Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Last minute lame-ass costumes

Aside from not being able to breathe and the obvious erection I'd rather not die from erotic asphyxiation.

Perhaps I need a costume that's just a touch more on the gay side?



Hey Christmas decorations are up in some stores now anyway, why not rub it in....
And monkeys might fly out of my butt.

Smells like fish.
Tastes like chicken





















It's not Easter, but what the hell....

Last minute costume ideas for you and the rug rat

My Dad is so cool. Just look at the costumes he's picked out for us to wear.

Dude, I doubt you'll make it through the night looking like that.



Is no one doing Dr. Evil & Mini Me anymore?

The horror....the horror

I've been trying to think of Halloween story I could relate to you. You know, something scary with headless corpses, oozing, bloody guts and calls coming from inside the house. After much consideration I believe I have a personal story that fits the bill.

Last weekend GIGC, OBJ, Dickie Sanchez and I set out to move elderly Momma Strange from her abode by the shores of Lambton County to God's green pasture this side of the Big Smoke.

Having booked our truck- U-HAUL- three weeks earlier for a one-way run between destinations, and with the sun shining we set out in the Sanchez mobile to what we were sure would be a smooth transition for the matriarch of the family.

However, as our journey continued an ill wind with brooding clouds began to blow in from the west bringing with it something sinister and foreboding.

Unable to get a response of final confirmation two days earlier, we tried yet again via cell phone on the course of our journey. We were greeted by excruciating wait times at the U-HAUL 1-800 number and Zombie-like employees, who in some case disconnected us.

With an eerie blackness surrounding us and an angry wind howling as it whipped by, we concluded our three hour journey to Momma Strange's house only to find a recording, left at 5:20 PM, telling us our U-HAUL booking was confirmed, but we'd have to pick our truck up in Clinton- a two hour drive north of our current location.

Two hours there! Two hours back! That's four hours for you idiots at U-HAUL who can't count.

Furthermore we were told amidst our constant complaining and pleas for morality, sanity and humanity, "U-HAUL has a hard time keeping trucks in Sarnia."

You'd think after the bad press this company has endured they would make an effort to have at least one truck in close proximity. If not Sarnia, then across the river in Port Huron, London's an hour drive, Detroit, Windsor? Hell, if they new this was going to be the case they could have set us up with a truck in Toronto when we left. surely there had to be a truck to fit our needs there? But no! Clinton was the only U-HAUL dealer in the 100 or so, within the radius, that had the truck.

To make a long story short, nineteen hours and many coffees later we finally finished loading Momma Strange into her new digs.

I invite a response from U-HAUL to this blog to disclaim anything I've said here. Go on tell me my visions of your inept blundering and butchered customer relations are a figment. Just the crazed ramblings of someone hopped-up on too much caffeine...........yeah, I thought as much.

Well at least I'll have fun filling out the customer satisfaction survey they sent me.

Remember children U-HAUL means U-FUCKED.

Last minute costume ideas for the racist in your family

The Frenchman
The Caveman....Sure....I believe that's supposed to be a caveman.











Dreidel Man
Cleveland Indian Man...or Washington Redskin Man, or Alanta Brave Man, or Chicago Blackhawk Man. Take your pick.



Mr. and Mrs. Jose Marrone costumes

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Saturday, October 27, 2007

HMH #14

Chapter Fourteen- A hamburger with cheese

We scrambled about madly and dashed outside. I accidently bumped into a small statuesque ceramic Jesus with his arms stretched to the heavens in praise. It fell over and part of his left hand broke off. I returned it to an upright position. He now looked as if he were giving us the finger. Doc reminded me I couldn’t go to a hospital in a robe and bare feet unless I wanted to look like a patient. Knowing he was right I began to scour the premises for something else that might suffice. Suds’ clothes were too small, Tiny’s were too big, and Doc’s although close to being just right, were needed by Doc. All my other clothes were still in the Honey-wagon.

“What the fuck am I, Goldilocks or something?”

Finally it was decided I could wear Tiny’s flannel jacket. It looked more like a dress on me than its original intent. He also offered up his boots which I had to hang onto with my hands for fear of tripping out of them. When I walked. It made a fa-boop sound.

Doc laughed. “Don’t worry Sparky. You’ll grow into them.”

The tractor wasn’t big enough for all of us to ride on, so Suds hooked up a small wagon to the back, in which both Doc and I sat, amid his protests of, “Sparky, would you get those boots out of my ass.”

“Don’t worry Doc. You’ll grow into them.” However, I relented and twisted my body so I could flop the huge black rubber footwear over the edges.

The going was slow and laborious. The anxiety was nothing compared to the humiliation I felt. Motorists slowed down to gawk at two grown men, one in a flannel dress with huge deformed feet, being taken for a wagon ride, on a tractor driven by a Munchkin. I could not conceive there would be a hospital so close by, and had prepared myself for hours of this debasement.

Suds quickly corrected me. “It’s a doctor’s house, not a hospital,” he said. “The closest hospital is in the town of Crabbucket on the other side of the reservation. You don’t want to go there. I’ll take forever.-”

As we puttered along, Doc swung his head back to me. “-As long as time’s a factor.”

Forty-five agonizing minutes later we arrived at a roadside house with a white picket fence incased by shady white birches. It was between the bookends of a diner and a gas station advertising Fresh bait. There were several vehicles in view, one of which was Wally’s truck. It was parked next to a phone booth in desperate need of a phone, where a small volume of Yellow-pages fluttered in the breeze like a trapped bird.

Doc and I climbed out of the wagon with a flurry of protests and groans about stiffness. Suds bid us farewell and slowly traced back the way we’d come. His little blocked feet pounded the gas pedal, as the tractor crawled from view.

We were about to walk through the gate, onto a cobblestone path separating a hedge and two apple trees, when Wally yelled at us from the diner. He grunted up with a quickened shuffle, to where we stood.

“Figures, that’s where you’d be,” Doc cussed. “Feeding your face again?”

“This is the first time I’ve had a chance to eat today. In fact, smart ass, I haven’t even ordered yet. Which means, I haven’t eaten since last night at the studio. It’s not right for me to go so long without food. You don’t know what it does to my innards.”

“Unfortunately Wally, I do.”

“But I saw you guys roll in, and came out to meet you anyway. Skunk and Grub had a little accident.”

“We heard. What happened? How little?”

“Don’t worry the injuries were minor. The Doctor’s patching them up as we speak and then we’re good to go.— Nice dress Sparky.”

“Don’t go there, Wally. Now that you’re here, give me the frickin’ keys and let me get a change of clothes.”

Wally reached into his pocket and withdrew the Honey-wagon’s ring of jingling metal. He tossed it to me. “Where on earth did you get that table cloth you’re wearing? And those boots?”

“We met Tiny,” Doc informed him as I unlocked the truck and retrieved my bag.

“Tiny?”

“You’ll get along famously. He has the brain capacity of a brick.”

"Where's the mens room?"

"Sparky."

“Doc, I have to change. I don’t want to walk into the doctor’s looking like this.”

“So you’re going to walk into a crowded diner instead?”

“Good point.” I crawled up into the cab of the Hino and started to slip in and out of garments there.

“Hurry-up Sparky I’m hungry. I feel like a hamburger with cheese.”

“You mean a cheeseburger,” Doc corrected.

“I don’t want a cheeseburger. I want a hamburger with cheese.”

“Whatever.”

After a few minutes of struggling, I slid out of the cab, tucked in my shirt, and zipped up my trousers. I still had to wear the boots, as I had only the one pair of shoes I had worn on my feet. One of which, was still at the bottom of the outhouse. Wally returned to the diner while Doc Barlow and I walked to the Doctor’s house. fa-boop, fa-boop, fa-boop I felt like a was walking on stilts and the rubber was beginning to chafe my inner thighs.

We ascended the porch steps and opened the door. Inside was a small reception desk with an older woman seated behind it. She had on a white shawl over a sparkly black shirt and cat glasses attached to a chain which drooped down her neck to a string of pearls. Her hair was pinned back into a tiny, tight bun. It choked any chance at a cheerful disposition. She was typing away at a mad speed at a computer console as we entered.

fa-boop, fa-boop

“Shush!” She scolded. We stopped in our tracks. “Can I help you?” She made the question sound more like a threat than an offer of resolution.

There were several chairs in a room decorated sparsely with expensive thick gold frames, guarding shitty paintings of bad landscapes. At the far end of the room we spied Skunk. She was sitting next to a middle-aged farmer with a vacant look in his eyes waiting patiently. The man had a towel balled up to the side of his head and had, what looked like, a fork protruding from it. Skunk had her face buried in a back issue of Vogue. She was waiting for Grub who was apparently still with the Doctor.

I looked back at the receptionist. “We’re here for her,” I said pointing to our guitarist. She waved us away and returned to her typing. As quietly as possible we tiptoed over to Skunk.

fi-bup, fi-bup

“Je-sus,” Doc moaned. “That Suds made it sound like a severe accident. There’s hardly a scratch on you. I thought I was going to see severed limbs and busted guts, squirting intestines. All kinds of goo. Thank God. You’re all right.”

Skunk labored slowly to her feat. “Will a couple of busted ribs do Doc? I’m all bandaged up under my shirt. I hit the steering column pretty hard. My tits hurt like hell.”

The farmer next to her spoke under his breath. “T’ain’t nothin’. Did yer wife stick ya in the head with a fork?”

“In my world we wear seatbelts,” Doc lectured.

“It was the frickin’ driveway leading to the studio Doc. We both undid them. We figured the journey was over.”

“Christ, Skunk. What happened?”

Skunk looked at my boots but decided against making a comment. “We were making good time. Enjoying the scenery. It was a nice morning. Everything was going great until we made the turn and ran right into the back of some asshole who decided to leave his truck parked in the middle of the road.”

“And let me guess. That asshole was Wally. Right?”

“You got it. Wham! Right into the back of that sanitation rig of his. Grub was gasping for air and saying, ‘Meeya! I can’t breathe,’ over and over. I think he busted a rib too....My husband's going to kill me.”

“This fork hurts like hell,” The farmer said. "And when I get out of here, I'm killin' my wife."

I turned to the man. “Am I talking to you?”

“Shuush!” The receptionist nagged.

Doc looked at the farmer. “That wouldn’t be your wife there would it?”

“Nope.”

“Just wondering. Cause at this point we could help you.”

“Doc, please. — Skunk, where’s your car now?”

“In a ditch between the trees. It’s totaled.”

“Shit! How did it get like that?”

“Wally. He tried to push us in reverse. Get us back out onto the main road with that truck of his. Instead, Bang, shoved us right into the bush. He got that monstrosity of his out though....I take my kids to school in that car....Then he brought us here, to the doctor.”

Doc shook his head. “Why didn’t you use the tractor to pull the car out? That would have made more sense.”

“That little Suds guy didn’t have anything we could use to pull the car out with him and we had to get to a doctor. Grub was hyperventilating.” Skunk made the Meeya sound again.

“Just great. Two vehicles out of commission. We’re wasting time running around, and we haven’t played a single note yet.”

“Sparky, what’s going on . . . and what’s with the boots?” She couldn’t resist after all. “Wally said something about those being the wrong directions?— What the hell are you so happy about?”

“See Doc. See! I was right! I was right! Those were the correct directions . . . I mean wrong directions . . . I mean . . . that proves it. How could Skunk have the same— ”

“— Sparky! Think about it. If we both had the same directions, that means someone gave them to us, and that someone is Griffin Alexander.”

“Fuuuck. You’re right Doc. Rat ass, Son-of-a-bitch!”

“SHUUUSH!” The receptionist added her index finger to her lips this time, reveling nail polish chipped by her endless hacking away on the computer keys.

The farmer spoke. “Twenty years with that woman and this is what I git.” He moved his towel a little to the right and winced.

“Sparky . . . What’s this all about?” Skunk inquired.

“Look, stay here and wait for Grub, then meet Wally, Doc and me in the diner. We can’t discuss it here with Mrs. Bugupherbutt, shushing us every few minutes.”

We found Wally sitting impatiently at one of the corner tables and I plopped myself down next to him. Doc went to inspect some impulse items at the counter. Tiny had not left too many crumbs at this morning’s offerings and the hunger was creeping in again.

“Frickin’ service is so slow here. It’s a wonder they have any business at all. I ordered my food ten minutes ago and they still haven’t called it out yet.”

“Wally didn’t you find it strange, Skunk rear-ended the Honey-wagon?”

“Sparky it was parked on the road around a sharp turn. Anybody could have rammed into it. We shouldn’t have left it there. I wanted to turn on the four-ways but Noooo . . . ”

“You don’t get it do you, Wally? Skunk ended up in the same place we did. Those were the wrong directions. Someone wanted us all to get lost, or at least delay us, and they have.”

Doc continued his inspection of pies and cakes. The cook behind the cash register shoved a brown paper bag onto the metal counter top, rang a small bell, and yelled out. “Cheeseburger to go!”

“Wally, there’s your food.”

“No Sparky I ordered a hamburger with cheese.— It’s very strange that Wires would give us both wrong directions.”

“Wires didn’t do anything Wally. It’s Griffin Alexander who’s in charge of his last wishes. It was Griffin Alexander who set up the studio and gave us the wrong directions. Believe me once we get back to Faith Sound, I’m going to find out exactly what Griffin Alexander is up to.”

The cook called out again. “Cheeseburger to go!”

“You really think that Alexander guy would do something like this? He’s a lawyer. Isn’t there some sort of ethics code? A Hippocratic oath or somethin’?”

“That’s for doctors, not lawyers, Wally.”

The cook was becoming agitated. “Hey buddy! You in the yellow. You want your cheeseburger, or what?”

Wally turned to him. “I ordered a hamburger with cheese.”

The cook sighed, paused for a moment then rang his little bell again. “Fine! One fuckin’ hamburger with cheese to go.”

Wally smiled and got up from the table. “Food’s ready. Let’s go, Sparky.”

“But Skunk and Grub?”

“We can meet them outside.” Wally walked over and collected his bounty.

“Come on Doc.”

“Just a minute, Wally my man. I’m waiting for sustenance too.”

“And what did you get Mr. Barlow?”

“Cake.”

“So where is it?”

“In the microwave.”

“Christ Doc! Cake in the microwave?” I said.

“I like it when it gets all woogily.”

“Woogily cake? I’ve heard it all now. How did I ever get mixed up with the likes of you two? I’ll be outside.”

Fa-boop, fa-boop, fa-boop.

I waited outside for everyone to appear, and they did, all at the same time. Skunk and Grub sporting their wounds, Wally with half a hamburger with cheese hanging from his incisors, and Doc with his steaming bag of woogily cake singing happily to himself. “Do you know the muffin man . . . Je-sus! This thing is frickin’ hot!”

I told Skunk and Grub all that had transpired and slowly we started to fit the pieces together. This wasn’t just bad luck, this was malice with foresight and something had to be done. We had to press on despite the obstacles and deliver the goods. Once I had finished my skip through the details and my addendum pep-talk, I turned to Grub. “So what did the doctor say?”

Grub lifted a wounded left wing and showed me a bandaged wrist. “It’s broken,” he said.

I turned to Wally. “You said their injuries were minor.”

Wally chewed and shrugged.

“How bad is it?”

“The doctor said I won’t be able to play the drums for a while.”

Friday, October 26, 2007

New release this week

I searched high and low for the creepiest, Halloween release I could find. This is by far the winner and I actually lost sleep last night thinking about it.

Harry and Terry Live.......Yeah, I'll just bet that creepy puppet is live.

Thursday, October 25, 2007

Hallowed be thy ween

Remember when you were little and your parents made your Halloween costume?
It was just two different sized boxes with holes cut for your eyes, mouth and arms. It was covered in tin foil and had a wire hanger thrust into the top. You were a robot. Remember?
Man your parents were some miserly fucks who lacked creativity.

Today, who has the time to look so lame?

Never fear, for Strange has lovingly ripped-off costume ideas from other sites that will set you back a few bucks, but will have you looking just as lame. Like back in the day with Mom and Dad.

Don't look now but it's Cell Man here to take all your Halloween candy. You just have to press 0 to get an outside line. Just keep pressing the number until you get a response. GO ON.....PRESS IT!




Angry bear is a great costume. It depicts how you will feel after the ass-kicking you'll get for wearing it.


OK, I've been to the Statue of Liberty and I have to say, this is the most realistic recreation I've ever seen. I would go out and buy this costume except, I know due to its high demand, it would be sold out.

I think it's supposed to be a tadpole, but to me, it looks like a giant green sperm. I mean why else would the costume come with a towel unless you had to wipe yourself off a centerfold at sometime during the evening?

" I came for the candy, but I'll stay for the impregnation."

It's a Mr. Death or something. He's come about the reeping.

Remember Death Clock?
Remember how cool you thought it was to sit there for weeks on end watching the seconds you had left on this earth tick by one by one?
Remember how after a month of Death Clock you suddenly realized what a colossal waste of time it had been and that you better start living so you went out and robbed that liquor store?.....well...some of did.

Anyway I have a new link for you to go to. It won't take as long, but it still harbors the morbid fascination we have with dead things.

All the people who died the day you were born.

Tuesday, October 23, 2007

Blockbusters we didn't see

What happens when Robot Chicken meets 300? You get 1776, the almost, true story of American independence.

Monday, October 22, 2007

Sunday, October 21, 2007

Search continues laddie


With a scant two weeks left before Sector begins their long journey back into the public consciousness, the search for the perfect opening act to complement the performance continues.

Today The Missing MacPhersons are pushed to the forefront for your consideration.



Missing Mac facts:

Home: North Kilt Town, Scotland

Albums: Only one- The Attack of the Blue Haggis- which featured their most commercial sound, included a cover of Z.Z. Top under the guise of "Sharp Dressed Scot". Also their signature song "Scotland the Brave" with pounding beats and rapier lyrics:
Land as big as Paul Bunyan
Home of the purple onion
Lots of beaches, lots of sunin'
Scotland the Brave!


Other songs of note: "The Muckin' of Geordie's Byre", "Gallant Forty Twa", "Lend Me Five Bob Til Tuesday" and "Donald Where's Your Troosers?"

Memorable performances: The Macs only played once live, but 18 people were hospitalized during the show due to extreme laughter.

Pros: 1) No room left in Def Leppard for them to join.
2) Girls go crazy for a man in a kilt.
3) Only two members so they don't take up a lot of stage. Hey, they could open for Saga.
4) They will play for haggis.

Cons: 1) If trend of hospitalized audience members continues, Sector will have no one to play for.
2) Kilts leave nothing to the imagination during on-stage jumps. Personally I like to think of the "Loch Ness Monster" as a myth.
3) They will play for haggis.

Saturday, October 20, 2007

HMH #13

Chapter Thirteen- In the world of giants


Doc rapped lightly on my door. “Sparky. It’s eleven. We have a lot to accomplish today.”

I bolted up in bed. “Eleven! Shit! Doc, why didn’t you wake me sooner?”

He mumbled through the door. “I just got up myself.”

I jumped out of bed and grabbed for the robe. Wrapping it around me, I ran to the door and opened it. “What about Wally?”

“He isn’t here,” Doc said with a yawn. “Neither is Suds. I guess they went to get the Honey-wagon and the gear. Come on, I smell coffee. We can have some breakfast while we wait. We can’t do anything until they get back anyway.”

“What about Skunk and Grub?”

“Don’t know. They aren’t here yet either I guess.”

“It’s eleven Doc. They said they’d be here by nine, nine-thirty.”

“Yeah, and we were supposed to be here at six last night. Maybe, they had a hole in their rad too?”

“Doc, get off the conspiracy angle. I thought we established last night it was my fault.” I started to relax a little and slowed my pace considerably. I followed Doc down the hallway through the living room and into an open-concept kitchen where a handful of steps led down to a long glass table framed by a massive bay window. The view was spectacular. The backyard sloped past an in-ground swimming pool, to the sharpened tips of pine trees. Beyond the jagged penciled outline lay the diamond sparkle of Ernie’s Bay. The sun invaded through the windows and played with the glass table top, casting beams of red, gold, and aqua marine on the floor. It was a warm inviting pull to be seated.

“Plop yourself down Sparky. I’ll pour you a cup.” Doc rummaged through the cupboards and snagged two mugs for the black liquid. He also coaxed a few pastries he found hiding in a plastic container, from the counter top to the table. “I take it you slept well?” He said as he returned to the pantry.

“After yesterday how could I not?” I pulled out a couple of the iron-backed chairs spread around the table like ramparts and sat myself down at one. “How did you sleep?”

“Like death.”

“And Wally?”

“I don’t know. Before I turned in, I found him asleep on the toilet the fool. He wasn’t snoring or anything. That boy was so tired he couldn’t fart to put out a fire in his P-jays. So I left him there. He probably has a hell of a kink in his neck this morning.”

“And a red ring around his butt. After a vision like that it’s a wonder you were able to sleep at all.”

“I know. At first, when I saw those religious, whatever-they-are, on the lawn, I would have rather slept in a house full of hungry cannibals. I mean just look at this.” Doc shook a cross-shaped cake pan at me as he continued to rummage through cupboards and drawers. “It has a Jesus imprint on it. I’ve heard of eating the body of Christ, but making a cake with sprinkles and gumdrop do-dads on it?. . . I don’t know. Does the Son of God drop by for special dinner engagements?” Doc mocked. “Try my chocolate brownies Jesus. They’re homemade. I don't mind telling you, It really creeps me out Sparky.”

Doc, finally convinced his scavenger hunt was at an end, squeaked out a chair and joined me. We delved into our meager breakfast. He sipped his java juice with love and admired the view. “Kind of reminds you of the old days when everything was running smoothly.”

“It’s not like there’s a ton of memories to choose from Doc. It was usually after those times of bliss the roof caved in, or do I have to remind you of that Megan chick? The groupie who almost single handedly destroyed our tour.”

“Ancient history. Hey remember Grub and how he used to go for those walks before every gig. We were playing that small town where nobody came to see us.”

“That could have been anywhere,” I smiled.

“The one that used to be a dress shop,” he said. “It had the stage built off the old display window so you could see the back of the band from the street. Fullerton! That’s it. Should have used more promo to get people out there. Anyway Grub went for his pre-gig walk and we couldn’t find him remember? Then we saw him charge down the street like he’d seen a ghost. He had a screaming hoard chasing him like a swarm of angry hornets. Seemed he walked right in between two rival gangs about to engage in a turf war.”

“I remember. They started to pound the hell out of one another right there in front of the club. Grub just made it through the doors as I recall. I don’t think I’ve ever seen someone drink so much whiskey in their tea as he did that night.”

The fight had lasted through our first three songs until the police got there. I think we open with our song, The Torture Never Stops, that night, as the war waged just beyond the expanse of the stages bank of windows. From an audience point of view, it must have looked like we’d brought along a hell-of-a choreographed stage show.

Doc and I could hear the sound of heavy feat approaching. I turned to the kitchen entrance as the hulking brute of a man bent down and emerged through the doorway. He was nine foot, if he was an inch by my calculation, and stood looking at us with wonder. I nudged Doc. He turned in alarm. “Je-sus!”

“No.” The man said. “Not Jesus.” The giant was wearing hip-waders and rubber boots like he’d just returned from an early morning fishing excursion. “You meet Tiny,” He said.

“Yeah,” Doc replied. “Last night. But I thought he said his name was Suds.”

“No,” The giant said again. “Not Suds.” One of his baseball-mitt-sized hands that hung at his side, almost to his knees, formed a fist with a jutting thumb and he brought it to his chest. He thumped the digit to his heart. “You meet Tiny.”

“Oh, you’re Tiny.” I said.

Doc broke in. “I don’t bloody well think so. He’s a behemoth.”

Tiny smiled a toothy grin and approached us where we sat. He had a crazy bush of brownish hair and his left eye was lazy. I wasn’t sure if he was looking at us, or passed us. He pulled out a chair and delicately sat upon it making his hip-waders squeak on the wood. It looked like a miniature beneath him. From a distance, it must have appeared a child was having a tea party with a few of his dolls, and we certainly felt as Suds must have, in our presence last night.

“Nice to meet you.” We extended our hands to be engulfed by five fingered flesh.

“What- do- you -do- here?” Doc asked in a raised tone.

“Tiny not def.”

“No, of course not. Would you like me to repeat the question?”

“Tiny remembers what was said. Tiny works here. Helps Suds. Likes music. Tiny likes to help.” He grabbed at a croissant, merely a morsel to him, and popped it in his open mouth. It reminded me of a garbage truck picking up an industrial bin with its long metal forks and dumping the entire load into its open container.

“What kind of work would that be?” Doc asked.

“Music work. Set up stuff. Go get stuff. Tear down stuff. Set up more stuff—”

“— I think I have an idea. I guess that means we’ll be working together then.” Doc smiled weakly, just a quick grin and then it was gone— from flashpoint to vapor in a millisecond. We sat in the uncomfortable silence and Tiny devoured the last of the pastries. “Would you like some coffee Tiny?”

Tiny nodded up and down as he swallowed. I swear I could feel the breeze created by his massive cranium and the waft of ripe pheromones of unwashed armpits. Doc pushed his chair back and went to fill the order. He banged cupboards in an effort to find a suitable container for one of Tiny’s size. “How do you take it?” Doc continued to rummage.

“Tiny takes milk. Tiny takes sugar.”

Doc returned with a sugar bowl and a jug of milk. He then went back to retrieve the receptacle and returned with a small handled pot. Inside was the equivalent of three cups of coffee. Tiny began shoveling sugar and pouring milk into it as if he were intent on creating papier-mache. By the tenth scoop Doc reported. “Boy, you and I have to talk.”

There was a rumbling mechanical sound growing like an approaching lawnmower. Doc meandered over to the kitchen window and lifted the edge of the rose print curtain to peer out.

“What is it, Doc?”

Tiny did not look up. “It’s Suds,” he answered, as he slurped his caffeinated, sugar water.

“Tiny’s right. Don’t tell me he drove Wally to get the Honey-wagon on the tractor?”

I almost laughed out loud. “You’re kidding me, right?” The thought of Wally hugging the little man as the two slowly trudged down the road was too much to bare. The noise grew and then ceased with a final crescendo, followed by the imminent cough, as the engine sputtered then quit.

“Where’s The Honey Wagon? Surely the tractor didn’t beat it back here?”

“You know Wally. He probably saw a restaurant and stopped to get something to eat. I’ll bet my wife, my life and a year’s wages on it. You know he’d be the first one off this planet if food was ever outlawed.”

The front door swung open and Suds scurried in with what seemed to be some urgency. There was an audible clomping in his run as if someone had mistaken him for a little horse and shoed him during the night. He galloped into the kitchen and stopped dead when he saw us congregated there. Woe fella. He had six inch wooden blocks tied to his shoes apparently so he could work the pedals as he drove.

“Good morning.” Doc spouted in a chipper fashion.

Suds looked alarmed. He did not return the greeting. “Something terrible has happened.” He said.

I stood up from the table so I could see him beyond Tiny’s frame. “What did Wally do now?”

“Nothing. He’s Ok. It’s the other two.”

“Skunk and Grub?”

“I guess that’s what they’re called. You’re friend knew them.”

“What happened Suds?”

“There’s been an accident.”

Friday, October 19, 2007

End of the week by the numbers

Top 10 topical Halloween costumes.

Innovative ways the next 6 Radiohead albums will be released.

The 20 best death scenes in cinematic history. Go on, you know you want to watch them.

50 idiotic thrill seeking deaths that actually happened.

5 Urban legends that happen to be true.

New release this week

This week: Heavy Petting Zoo by NOFX.

You know, it's times like this I wish I was a vegetarian.

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

Roll call

Time to view yet another act hoping for an opening slot at one of Sector's two upcoming performances.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Opening, a can of worms

With the New York Sector show only a few weeks away and the Toronto show Nov. 30th after that, the search for the perfect opening act continues. Sure Sector have designated good friends, Kong and Poker Face, to sandwich their return to the Big Smoke, but the need for a little something extra still remains.

That is why Private Sector are still considering adding another act to open.

Today's spotlight is on Deacon Dark.


Pros: 1) Everyone has at least seen one Love Boat episode.
2) Signature song "Smash it! Trash it! Hit it with a hammer and bash it!" is sure to be a crowd pleaser.
3) Kiss-type makeup hides the "Stach" quite nicely.

Cons: 1) Sonny Bono has been dead for a few years and U2's Bono will not agree to wear grease paint.
2) Sector would have to settle out standing Love Boat bar tab with Issac. With interest, now up to $8,472.50.
3) Pyrotechnics display would make "Stach" a fire hazard. Can you say "Great White"?

Saturday, October 13, 2007

HMH # 12

Chapter Twelve- Two Fingers and Screaming Eagle

It was too dark to make out facial expressions, or see our adversaries in anyway other way than the two shadowy figures now taking cover by the roadside. They clung to the protection of the extended doors of the pickup like it was a suit of armour. The rifles however, were very evident and there would be no attempt on our part to make a run for it.

“What’s going on here?!” The man on the driver’s side demanded.

Doc spoke. “You know, that’s a funny story . . . ” He started to stand up.

“Slowly! You too! The one in the yellow!” Both Doc and Wally complied by moving reluctantly to their feet. The same man spoke again. “Why don’t you start by telling us why you have a fire going in a restricted area?”

“And who are you, might I ask?” Boy, Doc had some balls on him tonight.

“We’re Park Rangers, and you are not in a position to be asking the questions. Now what’s going on?”

Great! Citations and fines are surly headed our way. That’s all we need. This weekend to hell just keeps getting better and better.

“What’s in the bag?”

“A chicken.” Doc replied. Wally kicked the bag. Baaauk “See.”

The one Ranger who had not spoken, said to the other, “Looks like we busted into the middle of a satanic ritual. Look at the fire. It’s inside a pentagram of some sort. They’re probably sacrificing chickens or worse.” He motioned toward me with his firearm as I stood in my underwear and my shit-covered shirt. “I’d say by the state of things, we're too late. We didn't get here before that one had sex with the chicken. Look it shit all over him.”

“Are you men into some sort of cult? Is that what’s going on here? Devil worship?”

“No it’s not what it seems I assure you,” I answered. I was more worried about the bestiality comment than being labeled, in league with Lucifer.

“You sure do smell Boy.” The other Ranger said.

“Oh yeah," Doc chuckled. "You see Sparky. . . ” and he began relating the story of our night. The forgotten map, the wrong turn, the old man and how we came in possession of the ancient poultry. It ended with our need to stay warm while we waited, and the outhouse debacle.

The Rangers started to ease up and the guns lowered. The spotlight was turned off and the two approached cautiously, joining us in the glow of the truck’s headlights. We could now see the facial features. Both were dressed in uniforms of forest green with yellow stripes down the pant legs and official looking patches on their shoulders. They had the burnt umber complexion of Native Americans. The one who had asked most of the questions had his hair braided into a long ponytail hanging down the center of his back.

“Let’s see some I.D.”

Doc and Wally fished out their wallets and I flung my grungy caked bill fold next to theirs. The Ranger with the ponytail studied the information with a flashlight. He poked mine open with the barrel of his gun like someone who won’t shake the hand of a homosexual for fear of catching gay. He let it lay on the ground as he tossed the remaining identification to the other Ranger, who quickly retreated to the truck to call it in. The one with the ponytail questioned us further with numerous queries before he finally said, “So let me get this straight. You were on your way to Faith Sound Studios and took a wrong turn? Is that your story?”

“Just pass the sign that said we were, Entering Ernie’s Bay. Yes.”

“There’s your mistake gentlemen. You should have continued past the sign to the next major intersection before turning. It’s the third dirt road on the left after that.”

“Je-sus! What did I say about you and your directions Sparky. You were wrong. Admit it.”

“I’m paying for it Doc. Just look at me . . . or smell me.”

“I’d rather not. Thank you very much.”

Actually I was somewhat relieved it was my fault. I was starting to buy into the conspiracy that Griffin Alexander and his henchman lawyer friend were behind this whole chain of events somehow.”

The other Ranger finished his inspection and returned from the truck. “Reginald Barlow?”

“Call me Doc.”

The Ranger handed his information back to him. “And Randy Wallace?”

Wally held out his palm for his belongings.

The Ranger peered down at my wallet still lying open on the ground. “And . . . ”

“John Malveen,” I said in my relief.

“Come get you wallet. You guys are lucky Old Man Thompson didn’t do something worse.”

“I’d hardly say we were lucky,” I said, still flicking more dried fecal matter from my shirt as I collected my billfold.

“He’s a cantankerous old coot. He doesn’t take kindly to people trespassing on his property. He’d just as soon shoot you, then ask questions.”

“Yes, we nearly found out.”

The two Rangers spoke briefly out of earshot before the one with the ponytail turned to us. “Under the circumstances, we’ll let you off with a warning for the fire,” he said. “You can get in the back of the truck and we’ll take you to your vehicle.”

Doc was overjoyed. “That would be excellent!”

Wally was less so. “No offense Sparky but I don’t want you riding in the cab smelling like that. I’ll never get it out and Mr. Gristle will kill me if I bring the Honey wagon back reeking of you. He’s very particular about his trucks. By rights, I shouldn’t have brought it this weekend.”

“Fuck Wally, it’s a sanitation truck for Christ’s sake. It smells like shit now. How could I possibly make it worse?”

“Can you take us to the Faith Sound instead?” Wally asked.

“If that’s where you want to go. Sure. It’s close enough and you can make arrangements to get your truck in the morning since you say it’s out of the way.”

“That would be great. We’re long overdue as it is.”

The other Ranger grabbed a bag of sand from the back of the truck and dumped it on the fire. He spread it out with a shovel and then sifted through the ashes until he was convinced the embers had been extinguished. We collected our chicken and gave it to the Rangers in a weak attempt to say thanks. The three of us jumped in the back of the truck, with Doc and Wally still keeping their distance. The Rangers u-turned and we rumbled off to the studio, finally.

It was ten minutes past twelve- nine hours of ordeal from a drive that should have taken two. The Rangers had been right. The road to Faith Sound had been close and we were turning onto it only ten minutes from where we had been extracted.

We passed through a metal gate of horizontal bars standing ajar. It was fastened to an inner wooden post by a clasp. Along the dirt road were wire fences slowly disintegrating into the ground, surrendering to choking ivy and purple violet, as we neared a sharp turn. My spirits were not lifted when the studio appeared over the next horizon as if it had sprung up suddenly from the ground. It was a chalet-like, two-story structure with a long, ranch-like wing and a separate semidetached, guest house. Several vehicles from different eras, condemned with age, winked with the moonlight out of the shadows. The expansive lawn stretched out in front of the studio like a massive putting green. It was littered with what appeared to be minuscule headstones. They were all lit up like Christmas in June. The second-story windows were alive with light dripping into a lower foyer by the entranceway. There appeared to be a carport that housed a tractor with a tail of tilling rotors. Another structure— a barn— rose up like a shadow and peered menacingly at us from the cavernous black of its dark, loft eye.

“Doesn’t exactly give you a warm feeling in your nut-sack does it?” Doc yelled. The wind whipped his curly locks across his face as he straddled the cab of the pickup like a conquering general returning from victorious battle.

The truck drew us closer and the headstones began to take shape. The configuration of various religious artifacts encased in rectangular receptacles of wood, iron and plexiglass, all lit from below, starred unblinking as we passed. There was The Virgin Mary, The baby Jesus and the big guy upstairs, God himself pointing down threateningly at the lawn. Perhaps the grass was infested with chinch bugs? There were the Three Wise Men frozen in their walk to the house’s beacon of light, passing three nativity scenes in their wake. This was followed by rows upon rows of religious garden gnomes and plastic figurines of the Apostles lined up alphabetically along the driveway. Each had its own personal flood lamp, from St. Andrew, St. Bartholomew, right on through to St. Thomas.

The Rangers halted the truck by the doorstep and we climbed out. In front of the door a determined Noah led a parade, extremely short of all species, to an Arc near a small garden of tomato plants and green beans. The entourage consisted of a couple of giraffes, pink hippopotami and some confused looking apes.

The Rangers ground the truck to a halt and we reluctantly climbed out of the back. “Here you go guys. Stay out of trouble.”

“Thanks once again for the ride.”

With a three-point turn they were thundering back down the driveway leaving us in their dust, next to a praying Jesus. He had a bed of flowers shooting up from his head through the ring of a thorny crown.

“What is that supposed to be? A Chia-pet Jesus?” I inquired, through chattering teeth.

Doc surveyed the little city of religious icons. “Will you look at all this. Welcome to bible camp. Does the frickin’ Pope record here?”

Wally danced anxiously about. “Can we get inside,” he moaned. “I still have to go number two.”

Doc teased. “We’re all grown men, Wally. You can say poo.”

“Hey maybe we should have made the Rangers stay until someone answered the door. What if there’s no one here?”

“The lights are on Wally.”

“A lot of good that did us last time.”

“Let’s find out.” I rang the doorbell. With my second ring a shadow grew on the other side of the stained-glass decorating the door in a cross configuration.

A concerned Doc mused. “I hope they’re not expecting us to play Christian Rock Fag music?”

The door swung open but no one was there. “Hello,” A voice said. We looked down. A smallish man— almost a dwarf in nature— stood looking up at us from the comfort of baggy track pants beneath a black and white checked shirt. He was in his socked feet and one of his big toes peeked out through a hole like a curious worm.

“Oh— sorry. Johnny Malveen, these are my companions, Randy Wallace and Reg Barlow. We’re with The Oral Blondes. We’re here to record.” I said.

“You boys are late. We were expecting you six hours ago.” The little man seemed somewhat perturbed.

“We were delayed. We’ll tell you about it in the morning. Right now, I think I speak for everyone. We just want to be somewhere warm for the rest of the night.”

Wally continued his Lord of the Dance. “Bathroom!”

“My friend needs your facilities.”

“Down the hall to the left.” The dwarf said. Wally raced past the little guy to complete his porcelain quest. The small man studied us closely with steely blue eyes. “Good Lord! Where are your pants and shoes?” He flared his nostrils. “And what is that smell?”

“Perhaps you could also direct me to the closest shower.” I said. The cold was starting to get to me bone deep and the shivering was rolling to the surface in convulsive waves. Soon I would be at the point where you just can’t stop shaking and feel the circulation will never return.

“Let me get you something to put on first. You can’t come in here like that.”

He turned and rushed off. The back of his head was feathered grey with specks of black and stood out from his head like he was facing gale-force winds. It looked very much like the plume of some fuzzy, molting bird.

After a hot shower I put on the robe I had been given. I joined Doc, Wally and the little man who had introduced him self as Suds Drayburn, for some makeshift sandwiches and hot coffee. I didn’t drink mine so much as worshiped it between my thawing hands. In our famished state it didn’t take long to decimate the food. As we did, Suds told us he engineered all the sessions here at Faith and lived on the premises. In fact, he was just about to turn in for the night when we rang the bell.

“So where is all your stuff?” He asked.

Doc handled the details. “It’s still in our vehicle about fifteen minutes down the road. Can you give Wally a lift in the morning?”

“Not a problem. I can take you there. — So, how’d you get here. Walk?”

“No. Two Rangers picked us up and gave us a lift.”

“That would be Johnny Two Fingers and Phil Screaming Eagle . . . nice guys. They work for Parks and Recreation but they also do time as guides in the summer and on the occasional weekend they work at the Casino on the reservation as security guards.”

“Johnny Two Fingers? Is that the guy with the ponytail?” I inquired.

“That’s Johnny.”

“It looked like he had all five fingers to me.”

“He does. He just thought it sounded cool. You know, for the tourists.”

“So what about you? You choose Suds because it sounded cool too?”

“Nope,” He said. “That’s my real name. My mother was a big baseball fan.”

I thought long and hard but couldn’t remember ever hearing of a major leaguer named Suds.

Suds continued. “Ernie’s Bay has an inter-county team called the Sudsers and she never missed a game. I was born during the seventh inning stretch during the pennant drive.”

“Quite a story that.”

“Yes it is. We came back and won that game in the bottom of the ninth.”

***

The room I was given was the master bedroom at the end of a long hallway. It was nestled in a womb behind a small office and en-suite giving me a feeling of safety and protection. The bed was warm and inviting. The pillows were soft and surrounded my head in a fortress of comfort. The ceiling was covered with glow-in-the-dark stars reaching out to me in the darkness from the extinguished light. After my initial chuckle, I felt as if I were back in a crib, ageless with the innocence of youth. My uneasiness had suddenly been stripped from me, extracted like a rotten tooth under heavy sedation. No cares, no worries, no distress.

That night I slept like a rock, from the fatigue of the day’s experience, both mental and physical. I’d say I deserved the rest. Perhaps more than I knew. Tomorrow, would be here soon enough, and bring with it a whole slew of new dead-ends and headaches. The roller coaster had reached the pinnacle and would soon be screaming in a rapid descent.

Friday, October 12, 2007

New release this week

This week I recommend: The World of Joseph Cooper.



I think this guy was a member of the Green Party who lost in his riding so buy his album.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

The Liberals are back in power but.....

You need to know what stupid tattoos of TV shows look like.

OK they're not all stupid.....



I take that comment back.

So what.... I'm a shameless self promoter



I guess those of you who live in Upstate New York are out of luck....but wait! You can go to the November 3rd show at Sparky's in Brewerton N.Y.

Go to the Sector myspace for detes and be a part of the Black Party.

Yet, another Summer blockbuster we didn't see

The Scarn Ultimatum

Monday, October 08, 2007

Sunday, October 07, 2007

Hockey, football, soccer? Time for a real sport.

Japanese tablecloth yanking baby. These are the true atheletes and the Japanese have way too much time on their hands.....Oh the suspense is killing me.

Saturday, October 06, 2007

HMH #11

Chapter Eleven- Johnny on the spot

Nothing teaches you better than the lessons you learn yourself through your own folly. Blake the snake Cole had said to us on that fateful night after the blown showcase. He’d never forgiven us for our unprofessional attitude at the recording studio all those years ago and took the opportunity to shove the knife in further with a twist. It seemed he was always catching us at our worst. I watched him walk away with a smirk as he disappeared into success. It was a growing fog and would elude our attempt to find our way to financial bliss in the coming years. Occasionally, he would taunt us from television interviews, magazine articles, or from the blazing marquees every time his band played the big venues. Like I’d said to Doc, we had no one to blame but ourselves for that night. Not Arsehole Party, not the desertion of Grub, not our crew, management, bar owner . . . nobody. The burden of blame was all on our shoulders.

I’d thought it was the worst day of my life, humiliating and maddening. Blowing a great chance in front of our family and friends. In front of Wally and Apples. In front of Wires and once again, in front of Blake Cole. The defining low point in my life...until this day. Yet I found myself in the same predicament, unable to do anything but lay the blame squarely on my own stupidity. I couldn’t very well accuse Wally for my quandary— the rotting wood, the imbecility of throwing caution to the wind— it was all my actions that had stranded me literally, in shit waist-deep.

I don’t know if you can empathize with the total helplessness I felt? The anxiety of the initial milliseconds as I fell, not knowing if these were my last thoughts on this earth. The shock of a plunge into darkness, or the God awful, foul reek and cold swishing wetness seeping into my shoes. It clung to me like some cathartic leech absorbing my life essence. Was I going to be totally enveloped, sucked into a vacuum of human waste? The quicksand of muck and maggoty infestation stopped pulling me in at the hips and I could still reach the opening. I just couldn’t pull myself up. My legs felt glued; restricted from movement in the mire of repugnant silt. I could feel it seeping into my pores like I was a sponge— cold, wet, sinewy with age. And the smell? I couldn't begin to describe that olfactory invasion. I tried to keep my mind calm and the guttural urgency of my voice to a dull roar. I could see the flashlight on the edge of where I’d fallen. It illuminated the broken floorboards and cast sinister, shadowy fingers upward.

Wally’s face appeared next to it. “Sparky, are you all right?”

“Wally, get me out of here!”

“You’re all right. Good. Uh— God, it stinks.”

“It’s an outhouse Wally. People don’t shit roses!”

He dropped to his belly and extended his arms in to grasp mine. “I thought I’d be immune to this by now? You never get used to it ya know.”

“I’m freaking out down here! It’s the worst. Get me out! You have no idea.”

“Actually I do. The woman with the turtle, the duck and all those cats I was telling you about before— ”

“— Get me out now! Please! Before I lose my fuckin’ mind!”

He tried with great effort, but couldn’t pull me up. “I have to get Doc. I can’t do this alone.” He grunted, his breathing labored.

“Wally, hand me the flashlight.”

“I won’t be able to find my way back. Besides do you really want to see what’s down there? Stay calm Sparky. I’ll be back soon. Mind over matter.”

“WALLY!”

He was gone. I heard the quickened thud of his footsteps and his fading gasps of air as he scampered away.

Within moments I could see the dancing beam of the flashlight again as the two ran to me. Soon Doc and Wally were both peering in at me from the opening. Wally tried desperately to catch his breath while Doc started to laugh. “Forgive me Sparky, but how the hell did you get down there? Ugh . . . God the smell!”

“Wally and I already established it stinks Doc! Are the broken boards any clue?”

He turned to Wally. “Forget what you’ve seen, this is not the way you use an outhouse.”

“Just get me the fuck out of here!”

“OK hang on there sweat pea. Whew! I thought Wally smelled bad?”

“Too bad we don’t have the Honey-wagon.” Wally wheezed. “I could just drop...the hose in and...suck all the crap out . . .”

“— and Sparky along with it.”

“GUYS!”

“— or I could...fill it up...for that matter.”

“The fuckin’ Honey-wagon is not an option. GET ME OUT!”

“Sparky, Wally has to consider all the possibilities first. After all, he is the professional shit guy here.”

Together they lowered their hands amid protests of the foul stench and the further yawning of stressed wood. Just fuckin’ marvy, we’re all going to end up down here. They managed to pull me upward. My feet made a horrible wet sucking sound as I was pulled free minus a shoe.

“Ugh . . . ugh!” Doc babbled as he tried to cover his nose with his arm. With one final tug and pull, I had my torso above the ground again. I used my remaining strength, mixed with unbridled panic, to yank my legs up and through the break. The guys backed away from me like I was pork at a Jewish wedding.

“Je-sus Sparky get the hell out of those pants. You smell of death!”

“Yeah, just leave them here.”

Now on safe solid ground, anger took hold of me. I raised my one shoed foot and side-kicked the offending structure. “Motherfucker!” The force, although not great, was enough to topple what still stood. It creaked and fell over with a crash in a jumble of rotted wood. Wally and Doc were besides themselves with laughter, rolling about on the ground. I then ran around trying to get out of my pants and socks like a man on fire, or someone doused in acid now eating through clothes to the skin. I only contributed to their mirth.

“Stop, drop, and roll! Stop, drop and roll!” I threw myself to the ground and flailed about like I’d gone insane. “Stop drop and roll!”

“Sparky, you’re not on fire. Je-sus!”

“I feel like I am!” I erupted. I struggled to get out of my pants. I jumped to my feet. The odor seemed to have life and was marching around my nostrils with vengeance. I wiped my hands on tree trunks and nearby leaves as I shook my legs free of the wet denim. I backed away from the jeans like I’d finally freed myself from the jaws of a Pit Bull.

Doc pleaded, tears running from his eyes. “Oh . . . oh! Sparky stop it.— Wally, make him stop! I’m going to pee myself.”

Wally was in even worse condition and held onto his stomach as he snorted uncontrollably. Later he would confide to me, he’d actually shat himself a little.

Once I had calmed down I followed the advice of my companions and returned to the campsite without my pants, following far behind like the final float in a parade. I walked gingerly in my bare feet and underwear. The spatter of my fecal prison was still on my shirt and hands in spotted atrophy. We returned to the fireside and I stood shivering from my ordeal more than the cold. I pulled close to the fire hoping it would comfort me for both. Doc and Wally were still in fits of giggles, plunking themselves on the ground up wind of my stench.

“Hopefully I’ll be able to look back at this one day and laugh?”

“I’m laughing now!”

“It’s not too late for me to come over and wipe my hands on that yellow shirt of yours.”

“Sorry, it’s just . . .You look so damn ridiculous.”

“Fortunately I don’t have a fashion show to go to.” I mumbled, then sat wallowing in my misery.

Doc perked up. “Is that a car I hear?”

The distant hum of an engine and the rumbling of tires crushing gravel could now be heard by all. It grew steadily in approach and our faces broke into pictures of joy.

Wally marveled. “We’re saved. Thank God!”

Ahead of me I could see a white apparition of a pickup truck emerging behind headlights. It had strips of what looked like green and yellow along the sides. The vehicle slowed as it neared and a third beam, more powerful, joined the first two. It was blinding and we shielded our eyes as it drew closer. There would be no need to flag the truck down. It stopped immediately in front of us. The pickup sat dormant for a few seconds and then the doors swung open like outstretched wings. Two men jumped from it both brandishing rifles. Firearms were once again pointed at our faces.

Voices commanded out of the darkness. “Nobody move! Stay right where you are!”

Our arms slowly found the air. Doc and Wally still from a seated position. We froze in our tracks. Oh no what the hell have we gotten ourselves into now?

Friday, October 05, 2007

New release this week

This week I recommend Jo Calypso- He He Nick...whatever the fuck that means? Say isn't that one of Britany's kids?

Thursday, October 04, 2007

The hockey season started last night, but....

You need to know, the Private Sector, Jackhammers gig has been cancelled. However, only after the bar and band management gave us clearance to open for prog-rockers Saga. Only after we e-mailed, phoned and sent out, "I'm the flyer", flyers to everyone in a 60 km radius. And only after we ordered a special "Saga, thank you" cake from the baker that when you scratched the surface revealed a tasty chocolate layer underneath the vanilla icing.

So what went wrong?

Were the has-beens scared to share the stage with the never-wases?

No. Apparently there's just not enough stage for both bands, or so we're hearing from the sound company who are supplying the club.

Not enough stage! R U kidding me? The biggest bar in Brantford doesn't have enough stage room?

If you wanted to wind me up, mission accomplished.

Private Sector have opened for bands where we were given so little room we were standing shoulder to shoulder, for Christ's sake!

At the Elmocambo we opened for National Velvet with 2 other bands on a stage the length of 3 small men. I had a cymbal stand in my ass the entire set.

Once opening for Goddo I had to sing on a small platform away from the band, there was that little room. People kept putting $5's in my socks thinking I was an exotic dancer.

At U.S.A. Sams in Syracuse opening for Benny Moredonuts, We had to serve tables while I performed because there was no room on the stage at all.

So don't tell me there's not enough room buddy.

With today's technological advancements, I'll sing via satellite from a car in the Jackhammer's parking lot for you to watch on your iphone.

Wednesday, October 03, 2007

It's all in the numbers

Like this number....ok it's not really a number, it's a chart, but the "numbers" message is clear. I only get the lofty hits when it's Pottahawk time.



Why can't Pottahawk happen every month?

But I digress....here are some equally important numbers for your enjoyment.

The 10 greatest moments in female farting.

10 strange Japanese chewing gums.

10 great Family Guy musical numbers.

And.....10 hand gestures you better get right.

Tuesday, October 02, 2007

Monday, October 01, 2007