

“You’re not suggesting we actually kill and eat the bird are you Sparky? I’m hungry but I have to draw the line . . . ”

“Have you seen that scrawny little thing Doc. If we wait another ten minutes it’ll probably die from old age.”

Baaaaaaawk

“I’m hungry. I’ll kill it.”

“Shit, Wally. You had subs and Chinese four hours ago. Doc and I haven’t eaten since this morning. Plus a bird as ancient as this one would be tough as hell.”

“All the more reason. I’ll just keep it in the bag and whack it over a rock. Quick and painless.”

Doc spouted. “Wally, I’m sure you’re a fine woodsman and the School of Woodsology taught you quick-kill techniques and all that, but I will not stand here and be apart of some inhumane slaughter.”

Baaaaawk.

“Wally, Doc’s right. Let’s build a fire to get warm, but we’re not going to die of hunger if we don’t eat tonight. Face it. We got shafted by an octogenarian. There’s no need to try to justify it by killing the poor chicken.”

“Octa what?”

“It means he’s old, not that he has eight arms.”

“Then just say old Sparky. Geesh! Why you always usin’ hunerd dollar words when a ten cent one will do?”

We followed the road by the pale luster of a now white moon, away from the crazy old fart and his trigger finger. The road led us to a crossing splitting off in various directions.

“Great. The maze continues. I’m going straight. I’m already beginning to forget how to get back to the Honey wagon. No more twists and turns for me.”

“Fine Doc, we’ll go straight.” Eventually we found a clearing not far from the other side of the road where we felt comfortable enough to build a small fire without fear of burning woodland or alerting the old man we were still in the vicinity. In fact, the area looked like a rest stop. It had a wobbly picnic table and there was a small metal grill jutting out of the ground on a post of iron.

“We can start a fire in that.”

Doc shook the side of the grill. The bottom disintegrated and fell to the ground in crumbling flakes of decay. “I’d think again, Sparky.”

“We can still build a fire with our twenty dollar matches. We’ll just make a buffer-zone with rocks. Help me find something to burn.”

Doc and I took the flashlight and went to gather wood. We left Wally to make a circle of rocks to contain the fire and made him give us his solemn oath he wouldn’t kill the chicken in our absence. Within minutes, Doc and I returned to the site. We dumped two arm loads of wood beside Wally. “What kind of circle is that Wally? Looks more like a pentagram.”

“Well I can’t see Doc. The moon went behind some clouds. You took the only flashlight. I did the best I could in the dark.”

“It’s fine Wally. Doc get the fire going.”

“Yes, hurry up I’m getting eaten alive by bugs.”

“That’s because mosquitoes can smell color and you’re wearing the loudest shirt,” Doc reported. “You’d been better off giving it to the old kook.” He started angling sticks against one another in the center of the circle.

“Hey, I don’t hear the chicken,” I noted suspiciously. “Wally don’t tell me you . . . ”

Wally grabbed a nearby stick and poked the burlap sack with it. A weak noise emerged. Baaauk.

“Satisfied, Sparky?”

“Je-sus, open up the damn bag and let the poor thing breathe.” Doc nagged.

“I’m no vet.”

“Wally just do it.”

“All right! This is not what I bargained for, ya know. I thought the days of you guys always riding me were over?......Anyone wonder what he was doing with a live chicken in the house in the first place?”

“I’d rather not speculate,” I said. "And now, I definitely don't want to eat it.

Doc finished his tee-pee of twigs and dried leaves. He set the pyre to light. The flame grew and soon we had a nice crackling fire going. We sat around gladly receiving its warmth and lamenting our misfortune. Wally had opened the bag a touch to give our egg-laying friend some much needed oxygen, but our guitarist had sat still in the aftermath remaining unusually quiet for the longest time.

“What’s wrong Wally? Look I’m sorry I accused you of murdering the chicken OK?”

“It’s not that. I don’t feel so good.”

“Is it any wonder with what you shovel down your gullet?” Doc blurted. He wiggled a stick into the embers releasing a flock of sparks into the night.

“I have to take a dump.”

“So go into the woods and do what you have to do, nature style. Just make sure you’re far enough away from the camp fire. I don’t want to step in any surprises if I have to go.”

“I can’t go in the woods, Doc. That’s why I feel awful. I’ve been holding it in since the Honey wagon.”

I laughed. “I’d like to say, that for a slow sub it certainly got through your system fast enough.”

“It’s not funny Sparky. I’m all cramped up.”

“Je-sus Wally. Why didn’t you say something?”

“I thought the studio was around the corner and I could go there. I just can’t go in the woods.”

“You Wally? Mr. Fisherman, Mr. Outdoors, Mr. Survival? What do you mean you can’t go in the woods? Just take the flashlight, find a nice sturdy tree and unload.” Doc hooted off into the darkness with a hand upside his face. “Bombs a-way!”

“I am not wiping my ass on a bush Doc. And I am not giving the mosquitoes another target to feast on. Oh friggin’ hell. My anus!”

“Use the outhouse then,” I told him.

“What outhouse?”

“There’s one in the bush. I saw it with the flashlight when Doc and I were out collecting wood. It’s about a hundred yards off to the right. That way.” I shone the flashlight at a tree.

“What if I wander off and get lost, and you don’t find me until my bones turn up years later and then someone makes up some creepy urban legend and— ”

“— Stop complaining. Come on. I’ll show you. I have to take a piss anyway.”

I got up off of crossed legs and led Wally into the darkness of the tree line. Branches snapped beneath our feet as we shuffled through the dead underbrush. I stopped to relieve myself. I trained the flashlight on a wooden structure off to the right of our location. It was close to another picnic area with a grill in worst shape than the one we’d left behind. The outhouse looked more like a coffin turned upright than a comfort zone for bowel evacuation. There was a half-moon carved into the door and it leaned slightly to the left. “See I told you. Now go do your business.”

“I’m not going in there. It doesn’t look safe.”

“For heaven’s sake Wally, you’re in them every frickin’ day. It’s an occupational hazard. It’s what you do, isn’t it?”

“I’ll have you know, the cubicles I service, Sparky, have maximum volume vent pipes, non-porous interiors and at least eighty-five cubic feet of space. That thing doesn’t even have an occupied door indicator.”

“I promise I won’t try to come in and look. It’s a little rickety I admit but— ”

“— Yes and that’s why I don’t think it should be used. It’s probably structurally unsound?”

“Are you just going to suffer all night? Don’t be such a baby. Look, I’ll show you. You have nothing to worry about.— Structurally unsound my ass!”

I murmured to myself as I trudged forward to the door of the contraption swinging it open with a creak and a smack. I shone the light inside to the bench with its round black hole. Outside of a few spider webs and a musky wet stench exhaled from somewhere below in occasional breaths, it looked safe to me. I stepped inside and turned to Wally. “See you moron. Nothing to worry about.” I hopped up and down a few times. “Solid as . . . ” There was a snapping crack of lumber and I felt
the floor open to a fissure beneath me. I clutched frantically for something to grab onto. It was too late. I was falling into blackness.

New release this week

This week I needed something to depict the serenity of GIGC and my new surroundings. I chose: Lots of Love and Peace by Happy Louie, Julcia and the boys.

That might as well be GIGC, myself and our crazy friends OBJ, OKD, Bob Noxious, Stains, Trber Enots, why even the Mayor who very well could be holding the accordion.

Thursday, September 27, 2007

Now back to our regularly scheduled programming

OK...it's all over but the crying and with a minimum of transitional fallout. Strange has sought out and found greener pastures. Now I can get back to what I do best....nothing at all.....all right I'll go you one better and get back to the daily post at least.

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Please do not adjust your set

Please standby....Strange is going through the change of life.....OK maybe not that, but some other changes are coming: A change of venue, change of vocation, a change of underwear- thank god.

Change of venue: Strange has gone over to the other side, but it did not involve the Grim Reaper. I've just moved clear across town. From one side of the big smoke to the other.

Change of vocation: Yes the rumours are true. Strange has left the synchronized underwater dancing team and moved on to greener pastures. Remember kids: The grass is always greener on the other side especially when it's fertilized with 28-4-8.

Change of underwear: Best left undisclosed.

See you soon when an air of normalcy has returned to the crisp blue skies of fall.

Friday, September 21, 2007

HMH #9

Handmade Heart

Chapter Nine - Winkin’ Blinkin’ and Nod


“You were worried about me forgetting things? Shit, Sparky, how could you forget the damn map?”

“I don’t know Doc, with everything that’s happened, I guess I just forgot to take it out of the car. Shoot me.”

“So it’s at Bill’s Wreck Yard? Well Bill’s will be closed by the time we get back there. Great! We couldn’t get it even if we wanted to. I don’t want to end this day wrestling with a Rottweiler, or whatever dog he might have patrolling his compound. Oh this is just lovely.”

“There are certain words men should never say and 'lovely' is one of them Doc, unless you say fuckin’ in front of it.”

“Shut-up and drive Wally. Who asked you for your opinion?”

“I think I can remember the way, Doc.”

“Sparky you’re horrible when it comes to directions. We used to get lost every time you navigated.”

“Doc, that was then. This is now. I do have a memory. I did look at the map.”

“Why, because it wasn’t a contract?”

“I said I would read the damn contract when we got to the studio, back off! Right now, I just want to get there. Any more questions?”

“Not from me.” Wally growled.

“Let’s call the studio.”

“That’s a great idea Doc except . . . ”

“...The number was on the map with the directions gotcha.”

“Call directory assistance and get the number,” Wally urged.

Doc drew out his cell phone and began dialing. He pulled it away from his ear to the audible seesaw tones. “I can’t get a good signal. Piece of crap phone!”

“Look.” I pointed to a sign. It said Entering Ernie’s Bay. “The directions said there is a dirt road just up on the right where we need to turn. I remember that much. Turn here Wally.”

“Are you sure Sparky? We could always just stop somewhere and ask for directions.”

“I’m sure we could, but we’re men. We don’t ask for directions. Besides we’re late enough Doc. We don’t have anymore time. We should’ve been there hours ago.”

Wally slowed, and took the turn.

“And then it’s the third dirt road on the right. No left! About two miles from the junction. Yes, yes. It’s all coming back to me now. Third on the left . . . I think.”

“Left? Are you sure?”

“Yes left. I’m sure of it.”

“You better be right, Sparky.”

Wally slowed the Honey wagon down to a crawl as we approached the third dirt road. It was a tight squeeze but he managed to get all the wheels onto the path. On we pressed with the occasional tree branch whipping the windshield, slapping the side of the truck’s metal tank and scraping along the length of it.

“I got a bad feeling about this Sparky.”

“Just drive Wally. These are the directions I was given.”

Wally turned on the headlights to cut through the encroaching gloom. There was a sharp turn up ahead where the road became increasingly narrow and the foliage seemed to smoother us on all sides at once, in a dense green carpet of shadow. I could see in the rear view mirror as the branches snapped back conspiring with the darkness to swallow the road behind us. Wally turned on the wipers.

“What do you hope to accomplish by doing that Wally?” Doc said.

“Keep the trees out of my way.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“They are only big-leaf small trees.”

Doc’s words dripped sarcasm. “Thank heavens they aren’t the small-leaf big trees, or we’d be in real trouble Mr. Woodsman.”

“This can’t be right, Sparky.”

“I assure you Wally. This is the . . . Stop the truck now!” I shouted.

Wally twisted the Honey wagon around the bend and then put his foot down to halt the truck. He shifted into neutral and lifted the emergency brake. “There! You happy, Sparky? There’s no more road anyways. At least nothing we could drive.”

“Where did the road go?” Doc blurted.

“I don’t know. The directions were very specific. They say the studio should be about a couple of hundred yards beyond the turn. I’m sure that’s what I remembered?”

“Well it’s not!”

“How do you know Doc. We can’t see far ahead especially in the dusk.”

“Are you sure this is the right way?”

“I’m sure. Third dirt road on the left, after the turn off the highway. Two miles from the junction. Guys according to the directions I was given, this is the correct place.”

“But without the map we don’t know for sure do we?”

“Oh this is just great. We’re lost,” Wally moaned. “What elks can go wrong?”

“Well they said it was secluded?”

“Secluded is one thing Sparky. Having to hack our way through the underbrush with machetes is quite another. Aw this is lovely,” Doc yammered. He turned to Wally. “Just fuckin’ lovely.”

“Well maybe they haven’t had time to cut it back.”

“Oh right, and the grounds keepers don’t do that til Wednesday,” Doc spouted. “What do you want to do Sparky?”

“We obviously can’t drive any further. I say we walk. It can’t be far.”

“It better not be. It’s getting late and I’m hungry.”

“You Doc?”

“It’s being around Wally constantly. He gets you thinking about food on a subconscious level.”

I also started to feel the grumbling of a cavernous stomach. I hadn’t eaten since well before Doc had arrived at my place. I hadn’t thought of it until Barlow reminded me of his own pangs. Wally shut off the engine and we all tunneled out, pushing various tree branches out of our way. The air around us was cooling but maintained the languid aroma of sunbaked vegetation. Wally started to inch toward the bags and guitars to unhook them.

“Wally not yet.”

“Yeah, let the Bellhop get them.” Doc said.

Wally squeezed his way back and we all convened on the dirt road ahead in a small triangle.

“If these are the wrong directions, we shouldn’t take any chances. We have to find the studio before we go hauling the instruments with us. I suggest that we put all the stuff in the cab and lock it for now. We can always come back when we confirm our position. It’s getting dark quickly. Do you have a flashlight in the truck?”

“There’s one in the tool box, but if we’re that close— ”

“— Just in case Wally.”

“I agree with Sparky. I’m beginning to think someone doesn’t want us to get through this weekend.”

“Maybe the ghost of Wires Whitmire?” Wally offered, and added at scary woooo to the end of his statement.

“Don’t be stupid. Even if there was such an entity, why would Wires want to hinder our efforts? He’s responsible for us being here in the first place.”

However, Wally’s words had made me shiver. I’d seen Wires in my dreams of late. It was always the same. He was standing near a doorway, blocking it perhaps? His mouth was moving as if he was trying to tell me, or warn me about something, but I couldn’t hear any words. Then he’d put his smouldering cigarette in his mouth and draw the smoke deep into his lungs before blowing it out in a huge gust that enveloped him. When I ran to him, waving my arms frantically to clear the cloud, he was gone and so was the doorway.

We worked together stowing the rest of our belongings on the front seat and gathered what we needed before starting off.

Wally seemed concerned. “I should put on the four way flashers before we leave.”

“Good idea Wally. You don’t want on coming traffic to slam into you,” Doc bemoaned. “Then after that, we can all forage for berries in case we’re gone longer than ten minutes. Get your ass over here and let’s get started.”

We could only walk in single file as the tree branches badgered us from both sides leaving little trail to follow. I took the lead stabbing through the growing darkness with the flashlight, while Doc followed up the rear.

“This night time trek seems too familiar. As I recall it wasn’t all shits and giggles last time either. We’re getting too old to be wandering around in the middle of nowhere like Winkin’, Blinkin’, and Nod.”

“Look ahead Doc there’s a fork in the trail. It can’t be far now.”

“I can’t see anything with Wally in front of me. It’s like following a huge yellow transport truck with wide load written across the back of it.”

“What are you tryin’ to say, Doc?”

“I think it was self-explanatory with the wide load comment, Wally.”

We reached the fork. On closer inspection there were three possible ways to choose from.

“Oh great! What now?”

“That way. To the right.” I said with conviction. After a few minutes there was another divide in the trail.

“Which way now?”

“To the right.” I said again.

“Sparky if we keep making rights, we’ll end up back at the Honey wagon.”

“Ok Doc let’s take the left and forge on.”

“Did you know that if you put a tiny amount of liquor on a scorpion it will go mad and sting itself to death?”

“Doc, please.”

After a few minutes more, the path divided again.

“Oh...my back,” Wally bellyached. “It’s like a frickin’ maze in here. Shit I hope we get to the cheese soon. I’m getting hungry too.”

Doc slapped his neck. “So are the mosquitos.”

“How many insects did you say for each person Doc?”

“If I had my fishin’ gear we could catch dinner.”

“Je-sus Wally the last stream I saw was an hour ago when we were on the interstate. Just exactly where were you planing on fishing . . . Shit!”

“Well it is Ernie’s Bay. Logic dictates there would be a body of water around here somewheres.”

“Why am I even talking to you? You have no pole other than the rod and tackle box between your legs and you probably haven’t seen them in years. What would you use for bait, mosquitos? You know what? If we have to resort to cannibalism, you’re the first to go.”

“Me! Why not Sparky? He wanted to walk. Now we’re lost. Don’t blame me, Doc. All this walking isn’t good for someone in my condition.”

“Why Wally? Cause you might lose some weight? Cause you water might break?”

“That’s enough!”

“Guys! Stop it. Christ, Grub was right. All this band ever did was bicker. We have to stick together on this.”

“I say we go back to the truck. We can’t keep wandering around here all night.”

“Yeah Sparky, For a change I agree with Wally. It’s obvious. These are the wrong directions. We need to get help.”

“Ok let’s head back . . . wait! Look!”

Through the trees, down the path there was a twinkling light. With renewed vigor, we pressed on like the journey of the Magi following the star to the manger. The underbrush began to clear and soon we found ourselves on the edge of a field looking up to a hill top on which stood a dark structure.

“The studio! See I told you. There it is.”

“Thank blubbering Jesus H. Christopher.”

The path wound up a hillside through the thick matted grass on the far recess of a meadow. Atop there stood a dilapidated house and a barn in not much better condition. A winding road of gravel led off in the other direction toward a distant tree line. It appeared to be holding onto a balloon of an orange moon as the glow of the setting sun faded and was snuffed out.

“That’s not the studio. Or at least I hope it isn’t. You said it was state of the art.”

“It is . . . I was told it was.”

“Well that place shouldn’t even be in the state.”

“It’s giving me the creeps. I’ve got a bad feeling about this Sparky.”

“You keep saying that. Stop it.”

“Let’s go back to the truck and wait it out til morning. Maybe it’ll look better in the daylight?”

“But the lights are on Wally. Someone’s home. If that’s not the studio, we can at least find out where we are. Where the studio really is. Get some food. Maybe even sleep here tonight.”

“There’s a lot of maybe in your statement Sparky.” Wally said.

Doc protested. “I’m not sleepin’ in that place even if they roll out the red carpet.”

“Anyone see the Texas Chainsaw Massacre?”

“Wally, please! — Do you really want to keep walking guys, or go back to the truck hungry, sit there and smell shit all night? Do you know how long it will take to get the Honey wagon back up the dirt road in the dark? And then where will we be? Any town within a hundred miles of this place will be asleep by then. Let’s at least check it out. We’ve come this far. We can’t turn back now.”

New release this week



Honestly I'm at a loss for words.

Cent...5 cent...10 cent...dollar,dollar!

The Canadian dollar is at the same level as the U.S. dollar for the first time in 30 years, but you need to know how to make your own condom dance party.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Game over

A Chinese man dropped dead after playing internet games for three consecutive days, state media said, as China seeks to wean internet addicts offline.

The man from the southern boomtown of Guangzhou, aged around 30, died on Saturday after being rushed to the hospital from the internet cafe, local authorities were quoted by the Beijing News as saying.

"Police have ruled out the possibility of suicide," the newspaper said, adding that exhaustion was the most likely cause of death.

Is it any wonder? Did you see the game he was playing?

Take a look.

Monday, September 17, 2007

Rosh Hashanah seems to be all about the Juice

Forget the Jewish New Year, prosecutors filed formal charges Tuesday against O.J. Simpson, alleging the fallen football star committed 10 felonies, including kidnapping, in the armed robbery of sports memorabilia collectors in a casino-hotel room.

Simpson was arrested Sunday after a collector reported a group of armed men charged into his hotel room and took several items Simpson claimed belonged to him. Simpson has proclaimed his innocence.

I'm sure if OJ agrees to help find the the real burglar they'll let him go.

Here come the judge, here come the judge

Preparing for what will undoubtedly be another media feeding frenzy, a second judge has been appointed to deal exclusively with the media in the Simpson robbery.

What they didn't tell you is the second judge is Judge Reinhold who hasn't had a decent roll since Beverley Hills Cop.

Size does matter

The United Arab Emirates' upstart Burj Dubai, still under construction, has surpassed the CN Tower as the world's tallest structure with a growth spurt that will end next year with the Dubai skyscraper topping 800 metres.

Burj Dubai now stands at 555 metres, outstripping the CN Tower's 553 metres by the height of a tall man.

A wake for the dead

Morgue examiners in a Venezuelan hospital began their autopsy as usual but soon got a nasty shock: the "dead" man under knife started bleeding and woke up in excruciating pain, according to media reports Tuesday.

Carlos Camejo, 33, was declared dead after a highway accident and taken to the morgue, where examiners began the autopsy with an incision to Camejo's face, but realized something was wrong because the dead didn't bleed. They quickly stitched up the gash.

When his grieving wife turned up at the morgue to identify her husband's body, she found her other half very much alive and with a newly stitched facial wound.

She immediately dumped the new boy-toy and returned the insurance money.

From Russia with love

A Russian region of Ulyanovsk has found a novel way to fight the nation's birth-rate crisis: It has declared Sept. 12 the Day of Conception and for the third year running is giving couples time off from work to procreate.

I wonder if this is a paid holiday?

The hope is for a brood of babies exactly nine months later on Russia's national day. Couples who "give birth to a patriot" during the June 12 festivities win money, cars, refrigerators and other prizes.

Bob Barker should be coaxed out of retirement.

Mybreast

Many mothers are furious over the fact that MySpace has been deleting any photos that portray breastfeeding. The photos are being pulled for violating the terms of agreement, which state that any content that is offensive, illegal or violate the rights, harm, or threaten the safety of any person may be deleted. Many are wondering how images of breastfeeding fits into those terms.

And I'm guessing I'll just have to go back to downloading porn to look at women's tits. The babies were blocking my view anyway.

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Tasteless cartoon of the week

I know I'm a day early, but I'm pushed for time. I need a quick and easy post....so....

Saturday, September 15, 2007

HMH #8

Handmade Heart

Chapter Eight- Slow subs and chicken nuts


Agonizing would be the word I’d use to describe our progress. It had been slow at best and I felt like we’d just been euchred by the trump card of frustration. We managed, through stops and starts, to make it to the next cutoff where we found a small corner store. The engine spat and shuddered until in died again on the edge of the entranceway in a cloud of smoke. Doc and I had to push it in with doors extended like some wounded bird with no trajectory. I’d thrown my hands up in despair and stomped off to the restroom. When I returned Doc had the hood open and was examining the radiator, it was near empty and he had noted: it had more holes in it than a Chinese brothel.

“It’s an older car but it was running perfectly Doc. I swear. I don’t know what happened? Christ, nothing’s going our way. I can’t believe the rad just sprang so many leaks all at once.”

“They feel like punctures to me Sparky. Someone did this deliberately with a sharp object. I’m sure of it.”

“Must be damn kids. I’m surprised there isn’t a potato in the exhaust too.” I was disgusted. “What the fuck do we do now Doc? Shit! This of all weekends. We’ll never make it to Wally’s let alone the studio.”

“Settle down, Sparky old boy, we’ll get to Wally’s. I’ll be back in a jiffy. Stay here.”

“Where am I going to go huh? Where?”

Doc paraded away to the store in search of some magic remedy. His curly dark hair bouncing as he walked. His boots clomped on the boards of the porch as he disappeared inside to a woody apple smell. I knew nothing about cars, except that you got behind the wheel and they took you to your destination. The fact my car was now refusing to do so, only angered me more. It was as if I was being punished for my underhanded dealings in this whole affair. I suddenly wished I had told Alexander to, take a flying fuck, and brushed my hands of this ordeal. I wasn’t cut out for it. Wires should have seen the truth and just let me be.

Doc sauntered back with a loaf of bread under one arm and a carton of eggs in the other.

“What the hell? We need to fix the rad Doc, not have a picnic.”

“And fix it we shall.”

“I don’t understand?”

Doc undid the bag and started pulling out slices. He reached into the engine and shoved bits of bread into all the holes he could find. He unscrewed the top once it had cooled enough and cracked a few eggs into the open throat of the rad. “My Aunt Lucille Barlow used to, on occasion, do this to get the Edsil to the flea market on time. It had a rusty old radiator. It was forever springing leaks. It’s a temporary measure but it does work. Get some fluid Sparky and we’ll top this sucker up.”

Reluctantly I followed his instructions while continuing to complain about this, that and the other. Doc then called Wally to inform him of our problems and eventual delay. We were still forty-five minutes away and it was now a quarter past five. Wally assured us he would call a mechanic and have him ready to look at the problem.

Doc had done his best to take my mind off the car troubles while we lumbered slowly along back roads. He distracted me with an endless barrage of, Did you knows. “Did you know there are three thousand different types of lice? In fact there are about two million insects for each person on this planet. One in four, of which, belong to the beetle family. Did you know Van Gogh only sold one painting in his life time? That was to his brother. Did you know during the Second World War the first bomb dropped on Berlin hit the city zoo killing the only elephant they had?”

“How can you know that Doc?”

“My grandfather Captain Dwight Barlow flew in the mission. He dropped the bomb that blew the poor little bugger to bits.”

“Doc, elephants are like ten thousand pounds. How can it be a poor little bugger? And why do all your stories always revolve around a relative? How many frickin’ people do you have in your family tree for Christ’s sake?” As far out as some of Doc’s knowledge seemed, who was I to argue. The egg-bread patch job had worked and the rad held together with French toast would make it to Wally’s place at least.

We could now see our guitarist in the distance, and I felt as if we were a bowling ball rolling slowly down the lane but inevitably ending up in the gutter as it wobbles past the pins and out of sight. He stood at the end of the driveway waving his arms frantically like he was trying to navigate a plane into its hanger. Doc acknowledged with a shake of his head. “Probably thinks we’ll drive right by him at a crawl if he doesn’t flail about. The fool.”

“As long as he doesn’t take his shirt off,” I said, pointing to the hypnotic jiggling of his stomach underneath his bright yellow shirt as he bounced.

We approached and rolled to a stop with a cough from the engine. It sizzled a fresh brew or steam. Doc climbed out of the passenger side and chopped through some smoke. He stood gazing disapprovingly at our guitarist. “Wally, where the hell is the mechanic you promised?”

“Nice to see you again too, Doc. He’s coming. The closest auto-body is Bill’s Wreck Yard and that’s in Pawdash.”

“Pawdash? Where the hell is Pawdash?”

“It’s twenty minutes down the road off I-90.”

Doc rolled his eyes. “Oh that Pawdash. Of course. I have the travel brochures at home.” Doc looked at his watch: Ten after six. “You said you’d call the guy after I spoke to you almost an hour ago. So where is he?”

“I asked him to stop and get me something to eat.”

“Je-sus, some things never change. Can’t you think about anything other than your internal rumblings for one bleedin’ tick on the clock. Wally?”

“You guys are a lot later than you said you’d be. I got hungry.”

I pulled myself from the car in chin-up fashion and stood with hands on hips, arching my back. I tried to shake the stiffness of a long stressful drive under the early evening sky. “Doc’s right. There is a sense of urgency here. We’re supposed to be at the studio by now. We can’t afford to fall behind schedule when time is a precious commodity.”

“Hey if you’d rather I don’t come. I can walk up the driveway to the house and spend the weekend watchin’ TV. There’s a Green Acres marathon on ya know. Besides I don’t need Bill here to tell you it’s a leak in the rad.”

“We know that genius. We patched the damn holes with breakfast when I called you.”

We sat down to wait as the car continued to hiss like a kettle on the boil. Wally and Doc did most of the talking while I tapped my foot impatiently. The shadows slowly lengthened. It wasn’t the first time we were delayed when the meter was running.

***

Since we all had day jobs, we played when we could on the weekends and tried to co-ordinate our holiday time together for longer treks. Even though we had different vocations we were musicians first and emphatically maintained it to be our true profession. Our roadie Skids on the other hand, was going through an identity crisis and had drifted from job to job, in search of a new career, like the wind was blowing him. He’d been a stuntman, a sou chef, a private investigator, and an exporter of horse semen. He’d even done a stint as a minister trying to start his own religion; some Neo-Satanic-Voodoo-Christianity. It got as far as a few sermons, mostly revolving around parables, before the authorities shut him down. His current occupation had landed him some small rolls in a few low-budget films where we saw the back of his head mostly. To us, it was just another pylon on the long, life road. To Skids, he was a bonafide actor and was adamant he be perceived as such.

We were in the midst of performing a six in seven night swing. It would lead us over the border and upon our return we were greeted by the usual questions.

“What is your citizenship? Where you coming from? How long were you away? Anything to declare?”

Doc had already pushed the wrong buttons by responding, he’d declare he had a good time. Everything was going routinely until the border guard asked us our occupations. Like dominoes in motion we rhymed off one after another, “Musician.” Then it was Skids’ turn. He paused, turned his head to profile, looked up slightly, extended his arm forward like he was plucking an apple from a nearby tree and declared, “I’m an actor.” He even broke actor into its respective syllables with the inflection on ac-tor.

The rest of us melted our faces into our hands. It was easy to see what was coming next.

“Pull your vehicle into the second bay area gentlemen and go inside to the immigration desk.”

We did as we were asked and dejectedly shuffled into the building as two of the border patrol began their inspection of our vehicle.

“Some actor,” Doc scoffed. “You can’t even make a border guard believe you.” Doc shot his arm skyward in mimic. “I’m an ac-tor. Je-sus! Whatever you do Skids, please don’t tell them you used to export horse semen. I don’t want to be here all night.”

In we walked to the stoic atmosphere of bright fluorescent lights and the smell of sterile cleanliness. Once inside we were questioned one by one in a small room of peeling, pea-green paint sponsored by a ring of moldy wet decay in the ceilings corner. There was also a park-like bench of uncomfortable wood, with handcuffs dangling off the armrest and some unfriendly looking officers, with arms crossed, standing nearby. Contracts were examined, personal effects were perused, documentation was run through Interpol, all under the watchful eyes of glaring scrutiny as the hours passed.

Doc complained as he plunked himself down next to us. “They made me strip down to my undies and squeezed out my toothpaste in front of a chick officer. I was expecting Dr. Jelly-finger to walk in at any moment and check my prostate.”

Chas was led away for his turn at twenty questions.

Grub moaned. “I don’t stand a chance in prison. I’m too small.”

“Grub, we’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Yeah Sparky, but they always make you feel like you’re hiding something.”

Skunk needled him. “As long as you left the tea bags at home, we should be fine.”

Skids squirmed in his chair. “I have to pee.”

“You can’t.”

“It’s been twelve hours.”

“And whose fault is that?” Doc spat.

“Skids, these guys will probably send the Duty Sargent in after you and retrieve the urinal puck for analysis. Then we’ll be here another twelve hours waiting for the results to come back. I’m sorry, you just have to hold it.”

One of the border patrol who’d been searching through our vehicle approached. He was a burly brute with a brush-cut and handlebar mustache. He walked with his thumbs tucked tight into his belt which only brought further attention to his bulging gut, framed by his handcuffs and holstered firearm. He towered over us and his flared nostrils taunted us from above. “We’ve completed our search of your vehicle, and I found this under the front seat.” He plunked out his thumbs and removed a small baggy from his shirt pocket. “How do you explain this?”

“Looks like a twig from a tree branch.”

“Don’t be smart with me longhair. I could hold you here a hell of a lot longer for smuggling contraband.”

“Illegal horticulture. You’re kidding right?” Doc asked, as he squirmed uncomfortably in his chair.

“This could be from a bud of marijuana. All you musician types smoke it. Don’t play games with me Weird Al.”

We were now joined by the Duty Sargent who had a buffed hairless head. It seemed to refract the light like a prism as he walked toward us. He also had a mustache except his was more of the push-broom type. Lip dressing must be standard issue? He held a ringed pad and flipped it open with a flick of his wrist. “I’ve looked over your contracts and I’m afraid I will need verification they’re legitimate.”

“Call the club.”

“I did. There’s no answer. I need the agent who signed them to come up here.”

“Alice?”

“She’s the one who signed?” He looked at his note pad, not trusting my response. “Yes, I need to speak with this....Alice.”

Reluctantly I called Alice to inform her of our delay and legal troubles. It took an hour before she blew in through the doors of the building. She went into the office, talked to the Duty Sargent and emerged twenty minutes later.

“They’ve agreed to let you go,” she said handing out our documentation like it was candy. We plucked at it greedily like enthusiastic trick-or-treaters. Skids danced around until he got his ID back then raced off to the restroom before he’d be known as Stains.

Alice continued. “Next time have the proper paperwork with you, H-2's, the work visas, whatever. I don’t want to do this every time you play outside the country.”

“My God, what did you say to them?”

Alice ran her fingers down the sides of her mouth like she had just served her country in more ways than patriotism.

“You didn’t?”

Alice laughed. The warmth of her smile was a shining beacon parting black clouds. “No, just told them what they wanted to hear, unlike you guys.”

“We really appreciate you coming on such short notice. Hope we didn’t inconvenience you too much?”

“I was on a lunch date when you called.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I was looking for an excuse to get out of it anyway.”

“That bad was it?”

“He brought me a pair of brown cords as a gift John.”

“Pants?”

“Yeah that would fit a twelve-year-old. Probably got them on sale.”

“Was he trying send you a message that he’s cheap, or a pedophile?”

“I don’t know. I won’t be seeing him again to find out. Come on, get in the truck. You guys are going to have to motor to get a decent sound check in before the next gig.”

We entered the bay area where we found our truck in disarray. Cases were open on the ground like little coffins, suitcases were unzipped, seat cushions and effects tossed askew. Panels inside the truck had been popped ajar, wheel covers removed, the glove box lay with its tongue out regurgitating maps, receipts, and parking tickets. Skids joined our association of disbelief.

“Skids since you’re the one who got us into this, why don’t you show us your acting skills and act like you’re putting the truck back together.”

***

Finally a distant dust cloud gave birth to an old chocolate brown, mud-covered Ford with a tow rig on the back. It had an undistinguishable red logo on the door, I assumed would tell me it was from Bill’s Wreck Yard if tortured with some soap and water. With squeaking wheels, Bill ground to a stop and crawled out of the truck ass first. He was a smallish man, in dirty, blue dungarees, who scuffed his feet when he walked in a bowel legged manner. His hair was stark white yet his eyebrows were black as two crow nests divided by a bulbous nose of considerable size. The outer edges of his boots were worn down and he looked like he was plodding down the apex of a sloped roof. He stopped and turned, quickly shuffling back to the truck. Reaching into the seat he pulled out a bag and a drink which he promptly delivered to Wally.

“Thanks Bill. You’re a life saver.” Wally set the drink aside and cradled the bag. He delicately opened it pulling out a sub and a small box with Chinese writing on it. He immediately opened the box and began popping the deep-fried balls into his mouth.

“Wally,” Doc reprimanded. “You sent the mechanic for a submarine– and Chinese?”

“I was hungry. And I felt like slow subs and chicken nuts.”

“Slow subs and chicken nuts?”

“The sub place is a little slow taking your order,” Wally assured. He sucked his fingers and wiped his mouth with his thumb.

“That’s why we calls it Slow-subs in these here parts,” Bill added as he looked into the engine. I went to shake his had but he showed me his grease-caked palm without looking at me, and I ceased my intent. Bill poked his head beneath the hood. “What appears to be the problem?”

“Rads overheating.”

He reached in and explored the rad with one filthy mitt of a hand as he gazed to the heavens. He looked like he was doing Yoga or Palates. “S’cuse me gentlemen while I practice my downward dog.” He felt around and pulled out a slice of soggy bread and looked disapprovingly at us. “No place to keep samiches.”

I cautioned Doc not to repeat the story about his Aunt Lucille and her magic Edsil. Bill continued his groping with a, “Uh huh? Oh Yerp that ain’t good.”

“What? What is it?”

“You gots some holes in yerrad.”

“We know.”

“It’s gotta be replaced.”

“Can’t you just patch it up so we can get to our destination? Isn’t there like some sort of stuff that will plug it up?”

“Fer small holes yup, but Boy you got some holes here the size of gopher teeth. I can’t just go and patch em. Besides it’s better to replace sumtin this damaged. I gotta pull the whole dang thing out.” He pealed another piece of bread off the rad and tossed it away. It landed with a wet slap on the roadside. He leaned further in under the hood until only his butt hung on to his dangling legs. The muffled voice emerged. “It has to be replaced. How’d it get this way anyway? These here holes look deliberate.”

“We know.”

“You sure you weren’t fooling around playin’ hackysacky or somtin?” Bill’s bum asked.

“Hackin’ sac with what, pointed sticks?” Doc groused.

Wally finished the last of his chicken nuts and turned lovingly to his submarine sandwich.

“So we go with a new rad. How long before it’s ready Bill?”

Bill pulled himself out of the engine and thought for a long hard minute. He even stopped to roll himself a cigarette and light up. Clicking an old flip-top lighter and tilting his head to meet the fire. I took a step back for fear that with all the grease on his hands the man might burst into flames before me. I was about to repeat Wally’s question when he blew out a huge cloud formation and snapped the lighter lid shut as he said, “First thing Monday morning.”

“Monday! Monday’s too late we need it today.” I said.

“Sorry fellers, I gots too much lined up. I’m the only mechanic in these here parts. Can’t get to her until at best Sadderday morning. Even then I only work half days. And I don’t work on the Lord’s day.”

Doc looked at me. “Maybe we can rent a car?”

“Wally is there a rental place around here?”

“Yeah Bill. He rents cars too.”

The bushy brows raised. “That’s right. Sept I don’t gots any left. A feller rented the last one s’mornin’ and I’m the only car rental in these here– ”

“– Oh great what do we do? We can’t reschedule. The clock’s ticking. We’re screwed.”

“No were not,” Wally clamored. He bit into the sub like it was alive and he had to kill it before it struggled free from his grasp, racing off into the underbrush. He tore off a chunk and mumbled through a mouthful. “We’ll take the Honey wagon.”

“Wally you’re crazy. We can’t go to the studio in that monstrosity.”

Wally swallowed. “What elks are we going to do, Sparky? You got a better idear? I’d like to hear it. You want to wait for Skunk and Grub? There’s no way we’ll all fit in one car with the gear.”

“Where are we going to put the instruments on the Honey wagon?”

“We can put the bags behind the seat and there’s a carryall where we can bungee-cord the instruments on the back.”

“Wally you are not using bungee-cords to secure my thirty-five hundred dollar keyboard.”

“I’ll fall off if I don’t, Doc.”

“It’s bad enough you are suggesting we drive into a state of the art studio in a truck full of human waste.”

“I can pump it out if you’d like, but it’ll take longer, and you guys are jumpin’ to get going.”

“God, is there no other way?”

“Honey wagon or Monday, Sparky. It seems like the only options.”

“Ok, If we have no choice– Doc it will be all right. We can stow the keyboard behind the seat and put some of the bags on the back.”

Wally brought the Honey Wagon to the end of the driveway while Bill maneuvered his truck in front of my car and hitched up the vehicle for a tow. We started our transfer of equipment and tote bags. When we were done, with a wave, Bill said he’d see us Monday and drove off. Wally waved back as he munched on the last of his sub.

Doc grumbled as he surveyed our new transportation. “Boy I bet the girls just love it when Wally picks them up for a date in this contraption?”

Wally looked at us. “What are you waiting for? Climb aboard. We don’t want to be any later than we already are.”

We mounted up, I in my depression, Doc murmuring in the middle seat, and Wally sucking the last of his drink through a straw. He turned the key to start an orchestra of a chugging diesel and rotating engine parts. Off we rolled once again. This time in a race to beat the setting sun.

Nothing was said. Doc continued to pout and I sat expressionless. We rumbled up the highway. After twenty minutes Doc finally spoke. “You don’t suppose it was that lawyer dude who punched holes in the rad?”

“Griffin Alexander?”

“No the other dude. The guy who gave you the creeps. You said it yourself, you felt like he was there to shake you down.”

“I don’t think so. Probably just kids. Little fuckers are always egging houses on my block.”

“Either way it’s led us to riding in this wretched bundle of bolts. Could things possibly be any worse?”

Wally responded. “You know I’ve been thinkin’– ”

“– Things just got worse, Doc.”

Wally paid me no notice and continued to speak like he was having a conversation with himself. “I’ve been thinking about this one song we’re supposed to write. I think I have a great idear for one we should take a look at. Maybe work on when we get there.”

“Dare I ask?” Doc mumbled.

“I thought we could write a song with a phone number in it. You know, for a good time call 91611 or something like that. Songs with phone numbers in em have done well on the charts over the years.”

“I don’t know about up here in tin can country Wally, but most phone numbers I know have seven numbers and that’s without the area code. Yours only has five.”

“Doc I’m just laying out the idear. Just listen. We could have a whole promotional campaign where we write the number on billboards and on bathroom walls and every time the number’s called people hear the song.”

“That is by far, the worst piece of nonsense, I have ever heard you spout from your mouth hole. I’ve heard some from the other end that were slightly worse, but as far as a means of communication, that ranks at the bottom.”

“Doc it doesn’t have to be complicated. Something catchy, but simple, stupid and mindless.”

“Then you’re just the guy to write it Wally.”

“I don’t hear you helping in the creativity department, Mr. Grumpy Guts.”

“Wally, I could blather away with the most asinine chatter about song ideas for years on end and only begin to scratch the surface of your lunacy. Je-sus, the Bulgarian national anthem would get more air play.”

“Maybe Wally’s on to something, Doc. We write something catchy, like a jingle, but with insanely bad lyrics. The kind people love to hate. Remember that guy? What was the name of the group? The Screaming Trudeaus or something like that. The band never got anywhere because they just weren’t very good but they wrote catchy songs with shit lyrics. The album gets released but it tanks and the record company loses a boat load. So after a few years the guy buys back the rights to his stuff. Then some DJ in Vegas hears the record and starts giving it heavy rotation. People hated it so much they kept calling in. It became a novelty. Next thing you know the thing’s got legs and crossover potential. Everybody from country stations to easy listening are playing it. It gets into the top ten on the Billboard charts with a bullet, and the guy is rich. He’s still getting royalties to this day. That’s what we need. A song like that stands the test of time, good or bad. So hear Wally out. Just think what getting played once a day, on one station in each city across the globe would generate? I’m no mathematician but that’s serious cash. Not to mention digital downloads, ring tones....”

“We’re getting way ahead of ourselves guys. We haven’t laid down one pass of a fart on tape yet, and you’ve got us in daily rotation around the world. I suppose we’d be doing a guest spot on the Tonight Show?”

“Just dreaming Doc. Isn’t that why we all decided to do this?”

“I did it for the women.”

“– and a lot of good it did you, Wally. Three times divorced.” Doc said.

“Who knows.” I said. “Maybe we are destined to write the next truly great song? Something that would be a welcome addition to any of the essential albums of our time. Who’s Next, Goodbye Yellow Brick Road, Crime of the Century, Pearl Jam’s ‘10', Nirvana’s ‘Never Mind’, Physical Graffiti, The Lamb. You know the classics, not today’s contemporary garbage with enough filler to make a pie. You had to listen to those albums from beginning to end— every song a gem. God damn it. You wouldn’t even stop to take a piss. You’d just scrunch into a tight dancing ball until the needle had finished its journey along the endless coil of black disc. And those were entire albums, all we need is one song!”

“If that’s so, it definitely won’t contain Wally’s phone number.”

Wally thumped him in the shoulder. “Fine Doc don’t listen to my plan.”

“Wally we’re talking about Bohemian Rhapsody not songs of gibberish. And Sparky let me tell you something. If we’re going to approach this with any seriousness, we have to reinvent, not repeat. Those were great albums I agree, but they’re in the past and we can’t look to it for what we have to do. It’s the only way any of us will connect with a new generation outside of an elevator.”

I hated to admit it, but Doc was right. Gone were the days of the classic album. Extinct were the discs of wax holding the aural sensation amid the pops and cracks. The streamers of cassette tape from busted cases, the eight tracks and their annoying edits in the middle of songs. Christ! Today’s youth didn’t remember any of those things, when Rock was in its rebellious infancy. Shit they wouldn’t remember a time when money didn’t come from ATM’s We had to be like Apples and Oranges always reinventing themselves and surviving amid the topsy turvy waves of an ever-changing business like Bowie, Madonna or U2. Great artists set trends, hacks regurgitated.

“I still think my phone number song is a good one.”

“Let it go Wally. Look If you’re so insistent, run your little idea by Skunk and Grub. Let majority rule. Right Sparky? Let’s just get to the damn studio. This day has been bad enough already.”

I finally spoke with an alarming realization. “No it hasn’t. Guys I don’t know how to tell you this. I forgot the map with the directions on it.”

Friday, September 14, 2007

New release this week

I can't help thinking after witnessing a few things this week. Britany Spears needs a new publicist, or spin doctor, or both. Someone to help her get her timing and confidence back. To use her poor performance at the MTV awards and turn it into a giant marketing tool. She needs the same guy who advises Osama or these guys: D- Drifters- Polka N' Fun. Then all will be right with the world again.

Just look at them.

That's supreme confidence my friends.

Wednesday, September 12, 2007

It's the day after the day we all remember

Alright if you're eight and under maybe not? That said, remembering 9/11 is fine but, you really need to know.......what the world record is for banana snapping.

Tuesday, September 11, 2007

Thumb Club

Now we reach the fine line between the Summer and Fall movie season. Yet, Hollywood seems content to churn out both: “Balls of Fury” and “ Half past kiss my ass to Yuma” being recent examples. All to add to the multibillion dollar count already.

Still there are blockbuster gems, like this one, that never found room to plead for your almighty hard earned clam.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Sunday, September 09, 2007

Just when you thought it couldn't get any worse

Before you watch this, a personal apology to Reg. Apparently "Chocolate Rain" was just the beginning. This guy is going to keep coming back like Jason.


Felon of Troy

Looking near tears and in a voice fraught with emotion, Toronto Blue Jay, Troy Glaus on Saturday commented for the first time concerning his name being connected to multiple shipments of steroids by an Orlando-based pharmacy that is the subject of a criminal investigation.

Unlike St. Louis Cardinals outfielder Rick Ankiel, who after being linked to shipments of human growth hormone in a New York Daily News story immediately announced he had received all his treatment under a doctor's care, Glaus offered what amounted to an extended 'no comment.'

The 31-year-old did not specify if he would address the subject in more detail at a later date.

I don't know....the last time I looked at the stats Troy wasn't hitting the ball like Barry.

Hope I die before I get old

Researchers at Liverpool John Moores University, whose report appeared in the Journal of Epidemiology and Community Health, studied a sample of North American and British rock and pop stars and concluded they are more than twice as likely to die a premature death as ordinary citizens of the same age.

Really? Did anyone include the Stones or Ozzy in this research?

Good to the last pop

The three companies that sell Orville Redenbacher, Act II, Pop Secret and Jolly Time microwave popcorn are planning to revamp their microwave popcorn formulations to remove diacetyl, which was been linked to cases of bronchiolitis obliterans, a rare life-threatening disease often called popcorn lung, the Associated Press reported on Wednesday.

At least one man who ate several bags of butter-flavored microwave popcorn each day developed a life-threatening lung disease possibly caused by the additive, which gives popcorn its buttery flavor, Reuters reported.

Whew! I'm glad I stuck to huffing glue.

Suit follows suit

Kyla Ebbert, 23, was recently escorted off a Southwest Airlines flight by a male customer service supervisor for wearing the outfit shown in this photograph. The college student and Hooters waitress was later permitted to return to the plane and take her flight, but only after she put up a fuss and adjusted her outfit. She is currently seeking legal representation to sue the airline.

I know how she feels. I was once told to leave a flight after I used my penis to stir GIGC's rye and ginger.....frickin' tight wads.

Scare Air

Nine people were hurt Thursday night when WestJet Flight 80 from Calgary to Halifax suddenly plummeted like an airborne roller-coater as it hit a patch of turbulence.

Paramedics were waiting at Halifax Stanfield International Airport and used food service trucks to lift them into the plane to pull injured passengers from the aircraft.

Seems to me they should have that chick from Hooters on the flight. They could have prevented most of the injuries.

I'd like to be the bigger man

It seems I may have angered some opera fans with my insensitive use of Pavarotti's death for my own personal gain. I am deeply sorry and will do my best to make it up to you....in song.

I see a big silhouetto of a man
Scaramouch, scaramouch it must be Pavarotti
He died from pancreatic - cancer it was tragic
Gallileo, Gallileo,
Gallileo, Gallileo,
Pavaratti did Figaro - magnifico

Easy come easy go - will you let him go
Bismillah! No - we will not let him go - let him go
Bismillah! We will not let him go - let him go
Bismillah! We will not let him go - let me go
Will not let you go - let him go (never)
Never let you go - let him go
Never let him go - ooo
No, no, no, no, no, no, no -
Oh mama mia, mama mia, I never saw that play
Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me
for me
for me!!!!!!!!!

I'm not sure, but I think I'm still going to hell?

Cross posted on Mitchieville

Saturday, September 08, 2007

HMH #7

Handmade Heart

Chapter Seven- The wedding of Blood Monkey


Doc squeezed into the front seat next to me and buckled up. “Let er rip Sparky!”

“You got everything you need, cuz it’s a little too far to drive back if you forgot anything.”

“Hey, this is me you’re talking about my friend. I don’t forget. I simply choose not to remember.”

“Don’t make me feel more anxious than I already am Doc. We’re running late as it is. You were supposed to be here no later than 2:00 P.M.”

“The wife had to run a few errands before she could drop me off, so shoot me. I know Wally. He won’t be ready when we get there anyway.”

“He’d better.”

Off we rolled. Between the scanning of the FM band and the concerto of car horns as we entered the highway heading north, we chatted about how we would tackle the recording and scraps of song ideas we were bringing with us. Doc had his window open and his arm extended out of it like he was trying to take flight. The occasional olfactory speed trap of fresh manure made him change his mind and he quickly had his glass barrier back in place. “More comfortable than the trucks we used to travel in, huh Sparky?”

“Doesn’t make the drive any shorter.” I flipped the visor down to block out the sun that had shifted into my vision.

“Actually, I’m surprised that everything’s running so smoothly given this band’s history.”

“Yeah, about that Doc . . . ”

“What? What aren’t you telling me?”

“It appears Grub had a change of heart.”

“What do you mean Sparky? We need a drummer for this. We’re not Placido Domingo.”

"He sug....Placido Domingo? Where do you come up with this shit?"

"You have to admit he doesn't need a drummer."

“Grub suggested we get Arsehole Party.”

“Je-sus, you didn’t? Please, by crippled Christ and Pope-on-a-rope, tell me you didn’t?” Doc’s eyes pleaded for an answer. “Turn the car around Sparky I’m going home! I refuse to be in the same room as that moron ever again. And Skunk! Holy castrated kittens, she’ll friggin’ crap a diaper full. She hates that guy.”

“I know, I know. Relax Doc. Grub will be there. I’m just saying he had a change of heart is all. It was a close call but he came around. You know how he felt about things toward the end.”

“I forgave him for quitting before the big showcase. That probably caused us to tank? Worst gig ever.”

“We only had ourselves to blame for that Doc. You know it.”

“Yeah– well– I’m still glad you didn’t get Arsehole Party. I would have shit blades of steel on Razor Island if he were coming. Holy shit! I swear I was that close to pushing Skunk out of the way and strangling that fat bastard myself. That close.” Doc showed me a small gap between his fingers as if telling me about it hadn’t been enough.

“Arsehole Party had us all that close Doc.”

“So what changed the little Bug’s mind?”

“I gave him something to think about for a few days. I told him his mother would be returned unharmed after this weekend.”

“Je-sus, I don’t know whether to believe you or not when you pull that crap?”

I smirked at him and gave him a sly wink. “No practical jokes for the studio Doc.”

“Like What? Taking a picture of me with Wally’s tooth brush up my ass then emailing him a copy after we’re finished?”

“There’s no time Doc and the joke would be on you. What makes you think Wally would have a computer. No, it has to be all business. No tomfoolery, no Chubs, no alcohol.”

“No booze! but it’s the nectar of the gods, Sparky. What about– ”

“– Doc we need to maintain our focus. No booze.”

“Not even a wee nip?” He showed me the tiny gap between his fingers again. I shook my head in a negative fashion. “OK, OK, Mother Superior. It’s not going to be easy. You know we all used to suck back the John Barleycorn like it was the cure for cancer . . . ”

“Didn’t help Wires much then did it?” I said. I was becoming annoyed.

“Oh yeah. Forgot. Sorry . . . So what did you tell Grub, Really?”

“I told him we only seem to see each other at weddings and funerals. He understood what I meant.”

“Well fill me in because I don’t.”

“You were there. You remember Blood Monkey’s wedding?”

“Blood Monkey? What the hell does that have to do with Grub changing his mind?”

***

Blood Monkey was the affectionate nickname for our light-man back in the Oral Blonde days. He was a young kid when Doc brought him into the fold- fresh and freckle-faced. He looked about twelve, but he was a muscular little guy and fit right in. I don’t remember the circumstances of him earning the moniker, only Doc started calling him Blood Monkey one day, and it seemed to coincide with Grub's simian pet suddenly disappearing.

After the band suffered its last breath and we all ventured down dissimilar roads, some of us kept in touch. So much so, when Blood Monkey brought a long courtship to fruition and finally tied the knot, he felt compelled to invite some of his old band chums to the wedding. Doc, Grub, The Mayor, Alice and I, had all graciously accepted and Chas had signed up as best man.

We arrived and were seated together at a large round table in a corner of a huge ballroom, dimly lit and decorated with the usual wedding paraphernalia. Streamers of all colors flowed from the ceiling accentuated by flowers, balloons, gifts of all shapes and sizes and an air-conditioned freon smell of temperature five degrees lower than it should be.

With our invited guests by our side we chatted and conversed in a jovial fashion. I was in a particularly bad relationship at the time with a girl named Lara. She was hopelessly trapped in the eighties in hairstyle and mentality. Her overall appearance was well shy of being hot and her demeanor barely registered above white trash. In essence, it was a union destined to end a week or two in. However, she had been in a debilitating car crash the second week of our union and I couldn’t bring myself to be the asshole who broke up with her while she lay in a hospital bed in traction, or the ensuing recovering months on crutches. So here we were still together a good nine months after I should have waved goodbye. She was a bad drunk and the open bar wasn’t going to help our evening.

Somewhere between the dinner and the heartfelt congratulations of best man Chas, Lara had leaned over to me from her little boat of insecurity on the jealous sea, and the accusations had started. “You want to fuck that chick over there don’t ya?”

“Who, the mother of the Bride? Are you for real?”

The Oral Blondes had been defunct for sometime and it had been a while since Alice had booked any of our gigs. I wanted the chance to play catch up. She had been through a host of bad dating experiences until she’d finally found a nice guy who had accompanied her to the wedding and was in the process of bringing me up to speed. “They’d always bring me gifts for some reason.”

“Surprise, you’re a very likable chick Alice.”

“No, John you don’t understand these were unusual gifts. Whipped-out gifts. The kind you don’t give to a girl on a first date. On any date.”

“Like what?”

“Like washer fluid, mouse traps, dental floss, a big bag of screws . . . ”

“...I see where that was going . . . ”

“Oh, it didn’t stop there. You want me to go on? Toe nail clippers, talking beer mugs, a budgie . . . ”

“As in the bird, or one of the band members?”

“Bird- Sept it was the middle of winter and he had a pick-up truck. Tossed the cage into the flat bed and the bird still in it. The poor thing froze to death on the way over. Gave it to me anyway. Said, it was the thought that counted.”

“What happened to the guy you started dating the last time we were down your way? Rick was it?”

“Rick. Yes. He was alright until I finally got invited over to his place. The wall above his bed was covered in various sized dildos. I didn’t know weather to sleep with him of go rock climbing?”

“Sounds kinky?”

“Yeah until the KY came out and he started greasing up his own butt. Handed me a strap-on and everything. That guy was demented. Wore bare-ass leather chaps, studded dog collars the whole nine yards. He also had this fetish for shoes. I couldn’t get any sleep even if I wanted to. He was always waking me up in the middle of the night by trying to shove spike heeled pumps onto my feet as I slept. I couldn’t handle it. I need someone more down to normal, plus he had too much shit hanging anyway.”

“Too well endowed was he?”

“No, he had a lot of cold-sores.”

We both laughed. “The new guy’s nice.”

“Yeah he’s a keeper, treats me good.”

Lara budged into our conversation. “Hey John! Can I talk to you? Alone!” She tugged on my arm insistently.

“Excuse us Alice.” I let myself be led away. “What is so frickin’ important?”

“I’ve been watching you from the bar.”

“I’m not surprised. Go on.”

In the background the DJ’s voice like the sweetest sugar rolled over the P.A. system out of the darkness. It said, “Let’s have a warm welcome for the Bride and Groom and their first dance together.” Polite applause and the glittering beams of a mirror-ball, led Blood Monkey and the love of his life onto the dance floor.

“You want to fuck Alice don’t you? I see the way you look at her. The way you laugh together.”

“Alice is a dear old friend Lara. She used to book the Oral Blondes. Now if her sister was here that would be different.”

“Don’t they all look the same? Aren’t they like twins or somethin’?”

“Quadruplets . . . ”

“I don’t care if they’re quad-ra-pa-ledics . . . ”

“You’re so drunk you can’t even say it.”

She slurred in defiance. “I am not!” Lara placed a hand on my shoulder, more to steady herself than a sign of affection.

The DJ’s voice interrupted us once again, “The Bride and Groom have chosen a special song for this wondrous occasion, The Power of Love.” He extended love, so it sounded like luuuuuv. The first notes of the perky pop song from Huey Lewis and the News, burst from the speakers. I glanced at Blood Monkey as he and his Bride remained motionless, their mouths open slightly in disbelief. “It’s supposed to be Frankie Goes to Hollywood’s Power of Love . . . idiot. The guy calls himself a DJ?”

“Look at me Johnny, damn it! Don’t change the subject and don’t you lie to me! You want to fuck her don’t you?”

“Look, Lara, even if I did, do you think it would be the smart thing to do with her new boyfriend here and my soon to be ex-girlfriend at my side?”

“What do you mean EX?” She was becoming more belligerent.

Blood Monkey and his bride were still standing motionless as they were joined by various women kicking off their shoes and hollering as they shuffled onto the dance floor in stocking feet. Some of the women were of Titanic proportions. One must have hit an iceberg because she slid and fell on her derriere but was rescued by some passing ships and soon was bouncing up and down again to the rhapsodic thumping rhythm.

“I asked you a question!”

“Lower your voice. You’re making a scene.”

“What do you mean Ex?” She was glaring at me savagely through grit teeth.

“If you keep this up Lara, you will be.”

“Is that supposed to be some kind of threat?”

I felt my hand clenching into a fist. Would I dare? I’d never hauled off and hit a woman in my life. I’d never hit anyone for that matter, but here was this person nattering on ceaselessly with the most preposterous bile, and suddenly for a brief instant I considered performing a little dental examination with my knuckles.

“You’re going to dump me for that . . . that cunt aren’t you?”

“You WILL NOT! Talk about my friends that way! Do you hear me?!” Suddenly I was the one making a scene. Her eyes started to well up as I continued to lambaste her.“ Of all the crass, hurtful, vicious, inconsiderate, white-trashy things to say.”

“— Who you callin’ white trash?”

“— Are you even human under that foul armored exterior you call skin? I’ve never heard or seen such ugliness.”

“I’ll have you know I’m beaugiful.” I don’t know how, but see dropped a G into beautiful.

“Yeah! Well beauty is only skin deep Lara. Ugly’s to the bone, or in your case to the soul. As far as I’m concerned, you couldn’t be much uglier than you are right now. I can’t be around you. You disgust me!” I turned my back on her.

“Don’t walk away from me Johnny. You’ll be sorry.”

“I already am.” I thundered off. I passed Alice on the way out. “This ends tonight. Wait and see.”

I thrust my fist into one side of the saloon-type doors leading from the ballroom. Doc came waltzing through the other. “Is everybody happy?” he yelled. He rushed to join the rotund dancing juggernaut of bare feet and nylons.

I walked out of the building for air and did not return until I had time to put my, It’s not you It’s me, speech in order. I guess it’s the standard goodbye blow-off most people use when they want to dump someone without causing too much of a scene. This was, after all, Blood Monkey’s wedding and I had to be precise in my breakup surgery. I had reached the end of my mental tether and was tired of it all. Tired of Lara and her attitude. Tired of the psycho blowups I could set my watch by. Tired of her drab apartment with the parrot colored towels hung crookedly over the rack, the leopard print throw rug, the blue glass porpoises jumping half-filled candy dishes, the ubiquitous wolf prints on everything from coasters to dishrags to designs etched in acrylic candle holders. They howled at me from the bedroom comforter. They barked at me from the welcome mat. They yammered away from the closet on sweaters of powder blues, ashen grays, and kissing pinks. I was tired of Lara and the whole zoo. Tonight it would end and I would march right back in there and tell her so. Another L was about to end up on the alphabetical pile of Ex’s.

When I returned, I could not find her anywhere. I located Alice cuddling up to her new beau in the hallway as they were preparing to leave.

“Alice did you see my idiot girlfriend?”

“I think she had too much to drink. She went to throw up I’ll bet. I saw her disappear into the restroom about twenty minutes ago.”

“I can’t go into the women’s. Will you do me a huge favor and go see if she’s still in there?”

“She didn’t go into the women’s. She went into the men’s.”

“Sounds like her all right. OK, thanks.”

I walked into the washroom to the echo of retching with the simultaneous grunts and coos of bathroom noises in mid vomit. There was a smell of paper towels, wet with pink liquid soap, and the squeak of shoes on the tiles followed by the occasional banging of a stall door.

“Lara, that you?” The banging and squeaking ceased. The retching however, continued. I identified the offending stall and slowly swung the door in. Lara had her face in the bowl. Her one arm around the porcelain in a loving embrace, the other, reaching up to clutch onto the toilet-paper roll. She had nearly un-spooled the entire coil into a soft white mountain on the tiles below. Her dress was hiked up to the hips and her bare ass smiled at me sideways. Lara’s black dress was draped across her hips and down each thigh like the curtains over a stage of some adult puppet show. Her knees seemed tied by her black lace panties as if they were being held hostage. Grub stood over her, his hand still on his zipper barely just pulling it to attention. There was another wretch and I could hear Lara’s voice reverberate from the bowl. “Why did you stop?! Don’t stop . . . waugh!”

“Someone’s here,” Grub uttered.

Lara again from the throne. “I don’t care, fuck me . . . waugh!”

Grub pushed by me, beet red with embarrassment, and I followed him, letting the door swing shut with a bang.

“I’m sorry John . . . I was in here and she just barged in. She said she felt sick.”

“Really? How does she feel to you now? Oh...that’s what you were doing taking her rectal temperature. You’re not supposed to use a meat thermometer you know.”

The toilet belched. “Waugh!”

“I was just trying to help her throw up.”

“I see. By pushing her repeatedly into the crapper with your penis? I’ll have to try it one day.” Actually I was jumping for joy inside. There would be no need for the breakup talk now. This was perfect, but I kept my face in a scowl of anger and disappointment.

“How could you of all people do this?”

“I don’t know. One minute I was helping her into a stall, and the next— .”

“— you were helping yourself?”

“One thing led to another and...It just happened. I’m sorry.”

“Waugh!”

“I know Lara and I have had our problems Grub, but you should at least wait for the grass to dry before you turn on the sprinkler. You owe me Grub. One day I’ll remind you of that.”

“Waugh!”

Boy I wish I had to take a piss right now. I raised my voice, letting it roar off the tiles. “I see you decided to do the smart thing Lara. Have a nice life.” I turned away, trying to conceal my glee behind my feigned anger, and left them both behind. The satisfaction I felt was one of relief mostly, bordering on euphoric elation. The same feeling you got at the end of a long car ride as
you stood in front of the urinal squeezing the hell out of your bladder with your stomach muscles until you achieved an emptiness through a steady stream. It was the slamming of your hand down on the snooze button for another ten minutes in blissful slumber. It was Rolaids relief quelling the burning esophagus, and in actuality, I owed Grub, not the other way around.

***


“Where was I when all this went down?”

“Dancing the Macarena I think. So there you have it Doc, I just reminded Grub he owed me a debt and it had to be repaid.”

“So you fucked him in the ass over a toilet bowl?”

“I’m sure he probably would’ve preferred that to me exhuming the past and reliving the event.”

“Did he end up with Lara?”

“If he did, it wasn’t for long. Besides being an asshole and a drunk, she wasn’t very good between the sheets. She gave blow-jobs like she was making the driest martini in the world and my dick was the vermouth. By the end of our relationship she wouldn’t even wave at it.”

I turned on the wipers and gave the windscreen a shot of fluid to help scrape off the kamikaze insects. They had started to accumulate in a splat of shrapnel bug parts.

“So is there anything else I should know before we get there?”

I started to fill in the blanks about Wires, Griffin Alexander, the time limit and the visit from the lawyer. “I’m sorry about the details Doc, but I couldn’t tell you until now. It was part of the agreement. You do understand?”

“You get the paper work taken care of?”

“Yeah, but you know what? The lawyer didn’t look the way I expected. I guess I was waiting for someone more Hollywood- the nice suit, every hair in place, the little hanky like a snow-covered peek poking out of the breast pocket. I guess more like Alexander. This guy wasn’t even clean shaven. It was hard to believe Griffin would associate himself with a guy like that?”

“Je-sus Sparky, true life is not all Law and Order.”

“Doc this guy looked like he hadn’t shaved in days. In fact, he looked like he was there to shake me down instead of give me details- scar across the chin, dark complexion, steely eyes, tooth pick wedged between his teeth, great big hulking shoulders, needed a stronger deodorant. You know the type?”

“Sadly I do . . . And what are the details?”

“He gave me a contract to sign, the contact names at the studio, and directions. That’s pretty much it, and then he left.”

“Not a man of many words huh?”

“Other than, ‘Griffin sent me, sign this, take these,’ and ‘see ya,’ not much at all. And I’ll tell you Doc, it was a little unsettling. I just wanted to get him out of my apartment as quickly as possible.”

“I’m sure he’s house broken.”

“Not that. I just couldn’t put my finger on it. Maybe it was his voice, rumbling like a deep threat out of a distant valley. I don’t know. I tell you if there had been reverb on it I would have run screaming.”

“Oh, it couldn’t be that bad, ya scaredy cat?”

“Doc I’m serious. I’m unnerved just thinking about it.”

“What was the contract about?”

“An outline of the procedures involved in the will. I’m taking our copy up to look at it more closely when we get there.”

“You signed something without reading it first?”

“Doc this is Wires we are talking about. Christ you sound just like the Mayor.”

“It doesn’t sound to me like Wires would have sent Charles Manson to your house with paper work. Sorry, I just don’t want to get there and find a big pile of nothing waiting for us.”

“You won’t. I guarantee it.” At the exact moment I spoke those words, the car began to sputter, the temperature gauge climbed well into the red and the hood hissed steam, like there was a cage full of rattle snakes beneath it.

“Oh great. What now?”

Friday, September 07, 2007

New release this week

Up to this point in your lives most of you have avoided shoving long metal spikes into your eardrums, but now Gary Dee Bradford- Sings for you and you and you....Oh and I can't forget you. Maybe Pavarotti wasn't so bad?



WILL YOU STOP FUCKIN' LOOKING AT ME KID!!!!!

Thursday, September 06, 2007

Special Chuck Norris Thursday



Luciano Pavarotti vs. Pancreatic cancer

Who ya got?

Got to say, Pavarotti was looking a little like either a wax figure or Mr. French from Family Affair....Yup, I'm going to hell.

Pavarotti's dead, but you need to know.....

How to break a beer bottle with your bare hands.

Wednesday, September 05, 2007

Celeb morph

Man! That's one scary-ass-psyco-down syndrome, chick. Not really. It's half of Paris Hilton's face morphed with half of Jessica Simpson. If you want to check out what other celebs would like like after they've been thrown into a Brundle Pod -*note: obscure Cronenberg "Fly" reference.- Go here.

BTW ever wonder what Ol' Strange would look like morphed with Jose Marrone? Wonder no more. Cheeeeee!


Ugh! That's one Pandora's box that should have remained closed....that and the Queen/Elton John pic.