Weeeeeeell...you sick bastards jumped right on the Amelia Earhart bonewagon, didn't you? I see exactly how it is - you smell weakness (and a trace of haddock) and you pounce like rabid corn weasels, all in a pack.
At the risk of exposing my tender flanks to your razor-sharp teeth of torture, I'd like to expound on some things that really do scare the holy livin' fuck outta me, broken into arbitrary categories:
Joan Rivers. She was replaced sometime around 1994 with a ventriloquist doll, when it was determined that the dummy actually looked closer to a human than Joan did at that point. The real Joan been sent back to the factory to see if anything can be loosened without the whole damn thing crashin' down around her neck.
Regis. Why is he always YELLING? He sounds like somebody just put honey on his schlong and let the fire ants loose.
Judge Judy. Why doesn't someone require shots and a license for this bitch?
General Hospital. Yes, it is my favorite show. But some of their leaps in logic and the way certain plot development points are completely cast aside when convenient makes my head spin, even in my state of advanced disbelief suspension. Sometimes it hurts my arms to keep that much disbelief suspended at any one time.
Boy bands. Have we learned nothing from the mistakes of Menudo?
Kevin Federline. Does Britney not have handlers that take down the circling leeches with tranquilizer guns? If those fuckers had done their job, Kevin would only now be awakening, even more confused than usual, in the recovery room at the Scumbag Sedation Trailer.
Yanni. Generally, I'm in favor of men havin' long hair, but Yanni just begs for a buzzcut. Why does this man make me think of a garden gnome with a grand piano? Someone please make him stop. Stopolis his Acropolis.
John Tesh. I feel no pressing need to elaborate on this one.
The kabuki dance/strobe light sequence in Flashdance. Because that's what every man wants to see in a strip club - a girl in kabuki makeup, simulating a seizure onstage, and never once barin' the tatas.
The leg warmers and off-the-shoulders sweatshirts in Flashdance. The negative impact of the fashion aftermath from this movie cannot be underestimated.
The scene in Footloose where Kevin Bacon decides he can't take it no more, man, and dances his little chicken legs off, illuminated by the headlights of his yellow VW bug. No matter how much I drink, I'll never wipe the horrible memory from my mind's eye.
Footloose again - the montage where Kevin Bacon teaches cowboy Chris Penn to dance, and they cavort together in a field. Is this really how straight men behave in small towns? Sure, just before they disappear and wind up next to Amelia Earhart.
There are no other movies that are as frightening as Flashdance and Footloose.
Amelia Earhart doesn't scare me.
Amelia Earhart doesn't scare me.
Amelia Earhart doesn't scare me.
Amelia Earhart doesn't scare me.
Amelia Earhart doesn't scare me.
Her bones, though? HOLY SHIT! Fingers in ears...NOW.
I hope all you disturbed motherfuckers have a most joyous Halloween, except for those who teased me so mercilessly once my weakness was exposed. I shake my finger at all of you.
And you don't know where that finger has been. How's that for scary, huh?
Just so no one thinks I'm a grump and don't participate in Halloween, I wanted to show you proof that I'm just as festive as the next motherfucker. So here's a sneak preview of my utterly unique costume for this year's costume ball (it's a semi-formal affair, so I will likely be required to wear at least boxer shorts under my chaps). Don't be frightened by the gruesome realism of it. I purposely didn't pose with it on, because that could cause your innards to seize up in premature terror. Let's save the seizin' up for tomorrow night.
Ladies, gentlemen, and my readers, I give you Masquerade 2005, Buck Doggy Dogg style:
For best effect, click on the photo to go to Flickr, and then view the largest size.
Addemdum which is makin' me laugh my pants wet: somebody just found my site with the search string: mike reno of loverboy gay or not
Halloween orange means cheese. Not the kind that comes in a brick, or as a wheel, or in individually wrapped slices that may at one time have been in the proximity of a dairy product. Halloween means cheese of an entirely different sort, as in cheaply manufactured yet heart-tuggingly tacky novelties. One thing the two kinds of cheese do have in common is that they are both likely to cause constipation.
It’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a comic book – I believe they were under fifty cents last time I purchased one – but when I was a twisted tot, comic books were the source of All Things Cheese, by virtue of the ubiquitous ads. Let’s face it – no one’s ever gonna advertise Seamonkeys in Forbes. I never actually knew anybody who had ‘em, but that didn’t stop me from beggin’ Mom on several occasions to let me be the master of my own little colony of the Royalty of the Fishbowl (did you see the little crowns they wear? Royalty, I tell you, and I won’t be convinced otherwise by anything like facts).
The comic book ads that got the most attention in our house, though, were the full-page cheese splashes for the Johnson-Smith catalog. If you don’t know what I mean – and I pity you if you don’t – think X-Ray Specs, the crappy little drawing with the guy wearin’ these swirly glasses and seein’ the bones in his hand. Because, of course, nobody who bought these immediately tried to see through everyone else’s clothing. That would be wrong. Tardist, Timmy and I devoted entirely too much of our attention to all things Johnson-Smith. Naturally, the first time an order is placed from the pages of a comic book, the catalogues begin to arrive, and they never stop.
I was always allowed to peruse The Catalogue when Timmy and Tardist had already had a thorough look through its cheap little pages. It was always a thing of wonderment to pore over the latest edition, which generally didn’t vary much from the older edition. There was so much crap to be had, and so little time and money with which this crap could be had. The joy buzzers, the strobe lights, the plastic dog poop, the itching powder, the exploding cigarettes - there it was, gathered in one place for the delight of the child and the childish. For just a little of Mom and Dad’s hard-earned jack, one could have a tiny hovercraft, or a Phi Zappa Krappa poster, or a coffin bank with a hand that grabbed your change, or a “realistic-looking” ghost on a wire, because everyone would spot a fake ghost right off the bat.
Make no mistake, it was all junk. And the copywriters at Johson-Smith recognized that and embraced it like a happy drunk hugs everybody in the room before he wets himself. The most frequently used phrase in The Catalogues was, hands down, “GENUINE PLASTIC!” Not some shitty, false plastic. The real deal, baby. Even as kids we knew how hilarious that was, but it did not deter our lust for the shiny, useless trinkets that filled the pages.
Originally, this post was to be about Vernor's, a ginger ale with a unique zing to it. Is it available outside Michigan? People from other states usually scratch their heads and spit on my shoes in disbelief when I talk about the sacred nectar.
But then I thought: "Take that pomegranate out of your monkey and face the fact that people do not come to this site to hear about soft beverages - unless there's urine in 'em, and they're bein' fed to the unsuspecting, then that's totally fair game - they come here for revolting, disgusting, and wrong. Or mayhem." This time I can offer a little mayhem. Whether or not it's disgusting will be in direct proportion to your sympathy for a stuffed cactus.
Snickers has had this stuffed cactus for about a month now, but he never paid it a bit of attention until today, when he paid it meticulous, methodical attention, and ripped the guts right out of the hapless green prickly plush.
One more step and the cactus gets it.
All the king's horses, and all the kings' men, agreed that the cactus was pretty much fucked.
Muh-muh-muh-Monkey on your feet, feet, feet, feet. -Bloggy's impression of Robert Plant
Well, I couldn't let that go unanswered, could I? Here are the subsequent monkey-ized Led Zeppelin volleys between us:
Bucky: Nu-nu-nu-nobody's monkey...but mine.
Bloggy: Where's that confounded monkey? Does anybody remember monkeys?
Bucky: Hey, hey, monkey, said the way you move Gonna make you sweat, gonna make you groove...
Bloggy: I think I win with this next one: Your monkey's going to come haha!
Bucky: Damn! A cumming monkey trumps just about anything else, I think. But... Let me take you to the monkeys Let me take you to a show Let me be your one and only Can I make your monkey grow?
Bloggy: If you feeeeeeeeeeel that you can't go on and your wiiiiiiilllll sinking low just believe and you can't go wrong in the liiiiight you will find a monkey you will find a monkey
Bucky: Been a long time, been a long time Been a long monkey monkey monkey monkey monkey time
Bloggy: This one is no reflection on you, Pure Bucky: There's too many people in your Monkey Pie
Bucky: When the monkey breaks, I'll have no place to stay...
At this point, the discussion devolved even further, if you can imagine that, into a sad dialogue about the passing of the voice of the Jolly Green Giant.
I might also mention in passing that my sister called me last night in a state of, how shall I say this delicately, slight inebriation. It was a serious case of role reversal, as I'm usually the drunken dialer. But I shall let her tell you about it when her head feels better.
Most days, the contents of my mailbox bring me no joy. Everybody wants my money, for something they're selling or something I've already bought. Vampires! The way I see it, if you're gonna suck out all my blood, at least start at my thigh. Let's make it interesting for me, too.
But yesterday was different. Could I have known it as I approached the mailbox? Did my monkey sense tingle, tell me that something was different? I must confess, the monkey slept as I grabbed my mail, but woke right up and swung from the chandelier when I saw a mysterious package from one Susie Fairchild. My fingers trembled as I ripped open the envelope, and my delight levels shot through the roof when I realized that she had bestowed upon me a bundle of socks. And not just any socks - monkey socks.
Look at the one on the left. How did Susie know I'm dressin' up like Jerry Lewis on Halloween?
My socks have monkey heads on them. Monkey. Head. Huh huh huh huh huh.....
Feather soft. Who knew that monkeys had feathers?
Because I am so pure, virginal, and innocent, I have no idea what Susie meant in her enclosed note, where she wrote, "p.s. - these go on your FEET. If I see or hear you wore them anywhere else..."
Just what are you implying here, Susie? That I would put them on my alleged schlong?
Well, dirty implications notwithstanding, I'd like to extend a hearty thanks to Susie for makin' me grin like it's Christmas morning and there's a real monkey under the tree.
Perhaps I have mentioned here before that my mother is a very sweet person, much nicer than the likes of me, and certainly not the kind of woman who'd violate toy amphibians. Nope, Mom is a gem, a lamb, a sweetheart who was inexplicably punished with awful children. And by "awful children" I mean me.
When I first moved to Flint, I shared an apartment with my parents, Tardist, Tardist's bitch, and his dog, Mickey. Long-time readers may best remember Mickey as the dog upon whom I once vomited. When he wasn't covered in beer spew, he was quite a handsome dog. He was a German Shepherd/Norwegian Elkhound mix, which meant he was rather large and looked a lot like a steer. My mom, who tends to gush over all things animal, was absolutely in love with Mickey, and would often describe him with terms like (and I am not makin' this up, not a word of it), "dark golden stocking leg" and "black velvety goat ears." There was no doubt that Mickey was her favorite grandchild, and she felt no need to make a secret of it.
Mom and Mickey spent many hours of quality time together. He'd do a little trick and she'd praise him. He'd eat his food and she'd praise him. He'd take a dump in the yard and she'd praise him. I think you get the picture by now - Mom adored that damned cow of a dog.
One particularly chilly autumn day, I was doin' my best to play the fuck out of Mom's piano, or at the very least make it feel extremely violated, and Mom was outside with Mickey, runnin' the field in front of our apartment building. The front door opened and Mickey burst through, all chilly weather exuberance and spoiled dog glee. Mom soon followed him, with a scarf wrapped 'round her hair to protect The Bouf from windshear damage, a fluffy winter coat to keep her warm, and some white sweatpants that were strictly for comfort. I swiveled around on the piano bench to greet Mickey, and he spun back and forth, gettin' petted by me, then Mom, then me again. He was in the Cute Zone, all dog smiles and big fan of a tail goin' a mile a minute. Mom was tuned into his zone, apparently, because she was especially delighted with him, and she kept petting him with both hands and exclaiming with sheer adoration, "Oh, Mickey!" He'd wheel around and show me his dog smile and I'd love on him, then he'd veer around and grace Mom with the happy face, whereupon she'd hug him, clap, and once again burst out with a very loving "Oh, Mickey!"
This went on for a few minutes, the back-and-forth with the dog. Then the look on Mickey's face changed ever so slightly; in retrospect I can say exactly what it was, but I had no clue at the moment. All I know is, as I sat there watchin', Mickey backed up to my mother, pushed his asshole flush with her sweatpants, and wiped. This wasn't just, "Oh, the dog brushed against me accidentally." No. It was a very purposeful wiping of the ass. The dog's ass. On my mom's pants. Once he had finished scraping his sphincter across my mother's clothing, Mickey adopted the most self-satisfied expression on his face, wagged his tail even harder, and pranced away from the scene of the crime. When he stepped away, he revealed what might have been a good copy of the Nike swoop logo, had it not been brown, and on my mom's white sweatpants.
Mom and I saw the evidence at the exact same moment. The look on Mom's face quickly became disbelieving horror, and her approving cries of "Oh, Mickey!" were replaced by a plaintive and slightly irritated "Ohhhhh, Mickey!
I'd like to be able to tell you that I was helpful in my mother's moment of need, that I sprang right up to console her, and to help her get those streaked sweatpants into the wash. But it would be a lie, a big dirty lie, and I save my big dirty lies for home. I was absolutely no help, as I had at that point fallen off the piano bench and was on the floor, clutching myself to keep my ribs from busting through the skin as I laughed, breathless and completely helpless, at my poor mother's misfortune.
I'm sure Satan has some interesting skidmarks in store for me when I get there.
Could I truly be the psychopathic bitch you've all come to know and tolerate if I didn't have the occasional violent outburst? Well, could I? Don't sit there cowering, bring mommy her bitchy boots and then quiver in silence.
Normally, I'm a peaceful little hippie with an overwhelming desire to avoid confrontation. But there are times, like, say, Monday mornings, where my inner Attilla pops its head out of one of the many caves inside my skull and says "Time to fuck somebody up, you ho-bag." Therefore, I have decided to compile a list of ways that you, too, can get one or both of these boots right up your ass.
Grab 'hold of my inner lady bits with a cold metal clamp, proceed to twirl the clamp, and then tell me "Oh, that doesn't hurt" as the remaining color drains out of my face and I break out in a full-body cold sweat.
Attempt to hold a high-speed and meaningful conversation with me before I've been awake for a full hour yet. Thou shalt not.
When I see an actor or actress and say, "I'm sure I've seen him/her in something else before...", make sure you quickly assure me that this person just has "that generic look" and therefore, I do not actually recognize this person. No, fucker, if I say I've seen that ho in a movie before, chances are, I have. Do not doubt me.
Hide my Geritol. This offense might go beyond a simple stompin' though, and pass right on to serious beating. With my walker. I might, in fact, put my whole walker up your ass.
Bring your small children to a nice restaurant, then let them scream at top volume right next to me as I'm attempting to converse (or conversate, if I am with Flanella Jo) and eat my $14.00 appetizer. Do you really want me to get in touch with my inner Fat Bastard?
Send me repeated emails advertising the jack rabbit vibrator (when you come out with the Jack Hammer vibrator, then we can talk) or ads for improving my penis (my alleged schlong, thank you very much) that say things like "Imagine a new huge Pecker full of energy. Just huge. Smash the ladies like crazy!" Because that's what we ladies want, you know. To be smashed like crazy.
Wait until you see me come in with a bag of takeout food, then stop me in the hall and attempt to engage me in an intense conversation about converting and cropping a graphics file. Do you see my food icing over as we talk, or rather, as you talk and I squirm and look for an escape route? Your graphics file does not need to be warm to be enjoyed, unlike my lunch. For fuck's sake, woman, let me eat!
Interrupt General Hospital for breaking news. Does anybody think I seriously care that there's a tornado bearin' down on my neighborhood when I need to find out who fathered Courtney's baby? Priorities, people...
I feel better now. If I haven't mentioned you here, and you'd really like my boot up your ass, drop me a line and we can work something out. I am nothing if not an accomdating bitch.
At sunrise, it dawned on me that I had been cheated out of the very hard-earned two dollars I spent on this unofficial Gumby outfit. As my eyes and genitals began to sting with more and more urgency, it occurred to me that packing one's person in wasabi is a piss-poor substitute for a Halloween costume.
Therefore, if anyone needs me in the next several hours, I will be scouring the last of the burning green goo from my body, probably with a full helping of whimpering and yelping, and then I will be shopping for a more suitable, and less painful, costume.
Note to self: Do not buy Halloween costume from vendor whose "shop" is the dumpster behind a Japanese restaurant.
You knew it had to happen sooner or later. I know I have stayed awake too late on many a night, wondering just when the tchotchkes would begin to organize, to think independently, to assert their individuality as mass-produced plastic figurines. What's more frightening than the thought of your Star Wars Pez dispensers looming over you as you sleep, silently demanding their rights?
Well, I will concede that an incontinent baboon hangin' his ass over your face as you sleep might be slightly more terrifying, but work with me here, people.
I happened to be witness to an awe-inspiring display of solidarity today, as my Homies figurines decided that they'd had enough, and organized. Their purpose? The Million Miniatures March.
Of course, even among a group with a common goal, there will always be some minor disagreement and bickering amongst the participants.
Bitchiness breaks out when the Grim Reapers realize they've both worn exactly the same outfit.
The zoot suit pimp probably needs to stop checkin' out the doctor lady's ass, lest she give him some unwanted stitches.
And while the bitch with the rolling pin is quite welcome, who the fuck invited the mariachis?
You had to know the cheerleader couldn't keep her legs shut for an entire march. Is anyone surprised? I didn't think so.
Uh oh. You think the little guys dicked around too long before the march started? I don't remember the big guys bein' invited to this.
Oh, for the love of Raggedy Ann, did no one see the Gumby brutality coming?
Space Gumby either has no patience for festive Mexican music, or he's decided to make the diminutive mariachi his bitch. It could all be a ploy to make Space Pokey jealous, too.
Earthbound Gumby has taken a shine to the slutty cheerleader. I have a feeling her ability to do the splits will really come in handy here.
In the end, it's all carnage. The Gumby Gang does not tolerate the ambitions and aspirations of smaller tchotchkes. They're brutal motherfuckers like that.
I'm just not up to makin' with the funny today. If you'd like to read about why today is a sad day in my family, Squirl has written a moving and excellent post here.
Thanks for droppin' by, and I'll see all you cats and kittens tomorrow.
Katy Barzedor busted a nut up in this bitch at 6:30 AM
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
The camera has been drinking (not me)
This is the clearest picture in the batch. Frightened yet?
I like to take my camera out at night and snap pictures, lots and lots of pictures, of lights. Yes, people like me are very distracted by shiny things. In fact, I prefer it if I can move the camera so that I get a streak of light to represent the shiny thing of the moment. Some (most) would call it bad photography; I call it shaky shaky fun.
What pirate doesn't want some Arrrrrrrrrrby's?
Deja Vu - the competition is high for those "three ugly girls" spots, especially on Dort Highway.
But I like the blur of lights at night in the city.
I like it when the lights cease to be just lights, and they become candy canes, or neon boomerangs, or flocks of souls that have stopped in for a nightcap on their way to eternity.
And even the arches over downtown Flint can't decide if they're solid structures or Slinkies, lit from within:
And then, just like that, the spirits of the night got on their motherfuckin' bee and rode home.
Sorry. There was just no way to back out of this post gracefully.
Of course, anyone who's the least bit familiar with me understands that the first thing I'm gonna think is "Monkey = Vagina." And it does, no matter how much Amanda B. might protest that a monkey is just a monkey.
And as I sit here at my desk, I start to think about the logistics of monkey book ends. I have questions, serious questions, and I need answers before I can consider my life on an even keel.
Can you buy the monkeys, or are they just for rent?
Must they be cleaned with Massengill?
If so, how often?
Will my books get that "not so fresh feeling"?
Do I need to put thongs on the monkeys before my friends can bring their kids over?
What are the monkeys' grooming needs?
Will the monkeys require pap smears?
Shaved, waxed, or natural monkeys?
Will a man ever actually take a book from the shelf, or will he spend all his time admiring the monkeys?
How many bananas can the monkeys hold?
If I spend too long polishing the monkeys, will the neighbors talk?
Oh, and speaking of monkeys and/or vaginas, since I posted that incredibly selfish "Katy needs..." list yesterday, I'd like to instead concentrate on the needs of a friend today. Because that's the kind of big-vagina'd hearted person I am. So, in the spirit of giving and camaraderie, I'd like to tell you all what my pal Nilbo needs, and I didn't even have to Google it:
Nilbo needs...an ice-water enema.
Nilbo needs...clothespins on his testicles (just for fun).
Nilbo needs...seventeen hours of oral sex. From Carol Channing.
Nilbo needs...titty tassles.
Nilbo needs...to understand that tellin' a woman that she weighs 190 kilos automatically means revenge is on the way.
Nilbo needs...my foot in his ass (just for fun).
Nilbo needs...to wear my ass for a hat for all eternity.
Nilbo needs...to atone for his sins by posting video of himself step dancing. Naked.
Nilbo needs...to stop visiting those pastry porn sites.
Nilbo needs...to wonder why he ever started to run with all these blog bitches.
But sometimes, you just might find, you get what you need
Memes beat the fuck out of mimes (those silent bastards). This meme, stolen from Susie and Opera gal, requires a Google search for [my first name] needs. It turns out that my needs are both simpler and more complex than I had anticipated. Like Susie, I felt the need to add some commentary to my litany of needs:
Katy needs to understand that her outlook could negatively affect the performance of her department. (my department needs to understand that my pants are down so that everyone can have a turn kissing my ass)
Katy needs checkups less frequently. (and my overworked vagina thanks you for this)
Katy needs to bar the door (hey, it's how I got my name)
Katy needs fish money (is that money for fish or money from fish? and how do you threaten a fish? "Pay me back tomorrow, or you'll be sleeping with the humans"?)
Katy needs to know (unless it involves ugly naked people, then Katy needs to remain ignorant)
Katy needsto get home, and get home soon. (or else these pants won't be worth savin', if you catch my drift)
Katy needs Help (here is a classic example of overstating the obvious)
Katy needs to eat some sweets (I do have a jones for some Sugar Babies)
Katy needs a couple of tires (to go with the spare tire from eating all the sweets)
Katy needs to be with someone who has LOTS of time to devote to her. (because all this hair doesn't come off my back by itself)
Katy needs to butch it up a little. (yes, because I'm not called "sir" nearly often enough)
Katy needs rescue to get out alive (and that's just the bathroom stall)
Katy needs a skatepark. (so I can really hurt myself)
Katy needs to stop going to so many anime conventions. (point taken)
Katy needsa little of that juice too (oh, I'm sure they didn't mean JIZZ)
Katy needs a hug! (to be followed by a little of that juice)
Katy needs extensive orthodontia(see earlier item about needing sweets)
Katy needs to run errands, a lot of them. (pick up Sugar Babies, gallon of Jizz-Be-Gone, boxer shorts for my butched-up ass)
Today has been a day of heavy-duty cleaning chores here in my home office. That is to say, I've only now discovered that there is an office beneath all the years and years' worth of crap that I had allowed to accumulate up here. You cannot even begin to imagine the bullshit I've dug out, laughed about, and then finally allowed myself to pitch. It's been quite liberating, to let go of all this clutter that I could never discard before. It's also been a day punctuated by nostalgia, mostly the giggly kind, but also some things that made me wistful, some trinkets and pictures that made me think of people who aren't around anymore, some scribblings and mementos that caused quick, sharp pangs of regret. There's always that danger when one digs into the physical tokens of the past, I guess.
I threw out my own weight in magazines that, at one time, I didn't think I could possibly live without. You know, the ones I haven't looked at in ten years? I also tossed many giant envelopes filled with newspaper clippings and comics that I once found important to have. And, holy bunga bunga, the receipts! I sure have bought a lot of shit in the last 15 years or so. Lots of t-shirts went, too, which is a minor miracle. I'm talkin' concert t-shirts, and that isn't something I take lightly. But it was just time to face the fact that most of these shirts were almost completely faded, were full of holes, and just wouldn't fit like they did when I was 25 and my body hadn't decided to hold all those Twinkies against me.
A batch of souveniers that did not make the trash basket would be the mass of concert ticket stubs I found. There are an awful lot of ticket stubs in this house. I found three in particular that slammed my ass right into the cheap seats on the rock n' roll time machine.
My first concert:
I could lie and say, "Yeah, it was the Beatles!" but then again, I think the 1978 date would make y'all cry bullshit. It's actually the Beach Boys. With all three Wilson brothers, if my dented brain is remembering correctly. The concert took place on the football field at Grand Haven Senior High, and Squirl took me so that Mom and Dad wouldn't have to hassle with the crowd. Some version of the Byrds without many or any of the original members opened, but it was all about the Beach Boys for me, anyway. I will confess that I remember the music less than I remember the spectacle of the crowd, and the people on the blanket next to ours who shared their wine with the adults on our blanket, and the funny smell in the air that I couldn't place and Squirl wasn't about to explain. Good times!
The stub from my second concert doesn't have the date visible, unfortunately, but I would guess that it was in the early part of 1979, maybe in February (Squirl, do you remember?):
Though he is cut off the ticket, I assure you that the Captain was there with Tennille, which yielded, oddly enough, the Captain and Tennille. This was shortly after their TV show was cancelled, and they were touring in support of their third album, Come in From the Rain. May the heavens have mercy on me for knowing so much about the Captain and Tennille. Mom and Dad took me to this one, so I'm thinkin' Squirl came along of her own free will, instead of as my babysitter. They put on an excellent show, and if you have anything bad to say about C&T, I've got a grabby little pucker for your tongue. It was at the LC Walker Arena in Muskegon, and some comic whose name I can't remember opened for them. All I remember is, I was 13 years old, and even then I could pick out a lame comedian when I saw one.
Now, since both the Captain and Tennille spent time touring as part of the Beach Boys (yes, Toni Tennille was the first and only Beach Girl), it seems like kind of a logical progression that they would be my first two concerts. But then my third concert threw that pattern right out the car window like a can of Blatz with hair in it:
It seems my musical tastes took a complete detour somewhere in the months following the Captain and Tennille concert. I had become hooked on this Tom Waits character, and when I heard he would be at Grand Valley, I begged, literally begged, Squirl to take me. The tickets were something insanely cheap, like eight bucks a head, and she graciously acquiesced. The show was in a tiny little auditorium in the college, intimate as could be, and when Tom took the stage, I knew I would never be the same again. He was on tour for Blue Valentines, and he had a gas pump and a lamp post on the stage as props. During the show, Tom swigged on a bottle of whiskey, spit on the stage when he felt the need, and put out some of the best live music I've ever heard, even to this day. It was a fairly long show, but the one song that stands out more than any other is Burma Shave, with just Tom and the piano. On the drive home, I was chattering a mile a minute in my overwhelming excitement, and to her credit, Squirl did not even once stop the car and push me out.
I just ain't been right since then. We can blame it on Tom Waits.
And just to prove that point, here's another item I found today that I just can't bear to discard:
I may or may not have added Photoshop jizz. You be the judge. Plus, I haven't used the word "jizz" in a post in days and days.
What? You didn't really expect a whole post of sincerity from me, did you?
October 14....why does that date make me think something happens today?
Why do I suddenly have the urge to put on a bicycle helmet and sing "Happy Birthday"?
That's right, you guessed it (or maybe you didn't, but just play along, 'kay?) - it is the birthday, the solemn and sacred birthday, of my brother Tardist. And now that you've all heard the Sandy Duncan tapes, you know just how warm a welcome to extend to him. I'm listening to his song March of the Crippled Parrot as I write this, and I have to say, I find it inspiring.
When I first moved to Flint, Tardist and I spent more hours than anybody could count without an abacus writin' and recordin' our songs and skits, makin' cartoons to send to Hustler, drinkin' Budweiser, and obsessin' over Frank Zappa. Good times!
Now we don't see each other nearly often enough, but we can still pick up right where we left off with the utter foolishness that we've perfected and have sought to patent. Tardist, I know I don't ever tell you this, but I love you, man. Just don't expect any mercy when next I see you.
So please go over to Tardist's blog and wish him a Happy Birthday!
I STAND CORRECTED. Sandy Duncan did, in fact, appear in advertisements for Wheat Thins, and not Triscuits, as I had maintained in my comments on the last post. Boy, is my face hairy and red.
After recklessly enjoying a large helping of pineapple curry from Bangkok Peppers on Tuesday, I now understand that there's a reason that "curry" rhymes with "hurry."
So don't feed me curry unless it's your idea of a good time to watch me trip and knock stuff over in my desperate rush for the bathroom.
I get the feeling from the response to my last post that what you guys really, really, strongly want from me is more Sandy Duncan content. Let me see what I can do. I'll keep an eye out for her.
First I was pickin' on Florence Henderson, now it's Sandy Duncan; how long do you think Shirley Jones is safe?
Would it be wrong, terribly wrong, to use tampons as earrings? Yes? Well, what about fresh ones?
Ghost of Goldwater commented here recently: "This blog is getting curioser and curioser. Ever tried Ritalin?" My answer? No! Ritalin just gets between me and my muse. I'm afraid if I take Ritalin, Gumby just won't be as attractive to me anymore. I do, however, lick every toad that will hold still for me.
Note to the toads: if you do hold still, it will be every bit as good for you as it is for me.
I used to belong to a newsgroup that centered around body modifications, as I am tatooed and at the time had several body piercings. My departure from the group was precipitated by the response I received to a post wherein I confessed a certain zen satisfaction with my jewelry-washing routine. The replies I received were rude, and in the vein of "Oh I can't believe you said anything so mundane as 'I like to wash my piercings.'" and "Oh, you Americans are so obsessed with cleanliness" - um, he only said that because he couldn't see my kitchen counters - and other helpings of sarcasm, disdain, and needless negativity. This from a group where someone could post of their desire to cut off a completely functional finger for the sake of body art, and that post would receive dozens of positive, enthusiastic replies. Okay, you pretentious fuckers. I'll be back when I get the urge to lop off my nipples for the fun of it.
Do you think I could then sell my nipples on Ebay? And would I sell 'em as a set, or try to get more cash/shipping for separate sale? Would they fetch a higher price if I packaged 'em in velvet-lined nipple boxes?
Who wants to buy my nipples? I guess as a courtesy, I should offer 'em here first. Slightly used, never passed any serious milk through 'em. First person to bid on both as a set will receive, at no additional charge, one lead crystal nipple display case, as seen on TV (tm). Runners-up will receive porcelain replicas of my nipples, lovingly handcrafted by unemployed Swedish chefs. Mork mork mork. (Caveat: we all know what happens when I promise gifts and prizes. *cough* Rice-a-Roni scam *cough*)
On second thought, maybe the Ritalin isn't such a bad idea...
If you think Chihuahuas weren't bred for the sexual gratification of wealthy women, then you need to pull up a chair and get yourself some learnin', and pronto.
Follow my logic (but, by all means, put on protective gear first):
Chihuahuas are small, and thus easily portable by women, even women weakened by generations of aristocracy and inbreeding.
They are already hairless when you get them, which prevents all those embarassing questions like "Why is the hair rubbed off part of your dog?" Lack of hair also makes them infinitely easier to clean, though one should still maintain a cool temperature for hand washing, reshape and lay flat to dry.
Lemme clue you in to something: it's hot in Mexico. There is no reason, even their relative nudity, that those dogs should shiver. How many rich women have clasped a Chihuahua authoritatively between their ample thighs "just to warm up poor, shivering little Fernando"? Chihuahuas are walking, yapping vibrators.
Finally, I have proof that Chihuahuas are not victims in all this. As a matter of fact, they're kinky little bastards who often carry their own, uh, "accessories":
Yo quiero discipline
If I've planted this seed correctly, you'll never look at the Taco Bell Chihuahua the same, ever again.
I had occasion to dig out a coat I haven't worn since early last spring. I'd forgotten what my coats were like when I smoked. Here's what I found when I dug in the left pocket:
Hopefully I won't be diggin' stale cigars and cellophane out of my coats for too much longer. And in case you were wonderin', these crunchy motherfuckers held absolutely no temptation for me. Four months off the stogies now...I'm sure as hell not gonna fall off the smokey wagon for the equivalent of a dried cat turd.