Happy Birthday GIGC

Just kidding....bitch.

Amazing yardsale finds 2010 #2

Hairy Baby Doll

Cost: $2.50

Friends of ours just had a baby. Not knowing if it was going to be a boy or a girl, I figured I'd be safe with this purchase. Am I the best, or what!





WTF Goalie Mask Scary Ass Oxygenator Thing

Cost: Take it please!

If it doesn't work then perhaps it would make a good Halloween costume?





Toilet Putting Green

Cost: $6.50

Hey as long as I can get a hole in one, I won't be so worried about missing the bowl.

Amazing yard sale finds 2010

The unofficial yard sale season began in earnest last weekend and as an early bird/worm guy I was able to find some excellent deals. Just check these babies out.

Dog Fence Bubble: Allows your dog to see what's going on beyond your yard.

Cost: $4:25

Doesn't matter to me that; 1) I don't have a dog and 2) I need a new fence before I can install it.
I just thought it was cool, so I bought it.



Titanium Skip-Jumpers: Allows you to run faster, leap higher, or in other words become a Super Hero.

Cost: $27.00

Normally these babies go for $200.00 and up, but one of the jump sticks was missing so I got a sweet deal. I can't wait to try these things out and break my face.



Mobile Sleeping Bag: Now, never leave the comfort of your sleeping bag when you're camping.

Cost: $7.00 virtually brand-spanking new.

This was an impulse buy only because I had already purchased the Skip Jumpers and I had visions of using the two together.

It's just another day

But maybe I should start acting my age?



Naw!!!

The first draft

So there you have it, the first draft of Hijacking Heaven. I realize I'm about 15,000words short of a, as of yet, workable novel, but it is, after all, a first draft.

I'll have plenty of time to pad it out, fix punctuation and be more vigilant on the spell check, in the coming months.

Yet, writing it was a different experience for me; a challenge, if-you-will. My first three books were all dealing with subjects I had a great deal of knowledge on, some based on personal experience and written in first person. Where as, Hijacking Heaven was a fly-by-my pants ride using third person and required a fair amount of research.

As far as endings go, this book was always meant to be the first part of two, or three books, depending on my ambition and I have already started work on bringing Graham Sheppard out of retirement for The Gryphon Virus.

However, before doing so, I'll probably return to lighter hearted fare. Finish off Johnny Trigger, or get rolling on the Thatch Memoirs.

Either way, for those who have shown the support in achieving my goal as a developing writer, I thank you.

I almost forgot

A few weeks ago a milestone passed without much fanefare....hell, I even forgot about it. But I started my fifth year of blogging here at Strangedaze on January 2nd.

Wow! Five years! The things I could have done with that time instead of posting inane links and mumbo-jumbo.

I could have gotten a tattoo, spent some time in prison, experienced my first anal, gang-rape in the shower, killed a small animal with a stick, spent thousands on higher education that would find me working at the LCBO.

I could have set up a world record domino display, made peace with my inner demons, your inner demons, you friends and families inner demons.

I could have had my blood flushed out in Switzerland, attempted to climb Everest before I died halfway up due to my idiodic sherpa..... I could have gone to Mexico for a vacation.....actually scratch that....I'm going next month.

I could have watched more porn and beat my dick like it owed me money.

Man I sure gave up a lot.

But I'm the type of guy who waits for full sunlight to see the one-legged hooker before deciding to bite my arm off.

Not sure I really know what that means, but it sounds cool.

Happy blog birthday to me....

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.

Self indulgent Saturday/Sunday

For the past 30 odd weeks I have been posting sequential chapters of my novel, "The Limits of Respectability". Today I intended to start posting the sequel, "Handmade Heart". However, since I was going to be away this weekend at the annual Sarnia Bayfest with GIGC- I know, I know...I really know how to live it up- I uploaded drafts for posting before departure.

Yet today I go to post the first chapter of HMH and find nothing but the blank page- which I guess is something if you want to get technical about it- So those of you who have faithfully followed the faux pas of Doc, Sparky, Wally and Wires will have to wait another week to see how these middle-aged men cope with another swing at the music industry.....hmmm....sounds familiar in an Entourage sort-of-way......or you can just go to the myspace page and get an idea how it turns out.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go download the new "Dirt Pipe Milkshakes". I'm pretty sure I used to date one of those girls.

Trigger (un)happy

Ok, now I’m pissed off!

As some of you may be aware, I write a little on the side. Every now and then, I’ll slip in a link to one of my completed novels. Link to one of my completed novels.

My newest, is a work in progress that has held my attention, on and off, for the past four years. But now, as I gather a little steam and begin to roll the bolder ever upward toward the precipice, I find others also lay claim to it.

After Googling my proposed title, "Johnny Trigger", I found he is the name of a central character in a movie slated for release in 2007 called Wages of Sin. A movie where everyone kicks ass "Jet Lee" style. Apparently, he’s also a software game and an actor from the late sixties too. So what am I to do?

After scrapping all my previous titles "Johnny on the spot", "Johnny cum lately", "Here’s Johnny not so much", "Johnny Johnny where’s my Johnny", I finally settled on "Johnny Trigger" and I'm totally spent on ideas. You can see why I'm upset.

This also happened after the completion of my first novel, "Centre of the Universe", when a TV show pilot of the same name was introduced. But because it starred John Goodman I was never worried.

I can only hope they cast John Goodman as Johnny Trigger.
However, I don't feel I'll be as fortunate this time.

It's not like I expected that Geller Prize thingy for writting but since my literary hopes have been ground into a fine pulp for the moment, you can leave an appropriate alternate title in the comment section if you wish. Perhaps lay claim to a book that will probably never be published anyway. After all, the last time I looked, I wasn’t Dan Brown, or Stephen King, or Stephen Brown for that matter. So long Johnny.

That's breakfast

Lyrics: Barlow/Malveen
Music: The Oral Blondes

That's Breakfast

Fried eggs in the morning sun
Bacon sizzles til it’s damn near done
Toast poppin' on the window sill
Greasy home fries on electric grill

That’s breakfast, Yeah!
That’s breakfast

Coffee brewing in the grease-stained pot
I burn my fingers cause it’s frickin hot
A slab of ham will make me happy too
Good thing I’m a Gentile and I’m not a Jew

That’s breakfast, Woah!
That’s breakfast
Good God that's breakfast
Yup! That's breakfast

Don’t need no quiche, with leafy salad sides
No whole grain cereals that are fortified
Don’t need no green slaw that’s Kentucky Fried.
I ate it once and then I damn near died.

Oh yeah, I need breakfast

I’m salivating when the morning’s near
I’ll Replace my OJ with a pint of beer
Butter melting right before my eyes
Just like cock sausage into a Hooker’s thighs

That's breakfast, yeah
That's breakfast
Somebody stop me
That's breakfast, Good God
That's breakfast

For more on The Oral Blondes go here.

Swimming with sharks and loving it

I’ve been writing novels for 4 ½ years and shopping for a deal for 3. Although there have been several small victories in this process, the response has always been a resounding, "No". Until now.

Let me explain.

Recently I sent a query to...oh let’s call them Agent X. Agent X was quick to respond and ask for the entire manuscript, a request I found a tad odd. Since I send out numerous queries of my work, I had to call up their website again to find out who I was dealing with.

Much to my chagrin, I found I didn’t send them my usual query, I filled out Agent X's on-line form giving them minimal information on my manuscript. With further research I uncovered, I had erroneously sent them my info in the first place, as they are listed on numerous sites as, "Book Surgeons," with strong recommendations to steer clear of their scams. In fact some of the comments I read about Agent X were so vile, I won't display them here.

So what did I do?

I emailed them my manuscript as they requested and told my girl D they would offer me representation.

Her eyes nearly popped out of her head when a mere 10 days later, they did indeed offer me representation and seemed to be in a hell of a hurry to send the contracts. They also wanted me to, "polish," my, "impressive," work with an, "independent editor".

When I was done laughing, I sent them a reply indicating I already had an editor working on my novel but if they still felt it needed further review I was open to suggestions. After all, I’m itchy to get a book deal. I also asked for a list of their recent sales in my genre. I wonder how they'll deal with that?

I have to admit, it is nice being on this side of the fence for a change, knowing I’m going to blow them off. I just wonder how long I can string them along and make them salivate for the cash before I tell them they're not the agent for me?

Hey, If I wanted to through money away, I'd use a self publishing site.

Another gem from the Oral Blondes

Seven Days Since She Left Me

(chorus)
Seven days since she left me and it already feels like a week
Seven days since she left me and it hurts when I take a leak
I’m laying on my back with tears in my ears crying over you
You left me for a lesbian and now I’m feelin’ blue

Oh Jesus won’t you help me and tell me what to do
I got blisters on my fingers from playin’ with you know who
I don’t know which way to turn and my mind just seems to race
I can’t believe, my oral skills have come in second place.

Don’t know what I said or did to push you to their team
You were my all my everything the coffee for my cream
If you’d just return to me I’d try to make you laugh
I’d even have a labia attached to my ass

(chorus)
Seven days since she left me and it already feels like a week
Seven days since she left me and it hurts when I take a leak
I’m laying on my back with tears in my ears crying over you
You left me for a lesbian and now I’m feelin’ blue

(solo)

My tube steak is now getting raw my berries have turned blue
What do you expect, I'm not perfect and they over flow with goo
Oh please would you just come back so I can get some sleep
And stop those dreadful nightmares where I'm bum-blasting sheep

(chorus)
Seven days since she’s been back and it don’t feel like a week
Seven days since she’s been back and turned the other cheek
I’m lying on my back with joy in my boys the way I like it best
now that she’s bi sexual I've got a smorgasbord of breasts

(lyrics & music: Barlow/Wallace/Malveen)


for more on the Oral Blondes go here, or here.

and the Lord said, let there be shameless self-promotion.

This year I finished my third book....you didn’t think I was going to do this review without discussing my shameless self promotion did ya?....

Over the past year I have posted many excerpts not only from my new manuscript, Handmade Heart, but past novels, The Limits of Respectability, and Center of the Universe, as well.

I have always tried to treat this blog with the same tongue-in-ass approach as I do when I write. All this means is, you’ll either be disgusted by my work, or laugh while you're being disgusted by my work. It's that simple.

Love me Tuesday, or put out the cat

Lyrics/Music - Barlow/Malveen

(from the Oral Blonde album "Hamburger with cheese")

If I slit my wrists and bled on your carpet would you clean it
Or would you leave it to remember me by
I caught my fingers in the door when I was waving goodbye- Ho-ha
And my nails came off just like Jeff Goldblum's in "The Fly"
-----
Lo-de-doh-ha-ha
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Lo-de-doh
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
-----
If I scalded my hands in boiling hot water would you put out my eyes
Or leave me to die with a subscription to "Better Homes and Bludgeons"
I cut off my nose shaving and you didn't bring me roses
Instead you noticed that I no longer smell
-----
Lo-de-doh-ha-ha
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Lo-de-doh
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Oh wolf nipple chip sugar talkin' momma
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat
Lo-de-doh
Love me Tuesday or put out the cat, put out the cat, put out the cat....
the cat is dead.

For more on the Oral Blondes go here.

Thanks

Ok, my little three week self indulgence is at an end. I hope those of you who took the time to read the posts, enjoyed it. For those interested, further information and news on my progress can be found at the Handmade Heart web page

Now it's time to get back to the meat and potatoes of Blogging and focus on the stupid, inane, banter of everyday life that confuses and sometimes astounds us. I look forward to reading your comments on future posts.
Thank you for your patronage.

Cheers

The deflated dreams of Wanda

Synopsis: They’re older and wiser but it won’t make any difference....you see...it’s not easy being an Oral Blonde.

A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes a past friendship will somehow yield a future together.

I puffed and wheezed as we raced with vigor to the dressing room to find our elusive percussionist. We charged in to see his legs sticking out of a closet in the far corner of the room. He was naked except for his boots and was holding on to a prop from the fifth song of the night, a blow up doll we called Wanda. She always coaxed a huge response from our audiences and now she had somehow coaxed Alistair Pare' into the dressing room closet. She was in his arms in post coital acquiescence. Alistair’s spectacles sat askew on his nose and his porkpie hat looked more like a yarmulke crushed like a pillow between his head and the wall.

"Forget the kiss. I think murder is more appropriate Sparky."

"I think I’m gonna be sick."

Alistair looked up at us and giggled. It was a hideous chortle that had a gurgling sound to it, and the smell of cheap liquor and sweaty plastic was an unmistakable musk.

"Je-sus Alistair! We’re on stage in fifteen minutes man!"

There was a knock on the door. It was Chas. His voice drifted through the door with calm authority, "Twelve minutes guys."

"Je-sus! Twelve minutes. Fuck me!"

I sniffled through my cold, "I wouldn’t say tha in frun of our presen combany, Doc."

Alistair’s laugh suddenly changed to blubbering and his head sagged.

"Alistair we go on in twelve minutes you have to get it together man."

"Don’t tell my wife mate." he sobbed, "You know . . . about the tart." He nodded toward Wanda.

I looked at Wanda and her expressionless open armed invitation and gapping mouth. "Alistair you’re nod married."

He wouldn’t hear of it and continued to blubber. "Crikey, if she finds out I’ve been unfaithful, I’ll never be able to sit about the house with my balls hanging out."

Doc shot his hands up in frustration, "Well there’s always the closet in the dressing room here."

"It’s all righd Alistair." I tossed Wanda across the room where she landed next to a coat rack by the door. "Look the other woban’s gone. Doc helb me get him ub . . . Doc? Come on! Now!"

Doc had rolled up the sleaves on his long white stage jacket and was wrapping a couple of Rooster’s extra stage towels around his hands. "I’m not touching his sweaty bulbous body. Who knows what kind of cooties he has?"

"Hurry ub. I need your helb. He’s a heaby bugger."

Alistair’s head sagged forward. "Crickey mate. My tally-whacker’s out saluting the Queen."

"Unfordunadely we already nodissed thad."

Doc and I struggled to get him out of the closet and on a nearby chair. Alistair slumped in the chair and began to swing his hips from side to side. "Tic-toc. Tic-toc. Look at me mate, I’m a human clock."

"Doc ged his panzs."

"What I want to know, is how did he get out of them and still have his boots on?"

"Just ged his panzs! Alistair you’ll have to gib me your leg."

Doc held up the pants. "Hello boys. I see they’re tear-a-ways." He crumpled them into a ball and tossed them to me. I unrolled them, snapped together a few clasps, and held out an open pant leg for our drummer.

"Alistair, gib me your leg."

"Tic-toc. Tic-toc . . . "

"Alistair! For Christ sake! Your leg. Now!"

He brought his leg up and it thumped to the floor missing the pant leg altogether. There was another knock at the door and Chas’ voice floated through in a muffle. "Ten minutes guys."

"Ok! Ok! We’ll be there!"

"Oh, and Blake Cole just walked in."

"Fantasdic." I mumbled. "Just in tibe to see us in disarray with our drunk drubber."

"What’s a drunk drubber?" Alistair inquired.

The door opened.

"Chas I told you we’ll be there!"

But it was the Mayor. "I brought you some ice cream for your throat."

Doc protested. "You can’t give him that. Sparky you can’t eat that with a cold. Dairy products will cause more phlegm. He can’t eat that take it back."

"I can’t take it back Doc. Are you mad?"

"Doc by throad feels like fordy feed of grabel ass. I hab to do somethink."

"Well not that Sparky. Get another lozenge."

"Fine! I’ll eat it myself," the Mayor admonished. Feeling unappreciated, he sat down with a thump.

Alistair raised his leg slightly but it again fell with a thud. He began to snivel again. "I’m dying mate. I know it."

"You’re juzz drunk. You’re nod dying!"

"Then why is the doctor here?"

"Thad’s Doc Barlow you fool. He’s dressed for stage."

Alistair thought for a second. "Doc Balow? I just can’t handle that guy." He put his hand to the side of his face and whispered, "But don’t tell him that mate."

"Doc hold his leg."

"I’ll hold his fat fuckin’ neck if he doesn’t shut his yap." Doc tightened his towels and then struggled to lift the tree-like appendage.

Arsehole Party was giggling again, "That tickles mate."

"Let me hit him Sparky. Just once."

I started to shove a rolled up pant leg over his boot and up his leg. "Good Alistair now the udder one." Repeatedly he raised his foot and missed the mark clomping his boot down.

"What a sad spectacle." The Mayor said, as he poked Wanda between mouthfuls of ice cream. "Wanda looks a little saggy. She’s probably sprung a leak with lard ass all over her. Looks like he finally found a woman who didn’t turn him down huh?"

Alistair looked at the Mayor with envious eyes as he plowed his wooden spoon into the ice cream. Licking his lips he said, "Hey mate, if I got a spoon could I have a taste of that?"

"No!" The Mayor said. He seemed disgusted by our drummer's request and cradled his small dish of ice cream to the side and out of sight.

"Mayor, go down stairs and try to ged em to delay the show. Send Skids ub here."
The Mayor, still protecting his dessert, snapped to his feet and abruptly left. Doc and I continued to struggle with our uncooperative band member and his other pant leg. "Fug dis cold!" I grunted.

Wanda’s battle scars had deflated her further. Her head, with gapping mouth, now
drooped to her perky plastic breasts like a distressing yoga position. She began to sag under the chair that had propped her up to witness our meager attempts to dress our drummer. "There’s no way we can use Wanda on stage tonight Sparky. The Mayor’s right she sprung a leak. She’s been through a traumatic enough experience anyway with Mr. Porkpie hat here."

Skids pushed his way into the room. "The Mayor said you . . . " He started to laugh. "This is sweet."

"It’s not funny Skids I need you to helb Doc get him downstairs. I have to get somethink for by throat." I began to clear my voice again with distressing regularity that disintegrated quickly into a coughing fit.

"You can’t leave me here alone, Sparky. I’m not putting pants on him. You ever change a babies diaper? They always piss all over you right before you get it on them. I’m not taking the chance."

"Skids is here to helb Doc."

"What? I’m not touching him."

"Skids, stop laughing. We need your helb."

"You and I couldn’t get his pants on, Sparky. What makes you think Skids and I are going to have anymore success?"

"Well what do you suggest Doc? He can’t go on stage in nothink but his boods." I wheezed. "And take off those damn towels, no wonder you can’t get his pants on." I ground my throat harder. It sounded like I was dragging a steel shovel across cement.

Skids continued to laugh, he was becoming hysterical and had to push his trade mark swoop of hair out of his face. "What happened to Wanda?"

"Nod now."

Doc pointed to Alistair as he continued, "How do we know he can even play in this condition?"

"Because he’s been shid-faced at mozed of our rehearsals, thaz why."

"Just don’t tell my wife mate. I’ll be in the dog-box for a month."

"She’s going to smell the plastic on you," Doc teased as he tossed Rooster’s towels by the door.
Alistair got teary eyed.

"You mean to tell me Wanda and Alistair . . .? " Skids began to howl again.

"Skids we hab to sobber his ass ub. Think of somethink."

"I wonder what the kids will look like?"

"Skids! Please."

Skids reached into his pocket and retracted some change. He fished through the coins and plucked out a penny. He approached Alistair and began to force the coin into his drooling mouth.

"For God sake man, whaddar you drying to do? He’ll choke."

"Relax, I saw this in a medical magazine. The copper will help him sobber up. It acts as an inhibitor. Come on, Alistair. Open up. Here comes the airplane into the hanger."

"This is ludicrous." I growled.

"Sparky’s right you fool it’s supposed to be a quarter." Doc began to search his pockets.
Our drummer began to gag as the penny found its mark imbedded somewhere between is cheek and teeth. He began to make sounds like a cat coughing up a hairball. "CAUGHHHK!"

Skids tried to force another penny between his lips. "It’s for your own good old boy."

"Skids you idiot let me in there," Doc spouted with his quarter raised. He looked like someone anxious to make his three song selections on the jukebox.

"Stob it! Both of you. This is stoobid."

They stopped and turned to me in mid insert. Alistair gaged again, "CAUGHHHK!"

"You both hab no idea whad you’re docking aboud. We hab to get him dressed. That’s the prioridy here. Nod, can we fit change for a fifdy in his fuggin’ mouth." There was another knock at the door. "Grand Cendral Station! Whad is the world insane? JEBUS H. CHRIST! WHAD IS ID?" The words ripped from my vocal cords like rusty razors.

Rooster entered. "Guys, I’ve been waiting for you down stairs. We’re on in . . . " He spied
Alistair, slumped and sobbing in his boots with one pant leg trailing from the knee like a rampart flag in need of wind. "— Mother fucker!" Rooster charged forward and threw a punch at Alistair hitting him in the head and knocking him off the chair to the floor. He landed with a thump. The pant-flag raised. "CAUGHHHK!" There was a faint plink of a coin hitting the floor and rolling away into one of the corners where it wobbled until Lincoln gazed upward, motionless, unblinking.

Doc and I grabbed our guitarist. "Now is not the tibe." I hissed. "We hab to ged him ready to go on."

"He can’t play like that!"

"Yes he can. Rooster! Lizzen to me while I still hab a voice, God dab it! We hab no choice. We canned cancel now. We’ve waded a year to do this. We doan go on, it’s all ober."

"Sparky’s right . . . I think . . . the show must go on."

In a delayed reaction, the punch finally registered and Alistair let out a weak, "Ow." He was still laying prone on the floor like a cow that had just been tipped. "Was that my wife mate?"

Rage seized Rooster again and he tried to kick our drummer from his restrained position.
"Rooster! Stob id man! Dis is nod helbing madders." My voice was like verbal gravel. How was I going to sing? "Doc please think of somethink."

Again Alistair’s slurred voice ascended from the floor boards. "I think I’m bleeding. I can taste copper."

The intro music began to play from beneath our feet.

Doc sounded alarmed, "Holy Louie Be-je-sus! What the hell?"

"Fug, the intro tabe we’re subbose to go on. Skids helb doc with dis ass. We’ll see you down der. Cub on Rooster." I pulled on his arm. "Deal with him laider. We hab to ged on stage." My lungs cried out for oxygen as my vocal engine sputtered and coughed and my nostrils inadvertently began to close again, constricting any passage of air.

"Go!" Doc demanded, regaining his composure. "Get down there! We’ll think of something . . . Skids, where’s the penny?"

For further information on this manuscript and other works, please visit the Handmade Heart web page.

Slow subs and chicken nuts

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 that was the 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. 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 that he be perceived as such.

We were in the midst of performing a six in seven night swing that led us over the border and upon our return we were greeted by the usual questions. "Where you coming from? How long were you away? Anything to declare."

Doc had already pushed the wrong buttons by responding that he’d declare he had a good time. Everything was going as usual until the border guard asked us our occupation. Like dominoes in motion we rhymed off one after another, "Musician," until 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 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, do us a favor Skids, for God's sake, 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, on a park-like bench of uncomfortable wood, with handcuffs dangling off the armrest. Contracts were examined, personal effects were perused, documentation was run through Interpol, all under the watchful eyes of glaring scrutiny.

Rooster complained as he plunked himself down next to us and Chas was led away for his
turn at twenty questions, "They made me strip down to my undies and squeezed out my toothpaste. I was expecting Dr. Jelly-finger to walk in at any moment."

Bug moaned, "I don’t stand a chance in prison. I’m too small."

"Bug, we’ve done nothing wrong."

"But they always make you feel like you’re hiding something, Sparky."

Doc 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. These guys will probably go in after you and retrieve the urinal puck for analysis. Then we’ll be here another twelve hours."

One of the border patrol who’d been searching through our vehicle approached. He was a burly brute with a handlebar mustache. He walked with his thumbs tucked tight into his belt which only brought further attention to his bulging gut, bordered 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.

"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."

We were now joined by the Duty Sargent who also had a mustache except his was more of the push-broom type. Lip dressing must be standard issue. "I’ve looked over your contracts and I’m afraid I will need verification that they are 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? Yes, I need to speak with her."

Reluctantly I called Alice and informed 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 and we were the enthusiastic trick-or-treaters. "Next time have the proper paperwork with you, H-2's, the work visas, whatever, so I don’t have to do this again every time you play outside the country."

"Sorry, thanks for coming on such short notice. Hope we didn’t inconvenience you too much?"

Skids danced around until he got his ID back then raced off to the restroom before he’d be known as Stains.

Alice continued, "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. Brown cords."

"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 pedofile?"

"I don’t know. I won’t be seeing him again to find out. Come on, 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."

Tomorrow excerpt from: The deflated dreams of Wanda

The wedding of Blood Monkey

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 that Doc just started calling him that one day, and it seemed to coincide with Bug’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, Bug, 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, flowers, balloons, gifts of all shapes and sizes and that 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 that should have ended a week or two in. However, she had been in a debilitating car crash the second week and I couldn’t bring myself to be the asshole who broke up with her while she lay in a hospital bed or the ensuing recovering months on crutches. So here we were, still together a good nine months after it should have ended. She was a bad drunk and the open bar wasn’t going to help our evening any.

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 band 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."

"Well 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 bird?"

"Yeah, 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?"

"Ah 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. 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 pumps with spike heels 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."

"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! 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 band. Now if her sister was here that would be different."

"Don’t they all look the same? Aren’t they 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."

"I am not!" she stated, as she 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 that would be the smart thing to do with her 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?!" Her eyes started to well up as I continued, "I can’t be around you right now. You disgust me."

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

"Lara, I was sorry a long time ago." 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 that led from the ballroom just as 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 that 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 wits and was tired of it all. Tired of Lara and her attitude. Tired of her mental blowups that 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 ubiquitous wolf prints on everything from coasters to dishrags to designs etched in glass 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 jungle. 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 in and see if she’s still
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 and 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 toilet with her dress hiked up to the hips and her bare ass smiling at me sideways. Her dress hung in folds on either side of her legs like curtains off the stage of some adult puppet show. Her knees seemed tied by her black lace panties as if they were being held hostage.

Bug 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 from the bowl. "Why did you stop?! Don’t stop . . . waugh!"

"Someone’s here," Bug uttered.

Lara again from the bowl, "I don’t care, fuck me . . . waugh!"

Bug pushed by me 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?"

The toilet belched, "Waugh!"

"I was just trying to help her throw up."

"I see. By pushing her repeatedly into the can with your penis? I’ll have to try that 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?"

"It just happened."

"Waugh!"

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

"Waugh!"

Boy I wish I had to take a piss right now. I raised my voice so that it roared off the tiles, "I see you decided to do the smart thing Lara. Have a nice life."

I turned away, trying to conceal my smile, 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 that long car ride as you stood in front of the urinal squeezing the hell out of your bladder with you stomach muscles until you achieved that 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 Bug, not the other way around.

Tomorrow excerpt from: Slow subs and chicken nuts

The cha-cha never stops

Synopsis: They’re older and wiser but it won’t make any difference....you see...it’s not easy being an Oral Blonde.

A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.
It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes a past friendship will somehow yield a future together.

We were preparing for our first foray into the recording studio. It was a high and exciting time in The Oral Blondes budding career, we had a new drummer, we had a slew of what we felt were great songs and most importantly, we had the fresh breath of new management. At the time Blake Cole was a manager just starting out in the music business but had already made inroads with some of the major record companies. He arranged a sweet deal with one of the biggest studios in the city. His primary band was there recording their second effort for RCA and we could go in at night to use the downtime after they left.

The studio was state of the art and the best money could buy. We could not contain our mirth and felt that we should repay the faithful who had stood by us as we forged ahead. So we invited friends, and family, and girlfriends, oh . . . and chubs, . . . and hangers-on. We might have well put up flyers. The turnout was larger than most gigs we’d played. Even Wires had showed up to witness the blessed event.

It was bedlam from the get-go like kindergarten at recess. Video machines were assaulted,
fridges were raided, platinum records were removed from walls and used as frisbees and people were strewn about the place like corpses on a battle field, mostly drunk in puddles of their own vomit.

In the control room the plush couches supported the bodies, in places two deep, and the mindless chatter that the onset of an alcoholic daze will induce. Someone even brought a monkey. Several times the sound engineer had to turn around and tell people to shut up between takes. The air was blue with the thunder clouds of a smokey haze and the sound console was a virtual bar of mixtures, rye, rum, gin, and vodka. I was busy mixing myself a new drink when the door edged open and Wires’ head slowly made an entrance. I was ecstatic and ran to welcome him. I put my hand on his shoulder and coaxed him in.

"Wires! You came. It’s great to see you man."

"Wouldn’t have missed it Sparky."

"What you been up to? Still with the old band?"

"Nah. It finally died its death. I’m in charge of the house-sound for the Golden Horseshoe now."

"That’s cool. What about the drawings?" I gulped a mouthful of my drink. Some spilled on the carpet and I used my foot to blend it in, "Still as creative as ever?"

"I make time to do them. In fact, the local paper in Beaton want to run my comics in the Saturday issue."

"The Beaton Path? Wow. That’s great! You should talk to the Mayor he works for a newspaper. Maybe he can get you an in with them as well. He’s a fair-haired guy, vegetarian. You must have passed him on the way in."

"I passed a lot of people on the way in, Sparky. What exactly is a vegetarian supposed to look like? There was a guy almost comatose on the couch. Is that him?"

"No. That’s probably Chas."

"Well, I think Chas fell asleep on the remote. The TV was flipping channels and no one was watching. There was another guy in a room with some half-naked girl."

"Now that sounds like the Mayor."

"He was eating something but I don’t think it was vegetarian. Oh and I think there’s some record executives here. I heard them discussin’ you guys out in the lobby before I entered."

"Record guys? Shit!" I looked at Doc who had been pushing buttons and yelling, 'bulk erase!' My eyes darted to the madhouse around us. "Everybody Hide! Quick!"

There was a terrible commotion as bodies got up and banged into one another in an effort to find concealed spaces in a room barely big enough to contain those within it. I felt as if our parents had just come home unannounced in the middle of the party they told us not to have.

Wires moved to the side and reached for a cigarette, as a girl I did not know crawled under the sound console between the legs of the stunned engineer. Four others ran into the sound booth and put on head phones as they crouched down in a corner behind a bass amp. The rest elected couch cushions for their cloak of invisibility, thrusting their heads under, and remaining partially hidden like ostriches. Rooster slept through it all. He was still slumped against the track machines in the far corner where he’d been for the last two hours after he’d finished his guitar pass. There was an empty bottle of Jack jutting out from between his legs like an erect penis.

Wires struck a match with his thumb nail as he leaned against the wall. He still preferred to use the old wooden ones. He lit the end of the cigarette as the door to the control room opened. It was our new manager Blake Cole. He looked around, shook his head, and silently motioned for Doc and I to join him in the hall. Despite the clamor and clatter of everything falling apart around us, Bug walked calmly by, toward the studio, with a cup of tea in his hand. Blake waited for him to pass, "What’s going on here guys?"

"Uh . . . We were excited to be here and decided to have a few friends in to share the moment . . that’s all."

"A few friends is one thing but legions of inconsiderate malcontents is another."

"Things may be getting a little out of control I’ll admit but . . . "

"...A little out of control? A LITTLE OUT OF CONTROL! Have you seen the lounge? It’s a mess! There’s a gold record being used to serve cheese and crackers! Someone threw shit against the wall, as in human waste, and there’s a monkey with the TV remote changing channels and jumping up and down on a guy who’s passed out on the couch."

Doc spoke, "It’s a gibbon."

"A wha?"

"The monkey, it’s a gibbon. Probably responsible for the shit on the wall too. Don’t know about the cheese and cracker tray, they are mostly herbivores, but definitely the shit on the wall."

Blake glared at him.

"Ok . . . I think I’ll just shut my trap . . . " Doc trailed off.

Blake thundered, "Just because you pay for the time doesn’t mean you can do whatever you please with it, gentlemen! I have one of the A&R people from RCA out in the car. I was bringing him in to hear you guys. That’s right! But this unprofessional behavior." He shook his head. "I can’t take a chance like that. This already makes me look bad and you worse."

"Blake I don’t know what to say?"

Blake held up his hand to silence me, "Let me finish. You have a golden opportunity to step ahead of others. It’s in front of your face and you’re blowing it. I think you’re going to look back on this one day and regret that you missed this window. In this business you don’t get too many second chances. You have to capitalize on them when you do. It’s there for those who really want it but if you’re just using it to play rock star then I have no sympathy for you. Go get a day job. Now! I suggest you get busy putting this place back in order. Understand! Spic-and-span, or it’ll be a long time before you find yourself in a situation like this again."

After his tirade Blake paused for a moment to collect himself. He tugged downward on his blazer and strangled his tie to center, then turned and calmly walked off.

Bug joined us. He sipped his tea and placed it back in the saucer. "There’s no place to sit. There’s four peoples ass’s sticking out of the couch and I can’t find my monkey."

Tomorrow excerpt from: The wedding of Blood Monkey

Handmade Heart

For the next five days I will be posting small excerpts from my newest manuscript Handmade Heart.

Synopsis:

They’re older, wiser and more experienced, but it won’t make any difference....you see...it’s not easy being an Oral Blonde.

A traumatic event brings five friends back together after a twenty year absence. John "Sparky" Malveen, Doc Barlow, Wally, Rooster and Bug are the original members of the rock group "The Oral Blondes," and they have been given a second chance, but the offer expires in thirty days.
It is a journey to outrageous characters, mounting obstacles, and humorous situations, with hopes, somehow a past friendship will yield a future together.