And now for something completely different

I have no bloody fuckin' idea what this means, but the idea for the following abstract hoo-ha just kinda shot outta me like a gerbil with a prior engagement. Observe my use of the words "swallow" and "bone" in the same sentence without any typed giggling. Chances are good that I'll look at this later and think, what a load of pretentious bullshit!
And why do I think it's a smart idea to post this kind of stuff when I know there's at least one therapist readin' this?
Apparently, my hippie free associationasstivity has frightened y'all off, and probably with good reason. Would it help you to know I dressed like a mime while I wrote this post, and repeatedly slapped myself for inspiration?

---

Yawn and yank
the lion's share of blankets,
Flick the ground glass from your
heavy-lidded eyes;
You can't watch your back
While you cover your tracks and you
tromped on the tripwires and
tattered intentions, too.
Say that fast, fucker, but walk slow.
Is it charity that shakes the magic 8-ball
Or do you swallow me whole when you throw me a bone?
Shrugs and thin-lipped smiles are all that can be juggled when
the valise throws off no mystery beyond the busted zipper,
just for show, half a brick in a sea of siding.
Did I catch you at a bad time? No? So when would be worse? Talk to you then.
Punched in the Munchos for the last time, I swear
on the freshness date
and the vacuum seal
and the way you can add bread and
you gotcherself a meal.
So who comes out on top when all's said and
done and the dishes are dry?
Told you never to ask while the sunrise still has its heels in the yard...
Didn't I?



Bitch has finally lost it.

Home and worthless/my sevens for Greatwhitebear

Jim and I got home about 1:00 this afternoon and both promptly fell asleep on the couch. I've been up for a bit now, had some dinner, appreciated Snickers' charms all over again like I always do when I'm away from him for more than 8 hours at a time, and have just now realized how very few pictures I took this weekend. But did you read my last post? It's not like I've made any sense in days and days anyway. Can't even blame it on drunkenosity (though you're welcome to think that if it lets you sleep better at night); maybe I was just rattled because Tardist kept badgerin' me about the teriyaki tuna I had for dinner last night. Well, okay, that is pretty funny.

Did anything constructive happen this weekend, any strokes of combined sibling genius? Uh, no. But my mom did show off her kickass autographed Tony Geary picture. Watch out, Laura - my mom has the hots for Luke.



"It may have zippity to do with doo dah."

Tardist claims he is not interested in General Hospital, but I noticed he began to foam at the mouth with what I would assume to be intense jealousy.


Oh, the captions I could add if I weren't such a sweet little sister...

Jim was, as always, caught in the crossfire retardation of my family.



If I feign sleep, maybe they'll take pity on me.

Squirl and I plotted, but ultimately, did not hatch any plans, clever or otherwise.


No, Mom, we didn't drink your Mogen David, why?

I was also tagged with Sevens by Greatwhitebear, so I might as well post those while I'm at it, too.

7 THINGS YOU PLAN TO DO BEFORE YOU DIE

1. See Dave Brubeck live (haha, actually, next week)
   
2. Have a 45-minute orgasm (likely the last thing I'll do before I die)
   
3. Raise my price to $3.50 for sex
4. Publish a book
5. Visit Europe
6. Retire early
7. Record a whole CD of my own songs
   

7 THINGS YOU CAN DO

1. Sing and carry a tune
2. Make people laugh
3. Gross people out
   
4. Play simple song arrangements by ear on the piano (but using my hands)
5. Proofread your documents (I will be more careful with yours than I am with my own)
   
6. Write a UNIX shell script
7. Since it would be wrong to include anything involving the proverbial removal of chrome from a tailpipe, I will instead add that I can read really fast.
   

7 THINGS YOU CAN'T DO

1. Keep my mouth shut when somebody's bein' a bigoted asshole
2. Dance
3. Resist a pet who wants my attention
4. Retain any composure (or my pants) when I drink
   
5. Keep my car neat for more than two days at a time
6. Swim for fun (George Carlin said it best: "Swimming is not a sport. It's a way to keep from drowning.")
   
7. Draw cartoon characters that look the same from one frame to the next
   

7 THINGS THAT ATTRACT YOU TO THE OPPOSITE SEX

1. Sense of humor (must give and take with equal vigor)
2. Appreciation of the absurd (sadly, I'm not kiddin')
   
3. Eyes that say a lot
4. Ability to converse on a thousand different levels, from literature to fart jokes and everything in between
5. Nicely defined arms and legs (lest y'all think I'm bein' too intellectual/metaphysical about all this)
6. The ability to find me adorable
   
7. Harmlessly kinky motherfucker
   

7 THINGS YOU SAY MOST

1. Where's my camera?
2. Where are my glasses?
3. Where are my pants?
4. Jesus, I didn't wanna know that.
   
5. Cocksuckaaaaaaaaah!
6. Oh, I need to remember to blog that.
7. Fuck that shit!
   

7 CELEBRITY CRUSHES

1. Taye Diggs
2. Daryl Dragon (when I was 12, m'kay? 12!)
3. LL Cool J
4. Clint Eastwood
5. Kim Wilson (lead singer of the Fabulous Thunderbirds)
6. Martin LaPointe (still hot, even in a uniform other than the Red Wings')
7. Don Knotts (Ha! You're still readin'!)
   

7 SONGS I AM CURRENTLY DIGGING

1. James Brown - Get Up Offa That Thing
2. Marilyn Manson - (S)aint
   
3. Isley Brothers - It's Your Thing
4. Chanson Du Toreador from Carmen
5. Rob Zombie - Pussy Liquor
6. Brian Setzer Orchestra - Hoodoo Voodoo Doll
   
7. Big Rude Jake - Steppin' Out Under the Moon

And I'm not taggin' anybody. If you see this and it looks like a good idea, consider yourself tagged. Otherwise, no pressure, man. Everything's cool...

All the news that's fit to spew

The good news is, my hotel has high-speed Internet.

The bad news is, my hotel has walls so thin you can hear the dude in the next room unroll his toilet paper. For people with less shame than us [um, that would be MORE shame than us], that would put an end to the loud, rough sex and the shouts of "HE SCORES!!!!" You know, but only for people with less [more] shame than us.

The good news is, the bed is very comfortable.

The bad news is, it doesn't matter. I will always snap awake in the middle of the night in a hotel and have that momentary "Where the fuck am I?" panic.

The good news is, I get to visit with my family all day today.

The bad news is, I woke up at 5:30 am and, as of this writing, have no chance of re-establishing my hookup with the sandman. Luckily, my family is used to seein' me in a half-conscious state.

The good news is, it's kind of cool that we're at this hotel, because it's the first place I ever stayed when we moved to Grand Haven in 1967, and this is the first time I've been back.

The bad news is, there are very actively used railroad tracks right behind our room.

Family hijinks to follow. I shall report back.

No tongue - my lipstick!

You'd think I gave birth to him, wouldn't you?

Although the drunken blackout story was an overwhelming winner in the vote for next post, there were also a few votes for the tongue musings post. This tongue-a-riffic picture of Snickers is my way of promising that story - sort of like an engagement ring proferred to You, the Internet as a Whole. Only, done without the anticipation of nookie; you'll have to settle for a honeymoon of a post. But don't worrry - I won't drag my sweet baby dog through the gutter when the tongue post does make its appearance.

I'd do it now, but honestly, if I'm gonna think that deeply about tongue at this time of night, I'm sure I'm likely to cook up something better to do about it than write.

For now, let me confess to a senior moment this afternoon.

Lucky me, it was laundry night. If you aren't already completely envious of my fairytale life, that should put you over the top. But I will admit, ingrate that I am, I try not to spend any unnecessary time at the 'mat. Thus it was with great consternation and potent vexation that I realized, at very end of the wash cycle, that I had failed to put soap in any of the three front-loaders I was usin'. Yeah, just go 'head and add another 25 minutes to my visit. And slap me in the face with a shovel while you're at it.

Would it be crass of me to put up a PayPal button in anticipation of Depends and that streamlined walker I've had my good eye on?

Presentation is everything

This quick, blurry mugshot is the best picture I could get of Jim's dinner masterpiece before he started to whine about, Oh, I wanna eat my food while it's hot, and If my wife cooked for me, I wouldn't have to eat Mr. Bill.

Jim's on a roll tonight. He just suggested that we get my readers together for a Cotillion Man March. Then he thought we could make a TV show called Who Wants to be a Cotillionaire?

I need to take his chicken patty away.

Decisions, decisions

My bravest moment.

Okay, I can't decide what my next post should be, and I'm gonna throw a couple of choices out to You, the Internet as a Whole.

Should my next post be about my first and worst drunken blackout, or should my next post be musings and observations on the tongue?

Tell me what You think, or if You think those both suck, throw out suggestions. I'm gamey. Um, game. Yeah, game. I'm Bucky the Bee Breaker, and I wanna know what you sick fuckers think.

Step right up

When Jim and I arrived to see Joan Jett at the county fair Thursday night, we were informed that we needed to buy whole-week passes in order to gain admission to the concert. We grumbled a little, but at 25 bucks a pop, it really wasn't a bad deal, even if Joan's show was all we saw.

Since it rained on our parade so badly Thursday, which made me fear for my camera and completely fucked my plans to take nighttime shots of the midway, we decided to go back last night and try our luck again, seein' as how we already had our admission paid and all.



We arrived in style on the back of my favorite racing goat, Farfisa.

My fascination with the midway stretches back as far as I can remember. I grew up in Grand Haven, Coast Guard City if you didn't know, and my biggest thrill of the year would come when the carnival was erected for the week of Coast Guard Festival every August. Compared to fairs and carnivals I've since seen, it was a fairly small and unimpressive display, but it was my only point of reference at that age, and it was the event for which the rest of the year was spent in anticipation.

It wasn't so much that I wanted to go on the rides, because I never got much more daring than the Scrambler - no way in hell was I gettin' on the Zipper! Most of my time was taken by gawkin' at the collective spectacle of it all, the wheezy, groaning contraptions our parents should never have let us ride, the throngs of smarmy teenagers let loose to roam, the aisles of clearly rigged games, the danglin' prizes, the giant stuffed kangaroos and the cocaine mirrors, and maybe the best of all, the way the whole shebang looked at night when all the lights were done up and the place was in full swing. I can still stop, close my eyes, and remember the exact feeling I got, that elation where the chest swells and the brain feels just a little buzzed when you've done nothin' to chemically provoke it, when I would see the lit-up midway for the first time each year.

My swoony infatuation with the midway never went the way of my crush on Daryl Dragon, and I still drag Jim to at least one fair/carnival a year so we can wander the midway at night. Our plan last night was to ride the ferris wheel and get some good elevated picture, but would you believe these fuckers didn't have a ferris wheel? The nerve, the very nerve!


Show us your Tuts!



Ooh! Ooh! It's Daryl Dragon! No, wait...



I don't normally talk to carnies, but I let this one take me home.


Jim and I have decided that, every once in a while, just to broaden our horizons, we should partake in some activity that we would never in a million years have thought we'd do. Last night: tractor pull.

Yes, we did go to the tractor pull. There were more people in the grandstands for the tractor pull than there were for Joan Jett. I'm not sure what that says about the people of Mt. Morris. I have never seen tractors in such a macho display before. Now I'm moist as a snack cake down there, in my pole barn.



As the lights come to life, so does my delight.



Jumbo dream catcher?



Sunset behind the Ring of Fire.


I have to confess something here. A number of years ago, I saw a ride at some street fair that was set up in downtown Flint, and I have since been haunted by the fact that I neither rode the ride nor took any pictures of it. It's kept me awake nights, lyin' there with my tear-puffy eyes as open as they can get, wailin', regrettin', wishin'...

Finally, last night, I was able to atone for these oversights, to lessen the overwhelming stockpile of regret. It's true, I got to ride...The Bee Ride.


Back dat ass up!



If you see me fly over...make a wish!



You all understand, don't you, that it's impossible for me to keep my tongue inside my mouth for more than ten minutes at a time?

I didn't mind the looks I got from the ride operator and from all the children on the ride when I boarded the bee all by my lonesome. I'm pretty accustomed to those "there goes the crazy lady" looks (or "there goes the crazy sir" looks). But as soon as I crawled into the yellowjacket's cockpit, I suddenly got cramps in both feet at once! What was that about? What kind of karma caused this? It's not like I pushed any little kids outta my way to get on or anything (though it was certainly in my plan if need be). But it's okay, I survived the Bee Ride, all my extremeties are intact, and I'm here to tell you all about it.

The darker it got, the more interesting it all was for me and my camera.


Even the ticket booths look cool at night.











It was obvious that rain would start soon, so I didn't get as many shots in total darkness as I'd have liked. This one is probably my favorite:



And then I got on my motherfuckin' bee and rode home.

See how nice I am?

While in attendance at the baby shower Thursday, I was forced to bite my tongue so hard it still has my fang dimples in it.

A lot of the presents were in large gift bags, nestled in brightly colored tissue paper and festooned with ribbons. One of these in particular caught everyone's eye, with an abundance of tissue paper, cut into whimsical shapes, erupting from the bag. Balulah remarked on what a great job someone had done, how fluffy it was, and someone demanded to know, "Who's the fluffer?"

Now, remember, I was at work. I wasn't allowed to bubble over with the fluffer comments that were popping, totally unbidden, into my poor overloaded brain. I quickly scanned the room, but there was no understanding soul with whom I could lock eyes and share silent, screaming laughter. There was no one but me and my inner monologue, and both of us really could have benefitted from a good dose of Ritalin at that moment.

From behind me, the voice of "Jane" volunteered, "I'm the fluffer!"

"Oooooh, nice fluff job," someone else complimented Jane.

I just wanted to jump on the table and scream, "Don't you people know even the most casual porn industry lingo? How small are the borders of your world? Must I explain 'money shot' too?"

But, since I would like my job to still be available to me when I come back on Monday, I instead excused myself and hiccuped ten minutes' worth of nearly uncontrollable laughter into my folded jacket in the restroom.

It's a wonder I keep receiving invitations. And paychecks.

More juvenile humor...what a surprise!

This is probably the most unique gift I received for my birthday this year, courtesy of a friend whose husband is a doctor:

Is that a pen in your pocket or is your happiness to see me chemically enhanced?

You can't tell me the people who designed this pen didn't giggle like schoolgirls with raw squid in their crevices when they had this thing on the drawing board.




This was given to me at work, and I proceeded to run about the place like the developmentally arrested individual I am and make everyone have a close inspection of my stiffy pen.

I figured if anyone else would appreciate this as much as I do, it would be You, the Internet as a Whole. By my reckoning, I'd better use it up fast, 'cause when they come to take me to my "special" room, I have it on the best of authority that I won't be allowed anything but blunt crayons.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch cherry bomb!

Today, I made a significant discovery, and that is that Arby's drive-through opens at 9 am, and they don't serve breakfast food.

You must understand, there are some days I can make do with a bowl of cereal at my desk, or some eggs on a bagel from McDickless. But "breakfast food" isn't always my first choice in the morning, so it was with great delight that I discovered I can have a fresh roast-beef sandwich before I'm even fully awake.



Mom would be so proud.

Usually I dip my fries in Arby's sauce (a barbecue sauce), but I decided to go full-bore on the Horsey sauce today, just because I love it when the kid at the window asks if I need any extras, and I get to say "LOTS of Horsey sauce." And then I like to imagine how they get the sauce from the horsey...



Breakfast liked me as much as I liked it today.

Erotic curley fries aside, because now they're cold and that's just not sexy, there was serious business to which I needed to attend this morning, and that was preparation for an at-work baby shower held in honor of Balulah and her impending bundle of oy. Truthfully, my part of the preparation was to remember at the last minute to buy two-liters of pop and some ice. Oh, and I put stickers on plastic shot glasses that were then filled with pacifier-shaped hard candy. It was truly a terrifyin' experience for someone who's not exactly a girlie girl. Sorry, Balulah, you know you're like a little sis to me, but the room packed with hens freaked me out jest a tetch.

Come on, look at the centerpiece:



Sweet yodelin' baby jesus, that thing was huge! A poodle could jump through that loop - I almost expected an infant to pop out of it. How many others at the table stared at this nipplesque monstrosity in silent horror? I'm worried what our collective dreams will be tonight.

This is what my face looks like in the thick of a baby shower:



Don't get me wrong - I got nothin' against babies, or baby mommas, and I have every intention of being a very embarassing pseudo aunt to this particular child. But there's just somethin' about the whole ritual of showers, of the wedding or baby variety, that makes me feel like maybe I shoulda turned left at Albuquerque.

Maybe it's because I just finished Wicked (an excellent read which I heartily recommend), but I then felt the need to channel my inner wicked witch.


...and your little blog, too!

At this point, if you're even still awake, you're likely wonderin', "So is there a point here? Is your title bullhshit, or are you gonna cough up the Joan?"

I shall commence coughin'.

Joan Jett and the Blackhearts officialy rock. Joan is pushin' 50 and she's in such great shape it makes me hang my head and wish the gym was open all night.



I'll list what I can remember:

• Bad Reputation
• I Love Rock and Roll
• Light of Day
• I Hate Myself for Loving You
• Fetish
• Crimson and Clover
• Do You Wanna Touch Me
• Everyday People
• Cherry Bomb
• Love is All Around (Mary Tyler Moore Theme) - another song I should add to my list of favorite covers!

They also did four or five tunes from their upcoming CD, and there wasn't a dog in the batch!.


Joan don't give a damn about her bad reputation.

I would have been more adventurous with the camera, but it was raining during most of the show, and I had my camera in its case clutched under a sheet of plastic. Even my chaps could not ward off the rain.


Yes, I did indeed point the camera at my own crotch to snap a shot.



Joan rocked out for a little over an hour, and by the time the encore was over, the heavens were pissin' down on us pretty well. That made me a little sad, as we were at the county fair, and where there's a fair, there's a midway. I love the midway.

There is no desire in my cold heart to ride any of the rides set up by people who can't even keep track of where all their own teeth are. I don't wish to be cheated out of my money by the games. But I love the lights. The midway at night is one of my favorite visual feasts in the world.



Alas, the rain was too hard to even think about fishin' my camera out, so I grabbed a quick shot throught the windshield as we headed out. Maybe we can try again Saturday night. I just have to have a picture of the bumble bee ride.

Another ADD post

It just occurred to me today that I haven't posted a picture of Snickers in the last couple of whenevers, so I trapped him behind the couch like a 60-pound rat and blinded him with the flash a couple of times. Well, I'm sure the first flash did all the blinding, and the second flash was merely an insult-to-injury flourish. I hope you enjoy the beauty that arises from my dog's irritation.


Call the SPCA now, for the love of dog!

Besides tormenting Snickers, I'm also gettin' revved up to see Joan Jett tomorrow night. If any of you have any pull in this area, could you please see to it that the rains hold off during the Jett set? The chaps will be worn. It's Joan Fucking Jett!

I'm amused as can be that my comments section, of all places, can sprout a discussion of classical composers. Just goes to show that I can lick the high brow just as well as the low brow, and I'll still get to Scotland afore ye. I blove youse guys - c'mere and let me give you a sloppy drunken group hug. Watch out, though - I get happy hands when I drink. Fair warning.

If you haven't already done so, please go visit Torrie and wish her happy birthday, 'cause everybody has one, and this is hers. Happy birthday, Torrie! Remember, just 'cause you're not home doesn't mean we won't still help ourselves to your good liquor and pain pills. Huzzah!

Recycled art, part 1

The Remake. It's a concept that is all too familiar to both the movie and music industries, which is kind of sad when you take into account the fact that these fields are both supposedly populated with creative people.

In my opinion, the majority of remakes, musical or cinematic, are the result of someone takin' the easy way out. Rather than be bold and try a new concept, which is a staple of creativity but not so valued by the money-makin' arm of the entertainment industry, a familiar song or plotline that has already proven itself to be popular with consumers is hoisted out of mothballs, whored up with some new lipstick, and sold to us all over again. But I can't totally blame it on the business, either; a lot of consumers would rather keep payin' good money to have the familiar recycled for their amusement, over and over and over and over...maybe it's just easier that way, instead of bein' forced to form new opinions all the time. Oh, no! How do I know if I like this or not? It's NEW!

However, all that grumpiness aside, sometimes a cover song or a movie remake comes along that not only makes me embrace the remake, but nearly forget the original. With music, I feel like, if you're gonna cover a song, especially one that's already been a hit for someone else, you should do something different with it. Otherwise, if you copy the original note for note, nuance for nuance, you might as well be in a cover band that plays Holiday Inn lounges. Some of my favorite cover tunes include:

• Fell in Love With a Boy - Joss Stone. The song, Fell in Love With a Girl, was written by Jack White and originally recorded by the White Stripes in their stripped-down, brash rock style. Joss Stone took the tune and made it into the musical equivalent of naked bodies writhing on the floor with intense pleasure. What? That's exactly what I picture when I hear her version of the song.
• All Along the Watchtower - Jimi Hendrix. Some years ago, a member of Jim's nightstock crew wandered past him, wondering aloud why Bob Dylan had felt the need to remake Hendrix's All Along the Watchtower. Jim stared at him for a minute, to make certain he was serious, then informed him that the song was written by Dylan and covered by Hendrix. Be that as it may, I'd still rather hear Hendrix sing any day. No offense to Dylan fans, as I am one, I've seen the man in concert, fer chrissakes, but come on. Hendrix rocks it up bigtime, and I like his voice a lot better. Crap, now all the folkies are gonna send me hate mail.
• I'm a Ram - Big Sugar. I have to admit, I didn't know this was a cover tune when I heard it. It's a heapin' helpin' of heavy bluesy guitar and insistent saxophone. I love this tune. And then I heard the original, written and recorded by Al Green. Hmmm, this is truly a dilemma. I love the Al Green version, too. I shall not make Big Sugar compete with the God of Mojo. I will instead say that I dig their version of the Mojo God's song.
  
• Rock and Roll - Detroit. "Jeannie said when she was five years old, nothin' goin' down at all..." This may be my favorite cover song of all time. If you're not stirred to jump to your feet when you hear that rockin' cowbell kick in, then you better check for a pulse. Originally written and recorded by Lou Reed, the song was re-arranged by Mitch Ryder for his band, Detroit, and in the process became the definitive version, a kickin', wailin', screamin', sweatin', smokin', riff-heavy slab of rock thunder. Ryder's primal screams still make the hair stand up on the back of my neck. Even Lou Reed himself has famously said (and, indeed, said it to the audience last time I was at one of his concerts), "Mitch Ryder recorded this song how it's really supposed to sound!" I can think of no higher praise.

I'm sure there are more of these, but now I'd like to stop and ask y'all: What are cover tunes/movie remakes you really like or really dislike? Why?

Back with more thoughts on this another time.

This should take your mind off the penis tattoo

Wicked shorts
Originally uploaded by Bucky Four-Eyes.

I just can't put this book down ("Wicked" by Gregory Maguire). Perhaps I should be posting tonight, but instead I'm availing myself of the truth about the Wicked Witch of the West, that alliterative bitch.

And for anyone who's ever done "Dark Side of the Rainbow" I dedicate my Pink Floyd shorts.

Me in Pink Floyd shorts. Surely that's more disturbing than tattooed, multi-pierced tallywhackers, eh?

Boner warning labels

Would it come as a surprise to you if I confessed to bein' extremely childish? I didn't think so.

It will be easy, then, for you to imagine my state of tickledness each and every time one of those Boner Pills commercials imparts the dire warning: "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, are serious and require immediate medical attention."

Well, first - let's be sure what we mean by "serious" here. Seriously erect? No-laughing-matter erect? Seriously useful? Seriously chafed? Is this a serious medical condition, or do you want us to merely treat this uber erection with the respect its endurance commands? Salute that Stiffy, Ma'am!

Four hours of the Big Hand pointin' to midnight? 240 minutes of the Upright Genitals Brigade? 14,400 seconds of Stiffy Stiffy Bang Bang? How is this a bad thing?

Personally, and you had to know I'd have an opinion on this, I would amend this statement to one or more of the following:

• "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, require commemorative photographs and video if possible."
• "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, are certainly cause to phone all your buddies and brag your ass off."
• "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, are a good excuse to call all your wife's hot friends after she passes out with that big smile on her face."
• "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, are most welcome."
• "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, just might get you pancakes in the morning."
• "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, will more than likely require extra lubrication to avoid friction fires."
• "Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, should never be used to taunt a hungry Rottweiler."
  

A better and more valid warning might be : "Caution: Erections lasting longer than four hours, while rare, may be damaging to the eyes at close range."

I asked for it

I happened to take a gulp of Dr. Pepper down the wrong pipe just now, and the noises I'm sure came from me at that moment were somewhere between a drowning goose and rusty plumbing. Jim asked if he needed to use his Heimlich maneuver on me, but I managed to assure him it was just liquid and I would be fine after a bit more spluttering. I also made sure to let him know that the Hind Lick maneuver might yet be needed.

After I'd regained what composure I possess (it ain't much, but it's my speck of dust), I asked if he'd had the chance to practice the Heimlich on dummies in his training class.

He said, "No, on people. I practiced CPR too."

I nodded, willing to let it go at that, when he added, "I did practice FCM on dummies, though."

FCM? I wondered aloud.

"Funky Cold Medina."

Why do I continue to walk right into this shit?

Last one, I promise

There was one of the circa-1985 doodles that I find especially disturbing, and somehow still forgot to upload it with the rest last night. So I'm subjecting you to one final (I swear it's the last one) post of my mid-1980s psychosis.



Who is this guy? Why is he ass-up naked? What's the cat doin'?

Why is it that even I look at my own drawrings and wonder "What the fuck is wrong with this person?"

Born to be wild

If you woke up this morning with a nagging sense that there was more to this day than meets the eye, you would be correct. Today is, in fact, the birthday of one uber-blogger Jessica Rabbit. I have it on the best of authority that she's nearly old enough to drink alcohol!

So, to my friend who publicly accused me of having assless chaps before I actually had them, who let me talk to her children without calling the police, who was nice enough to help me up and not leave me crumpled in the Chicago quicksand, who has recently made me laugh so hard a carbonated beverage squirted like a goddamn fountain out my nose, I say:

Happy Birthday, Bazonga Queen! You bring wisdom, merriment, and a fair amount of smut to Blogsylvania. May your plate always be plentiful with sushi and your ears perpetually full of Maynard.

And may you never be afflicted with cat food pussy; cats would be happy, Hermione would be happy, Nick...not so much.

Please stop by Jess' place and wish her the most kick-ass of birthdays today!

Dorky bitch part 2

Didn't I warn you yesterday that I was obsessed with my old notebooks? I haven't looked at these in over 15 years, I would bet. Easily.

I've moved from the first into one that I picked out that spans all of 1986 and up to June 1987. There's a lot there to make me laugh, even more to make me cringe (god, all those horribly swoony love letters I wrote and kept - wonder what kinda sappy shit I actually mailed?), and lots of everything in between.

There were titles for songs I never got around to writing, like "Spastic Yes-Men on Rampage" and "Edna Be Thinkin' Some Hideous Thoughts." There were lyrics to songs I did write, like "Watchfob Panic" and "The Saddlehorn Song." I must tell y'all about the Sandy Duncan skits some day...

As usual, there are lots and lots of my odd scribbling drawrings, either lining the margins of written word, or occupying the whole page themselves. So let me take you on a visual narrative, through the subconscious of a deeply disturbed young woman, who grew to be a deeply disturbed middle-aged woman.


You see why I refuse to draw caricatures of my female friends?


Yes, it does say "Let's fire off some grapes to the moon." I don't know what it means, either.


I guess he has a foot between his legs?



Charming.


What the fuck is that all about?



Another example of why I don't draw females.



Yes, it says "Johnny plunged from the womb and was heard to say, 'Jesus H. Christ!'"

Notes from a dorky past

To be honest with y'all, I just plain couldn't think of anything to write about tonight. I didn't have any new pictures to post, either, yet I feel compelled to put something up. So I did something I've been meanin' to do for a while, namely, dig out some of my old notebooks and have a look (and, likely, a snicker).

While I still keep a notebook, and there's always an active one, I kept them with much greater zeal in my younger, less complicated years. The earliest one I found tonight is dated from 9/7/1984 to 2/15/1985. Some of the more amusing and/or semi-mortifying things I wrote here include:

• A synopsis of an episode of General Hospital, presumably for my mom on a day when she had to miss it. This was waaaaaay before SoapNet, folks. I don't even recognize some of the character names, but it has to be GH because "Frisco and Felicia give the goons the slip at the airport" and "Robert and Holly helped Porchenkos escape with Grant and Celia."
• The outline for a story called "Mrs. Greenblatt's Revenge" and then it says (revision) so you know I actually thought of this at some other time and then rewrote it in this notebook. The plot involves murder by forced chicken soup overdose, and features a cop named Officer O'Doodah. Um...okay.
• A short story called "Swindle Shift" that starts out with the captivating prose: "Bobo LaBooza was a simple man. You could say he had a perfect life, except for the fact that his wife and children drove him to the brink of insanity" Well, Bobo flips one day, takes all his money out of the bank, and engages the first prostitute he sees. Poor Bobo, she rolls him, cleans the fucker out, and even though his money was in traveler's checks, he's screwed because the prostitute's name is Bobo LaBooza too. Before long, his tombstone reads: "Somewhere, a cheap hooker is spending all my money." Yes, I do know just how charming I am, thanks.
• Of course, what notebook of mine would be complete without pages full of doodling and drawring? The following shots all come from one page of my idiocy, circa 1984:

As you can see, I have long been in need of some serious help. Unfortunately, I never sought help, and I am now the depraved individual who writes disgusting things for your amusement on a daily basis.

These old notebooks are a goldmine for laughin' at myself, so be prepared to be subjected to my thoughts that have had 20 years to rot.