Lazy Bucky's quickies

I'm here to give it to you short and sweet. Wait, that's not exactly a ringing endorsement of the experience, is it? Aw, fuck it.

• Song I am apt to play over and over and over and over and over: Chick Habit by April March. '60s girl-group sweet sound wrapped around a rather morbid little ditty. I sure hope my neighbors think it's as catchy as I do.
  
  
• I call this Electric Mutant Pretzel:
  
  
  
  Obviously the product of inbreeding.
  
  
  
• Tomorrow I wend my way to Indiana to celebrate my birthday with some top-drawer music and fun at a Candye Kane show. This will be the first time I've gone out dateless on my birthday since I turned 20 (my 21st birthday is a whole other story I should probably tell y'all sometime), so I hope that doesn't mean I'll be getting piss drunk and showing my underpins all over the bar. If it goes down that way, I'll make sure to tell you all about it (provided I remember any of it).
  
  
• Tardist and I had perhaps a bit more fun than two supposedly adult people should have while drawing on a watermelon with a black marker last night. I also sketched some pictures that, frankly, disturb even me. I'll make sure to get photos so I can share. Tardist is a bad influence - I was a nice girl until I started hanging out with him (42 years ago).
  
  
• Saturday, Thirteen decided it was too much trouble to go all the way out into the kitchen to get a drink of water, so he just helped himself to my cup of water on the floor:
  
  
  
  That's my boy - can't keep his face out of the monkey!
  
  
  
• There are roughly 403 things I need to do for travel readiness today, but instead, here I sit dicking around in front of the computer. Perhaps it would help if all of you, in unison, were to chant "Do your laundry, bitch! Do your laundry, bitch!"
  
  
• I'll try to post from the road (I'm actually taking my laptop this time, so no more of those odd, aborted text messages from my phone). No pictures of my underpins, though. Not unless you request them by name.
  

At least she didn't say "coochie snorcher"

Underpins.

Does that word make you laugh? It makes me giggle like a schoolgirl with a Sharpie up her ass.

You see, "underpins" was my mother's preferred euphemism for genitals. I believe it applied to either gender, though I associated it most often with the female naughty bits.

That is why, when I see something like this, I kinda sorta lose control and pee myself just a little bit:
















Ooooh, I want some Burberry underpins! I want to be the first girl in the trailer park with a distinctive checked pattern on my underpins.

Didn't know I was so fashion-conscious, didja?







Alright, that was exceptionally stupid and pointless. Sorry. Here, have some boobs!


Consolation prize.

It's Thursday; where are my pants?

You know what I've done today that was worthwhile, constructive, beneficial to mankind or at least to myself? Nothing. Exactly nothing. You know what else? My only emotional response to that is Tough Titty!

Well, okay, I did do one thing: I watched a movie that I've been wanting to see for years. It's been pointedly recommended to me on many occasions by my friends, one of those "Oh, Katy, YOU have to see this; it's as sick as you are!" kind of movies. After unsuccessfully searching for it in every video rental store I ever entered, I finally gave up and ordered the motherfucker. Well..."motherfucker" isn't exactly accurate for this movie, but it's close. I'm referring to a little gem called The House of Yes, and it is so wrong wrong wrong that it could be the centerpiece of the Museum of Things That Are Very Wrong. It features Parker Posey in what may well be her very finest moment of dementia; Genevieve Bujold is also brilliantly weird as the matriarch of a truly fucked-up family unit. This movie is not for the faint of heart or the easily offended, but if you're neither of those things, I encourage you to find it and see how it feels to shake your head in utter disbelief and shake with laughter simultaneously.

Oh, another thing I did today involved potato preparation. Did I cook? Oh, hell no! I'm talking about a manlier kind of spud, the spud of my dreams, the stud of the spuds.



Looks ain't deceivin' - you see before you the Spider-Spud, a gift from Squirl and just another drop in the bucket of my lunacy. I already wear jammies and slippers out of the house far too often to be considered anywhere near normal. How far down the slope is it from playing with a Spider-Man Mr. Potato Head to making puppets out of my own poop? I don't really have an answer to that, but I'll be sure to videotape the puppet show when it happens.

Atomic soda

Stilled, for the moment, by a
Tremendous lack of wheels.
Should it have taken this long for
Everything to turn dark?
Here's where I went wrong when
I turned down that road;
I knew I should've
Held the center lane and
Not swerved so hard.

Go on, look away and tell me
It doesn't matter;
When does sweet turn from sweet
To sour to bitter?

It's like breaking rocks to
Move, one foot, now the other,
Step it up! Step it up!
You're damned if you atrophy,
Fucked if you don't.
I used to sit at this counter when
I was a virgin
But I weigh more now and
I care much less.

Go on, look away and tell me
It doesn't matter;
When does sweet turn from sweet
To sour to bitter?

The ugly truth

You probably ask yourself, fairly often, "I wonder what Katy does with her free time when she's not shaving her back or jacking off her Al Pacino dolls."

Well, wonder no more!




They're the only ones I can grab these days without getting slapped.

I USED to want my MTV

Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, I had reason to tune in to MTV. I won't talk about the early '80s, because I'd be embarrassed to admit a lot of the videos that tripped my trigger in those days. But when it came to the later '80s and early '90s? That was some righteous shit I could really sink my buck teeth into.

Remember Siouxsie and the Banshees?




All these years later, Peekaboo is still one of my favorite videos.



And how about They Might Be Giants?




Gotta go see those guys again sometime...



Now, allow me to go off on a whole tangent about one MTV program, Liquid Television. This was one of the best shows in the history of television, and if you disagree with me, you can just go hump a broken window. Animation and experimental film collided to provide a lovely visual chaos that still makes my nipples hum the Battle Hymn of the Republic.

Some of the regular features on the show included:

Winter Steele



I thought she was waaaaaay more of a badass than Aeon Flux.



Invisible Hands



"Aha! If only the Mahoney twins were alive to see this!"




Dog Boy






Stick Figure Theater






God, I miss that shit. I need a time machine. Or a comprehensive Liquid Television DVD boxed set (hint hint, MTV execs who are clamoring to read my blog).

No, on second thought, I'll stick with the time machine. I'm also nostalgic for my early '90s physique. I want my pre-gravity boobs!

If a picture is worth a thousand words, I sure hope I'm getting paid by the word

Tonight, the world is my puppet show. Only with photographs instead of puppets. Hard to tell the difference sometimes, innit? Y'ever find yourself trying to jam your hand up the ass of a Polaroid?

No?

I'll be slinking away in a fantastic imitation of shame now.



Imagine my consternation upon seeing this in my small-town childhood book shop. Oh, it's that kind of bookstore now, is it?





Toby Maguire lookin' all badass in Spiderman 3.





This is my small-town childhood grocery store. Now it's all about the Almighty Wiener, baby.





...so don't forget to put down a tarp!

Block party

The Block. I have the Block, in my head. So it stands to reason that I am a Blockhead.

There are three or four creative endeavors that I really need to pursue right now, including the Cotillion, but I feel like a giant foot has dropped from the heavens and blocked all my forward progress. A giant, smelly foot. Insult to injury and all that. I just know there are hordes of new little ideas battering themselves against the large limburger limb, but so far, none of them has made its way to me. It's akin to being horribly constipated, except that at least when your caboose is backed up, there are pills and squirt bottles just waiting in the wings for their chance to liberate the ass masses. To the best of my knowledge, there aren't any brain enemas on the market. Maybe I need to have some kind of peyote-fueled revelation in the desert, except I don't have any peyote, I'm nowhere near a desert, and frankly, I'm not fond of any leisure activity that includes guaranteed vomiting.

It's not like I lack for material.

Shouldn't I be able to write something about what it feels like to suddenly end up living back in my home town, twenty-three years after getting the hell out of here? There's at least one hefty post, but much as I drive around and nudge dormant memories, it just doesn't feel like that topic has cooked long enough for me to serve it to you yet. And the fact that I'm single again, for the first time in twenty years? Lots to write about that, but I'm miles from ready to approach the subject.

Those are two big rocks in the stream, but surely there's water getting around the rocks, right? I find it a lot easier to deal with images than with words these days. I can - and do - play in Photoshop for hours without realizing how much time has passed. That's good, because a lot of what I need to do for my other projects is heavily visual. It's the projects that need storylines that are fucking with me right now.

This morning, however, I took a positive step toward worming my way past the Block. I don't know why I didn't think of it sooner - it's so obvious I could put my own foot up my ass for taking this long. What a maroon! What a ta-ra-ra-goon-de-ay!

I ordered a wig.

Yes, that's right, FedEx is at this very moment rushing to my door with a fab-a-lous new wig. Fab-a-lous and cheap, which makes it even more beautiful in my big book of reckoning. I can't exactly tell you what it's for yet, but I think its presence will help sneak some ideas over where I can get at 'em. Hell, maybe I'll wear it while I write. It can be my thinking cap. The day I start walking the neighborhood wearing the wig, though, is the day I expect my family and friends to launch an intervention.

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Everybody get an extra-tall drink and toast with me, to the birthday of Muskrat crooning icon Toni Tennille. My, how your bulldog has grown!

Also, I'm lame and I know I still owe interview questions to a few of you. I promise I haven't forgotten y'all.

The fried chicken chronicles

Before I get down to brass monkey nuts about the concert, I need to show you this:



Eeyore surveys his kingdom from atop the kitchen cabinets.

If you don't think he's adorable, you can just go back to sucking turn-of-the-century jizz out of Phyllis Diller's ass.

Now, on with the show:



Left to right: Dave Hartman, Rick Miller, Mary Huff

I really wish I'd had a better camera than the one on my phone, but some of the shots turned out better than I'd expected.




After the show, I wrote down as many of the songs as I could remember. There are probably a couple I've missed, but I got most of 'em. The order is not necessarily representative of the show, except that they opened with Too Much Pork followed by Funnel of Love, and the final number was The Great Atomic Power.

Too Much Pork for Just One Fork
Funnel of Love
Double Wide
Dirt Track Date
Wet Spot
Mojo Box
Jack the Ripper (I think - it was either that or Deja Vroom)
House of Bamboo (I about peed my pants with delight over the inclusion of this one)



Voodoo Cadillac
Rose Garden
Wolverton Mountain
The Man Who Wrestles the Bear
Happy Jack
Life's a Gas
Liquored Up and Lacquered Down
Corn Liquor
King of the Mountain
Viva del Santo (another pants pee-er - complete with masked Santo onstage, dancing with wild abandon)



Chicken Shit Farmer
Eight-Piece Box
Tobacco Road
White Trash
Meximelt
The Great Atomic Power




I'm happy to report that I survived the onslaught of flung fried chicken with nary a grease spot on me. Well, none that I didn't make myself.

If you're inclined to check out all my cameraphone shots from the show, you can viddy my SCOTS set on Flickr.

What the hell was that?

I found a nice little place where I'm renting a computer by the hour. That's right - this computer is my whore. Don't worry - I'm typing with a condom on. Wouldn't want to give y'all cooties.

As you can see from my last post(s), I was experimenting with the email-to-publish Blogger format. The first time I sent it, I got a text back from Blogger saying it wasn't a valid address; I know it is a valid address, so I resent it, this time successfully. After talking to Squirl this morning, I realize that it posted the first time anyway. And neither one of them posted all the text I intended, either.

What I *meant* to say is that I'm pretty sure the band members were in the rooms next to mine at the hotel. When I got into my room yesterday afternoon, I donned my jammies and bedded down for my traditional post-travel, pre-concert nap. This is how old people manage to have a night life - it's all about strategic napping. Just as I was settling in, the sound of an acoustic guitar being played in the next room became nearly as clear as if it had been in the room with me. Normally I'd have been a little annoyed, but the person playing was doin' some fancy pickin', and I was actually enjoying it, so I just kind of closed my eyes and went with it. The El runs right outside my hotel, so it's not like this was the quietest location to begin with.

Just about the time I was accustomed to the roar of the El, the din of traffic, and the guitar in the next room, and was just drifting off to sleep, the guitar player began doing vocal warmups. You know, wordless exercises and scales, complete with fancy key changes and everything. There was something pointedly familiar about the voice, and it dawned on me that it sounded just like Rick Miller, the lead singer for Southern Culture on the Skids. That would make sense - the hotel is within walking distance from the concert venue, and it's not the most expensive stayover in Chicago, either. It's not like this is a big-budget band - they travel in a van that doesn't always make it to shows (like last time I was supposed to see them) and Rick and the drummer, Dave Hartman, set up their own equipment last night. It's a no-frills operation - I'm sure these guys don't stay at the Allegro when they're here.

So, I don't know for a fact that they were in the next room, but I'd be willing to bet money and my virginity that I'm right. I'll post more about the show when I'm home and can upload all the pictures I took with my phone. Now I regret leaving my camera (and my video camera) at home. I was in a prime spot to get some monster shots, and I don't think getting video of the show would be an issue, either (SCOTS have a liberal policy about recordings of their shows). There are five little 20-second video clips I took with my phone, but I can't email them - the phone says the file is too big! I'm going to be royally pissed if I can't find a way to get these things off my phone and useable elsewhere.

More on all this later. I'm wandering around the LakeView neighborhood while I wait for my train, doin' a little shopping and dining (though I was not crazy about the sushi place where I just had lunch...you win some, then other times you get fake crab covered in masago). I wandered into what I thought was a jewelry shop, but the only rings they had for sale were the vibrating kind. I don't know who has fingers big enough for this kind of jewelry, but I'm guessing it's someone who handles poultry, because they were calling them "cock rings." These crazy big-city folk! You don't think they're actually putting jewelry on their roosters, do you?

I need to do some actual work while I'm online, but I thought I'd at least check in and give you a complete and nonduplicated post.

Remember - if you can't behave, at least don't get caught!

The show was brilliant! I was right against the stage. Also, I'm pretty sure the band is staying next to me at the h

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