Tardist, my friend Theirzal and I ventured up to the Muskegon Summer Celebration kick-off night in order to be bathed in the healing power of the clever song parody, to bask in the white-hot glow of an accordion played at lightning speed by a man with crazy eyes and enough hair to make us all a sweater. And really, a sweater would've been great; I haven't said anything like this since my a/c-less house has had me melting into a puddle of tard, but it was fucking chilly at the festival last night! I guess the fact that the fairgrounds are right on the water makes a ton of difference. I'd lugged a fleece jacket with me, but poor Theirzal was shivering, wrapped up in the tarp she'd brought in case of rain. At least Tardist wasn't injured at this show; it seems like it was the last time he and I went to a concert together that he collided, pee-pee first, with a concrete stanchion in the parking lot, as an onlooker commented "Whoa! Vicious hit!"
I'd seen Weird Al once before, back in 1984 at the Kentucky State Fair, accompanied by my very unwilling and bored cousin who just wanted to get back to the midway to flirt with the toothless carnies. The show last night was decidedly more high-tech and a whole lot better funded than the first time I saw him. There were multiple costume changes, and lots of vintage Al videos projected on the giant screens on either side of the stage. Let me just say right now, the man is a hell of an accordionist. He's also a killer vocalist, whether he's singing in his natural voice or imitating another singer, and he had the crowd in the palm of his white, nerdy hand. The crowd itself was a wonder to behold, a huge gathering of folks from babies to retirees, and everything in between, all delighted by the show, many singing along to most of the songs.
It all boils down to one thing: Weird Al has been kicking ass for a long fucking time.
Here's a list of the songs played, compiled after the show. The order of the songs is not representative here, except that he did open with Polkarama (the polka medley from Straight Outta Lynwood) and his final encore song was Albuquerque. Also, a number of the songs were featured in a long medley, but I can't remember exactly which ones were in there.
Polkarama Amish Paradise Gump Bedrock Anthem The Saga Begins Yoda You're Pitiful Fat Eat It Smells Like Nirvana (they even had hairy-pitted cheerleaders onstage!) Bob (the palindrome song) Ebay Ode to a Superhero Pretty Fly for a Rabbi It's All About the Pentiums White and Nerdy Canadian Idiot I'll Sue Ya Confessions Part 3 Weasel Stomping Day Close But No Cigar Trapped in the Drive Through Do I Creep You Out? We've All Got Cell Phones Albuquerque
Crappy camera phone pictures of the screen at stage left, because they were all "Noooo cameras!" at the gate.
I might go back to the fest on Saturday night to check out Kenny Wayne Shepherd, though I have to admit that I'm actually more interested in seeing his opening band, Black Stone Cherry. Even if I don't go, I still have Tool coming up next week, and I'm seeing Zappa Plays Zappa later in July (and then possibly They Might Be Giants if I'm not too whipped from my ZPZ trip).
If my eardrums aren't ruptured by September, it's not for lack of tryin'.
Believe it or not, this was done without the aid of the Atkins Diet, the South Beach Diet, or the Buttplug Olympics Diet.
For various reasons (doesn't that sound nefarious?), I've un-published a significant number of my old posts. Some of them were taken down to respect the privacy of those who might be mentioned in the posts; this wasn't requested of me, but I thought it was the nice thing to do. Really, though, don't get used to "nice" from me, because it's not gonna happen again for another ten years or so. Until then, I'll be your usual cantankerous cunt.
The remainder of the ghost posts were taken down because the stories are being reworked, given the loving attention they deserved in the first place, instead of the "slap 'em down and hit 'Publish'" treatment they got. The revision and fine tuning are making me very happy so far. It feels good to untangle an awkward sentence structure. And in case you're wondering? Yes - that is my euphemism for masturbation as well.
Speaking of masturbation, I'm still painting; I didn't spend my whole load on the whore clown. For those who don't like clowns, you probably won't be fond of the new one either, as it's a companion piece to Whore clown in decline. Who the fuck knows why I went with the clown theme? I don't even like clowns. I guess the clown theme kinda decided on me. The clowns called and I answered. Because they just kept coming out of that little car, one after another after another...
Amazingly, in almost a week of my painting, Thirteen has only landed unceremoniously in the middle of my drafting table twice. Friday knows enough to just sit in my lap while I paint, but I always see Thirteen angling for some way to get up in the middle of whatever I'm doing. It's so hot here, you'd think he'd just wanna find himself a cool spot and plop down there. But that's not the Way of the Kitten, apparently. Wow, I guess I can't call 'em kittens for much longer. I figure they were born in late August last year, so they're almost full-grown boys. Guess it's time to import some more kittens.
Oh, dear...did I type that?
This post is going straight to nowhere, so I'll put a merciful end to it now. There's this awkward sentence structure, and I feel an urgent need to untangle it.
Now that I've rediscovered painting, I seem to be un-discovering other things, like remembering to eat, or basic hygiene. Yesterday, I ping-ponged all day between painting, editing my book, and grading papers. If we could replace the "grading papers" with "soaked in the tub while savoring a glass of chianti" that would be even better. But it was still a great day.
As for getting over that "first painting in a million years" hump, once I'd stared holes in the 8 by 10 canvas for an hour or so, I just jumped in with my brushes blazing and no real plan. Turned out to be just the right thing, and the result is my newest proof of mental illness, entitled Whore clown in decline:
Apologies for the blurry picture; I just held the painting in one hand and the camera in the other. I'll take nicer pictures with a tripod and such later. Right now, I've got another painting started, and I hear it calling me.
"All the Dude ever wanted was his rug back." The Big Lebowski
All the bitch ever wanted was a drafting table.
I want to paint, I need somewhere to do it, and a drafting table sounded like my best all-round solution for that which I loosely call artwork. So off I went to Hobby Lobby, where I found the most beautiful little wooden drafting table with a matching stool for $99.
Lately, I have been afflicted with Badly Made Furniture, whereby the "ready-to-assemble" pieces are no more ready to assemble than a priest is ready to take his dick out of the altar boy's mouth. I thought I'd found the absolute biggest pile of crap in the world when I bought a nightstand at Meijer, which I was able to assemble only in the broadest of terms, and which looked like it had just come home after a three-day bender. I couldn't even get the drawer assembled; luckily, Tardist came over and employed his brute strength to get even the drawer in place. I was certain that I'd hit rock bottom and would never again find such a piece of shit masquerading as something useful for my household.
That, of course, was before I opened my Hobby Lobby drafting table.
Really, I should've known something was amiss when I began to pull the pieces out of the box and found a stray screw, just chilling with no apparent purpose. Upon taking an inventory based upon the "instructions" (this is where I would insert a highly sarcastic and slightly bitter laugh), I could see that the screw wasn't part of the hardware package, and it didn't match anything in there, so it wasn't a spare. It remained a mystery until I looked at the underside of the table top. There were supposed to be supports already attached, but everything on there was just about to fall off, and I could see from whence my orphaned screw had originated. When I tried to refasten the supports, the screws just turned and turned and never tightened; it was like fucking the Grand Canyon with a pencil. Reasoning that I could just buy some bigger screws and fix it, I continued to hold out hope that this would actually be furniture sometime within the month. Soon, however, I realized that most of the screws were the wrong size for their designated holes, and even the legs and such with the little wooden pegs would in no way, shape, or form fit where they were supposed to fit. I've never seen a bigger clusterfuck in one box.
I went online and ordered a new drafting table, like I should have done in the first place. I put that one together yesterday, and wonder of wonder, miracle of miracles, all the pieces fit just like they were supposed to! Consequently, I spent three hours last night painting, for the first time in at least 15 years. I couldn't even tell you the last time I used acrylics; maybe 25 years ago? Yes, I should absolutely be painting my house instead of a canvas, but you know what? Fuck that! Don't you know this is National I Don't Give a Shit Week?
This afternoon, I returned the drafting unable table to Hobby Lobby, whereupon I spent my refund on some brilliant new shades of paint which I am too lazy to mix myself from primaries. I should be having my first gallery show...oh, let's see...that would be about the time hell freezes over.
On my way home from Hobby Lobby, some tweaker cunt in a Chrysler New Yorker nearly ran my car off the road. I don't know what her motive was, but without benefit of a turn signal, a glance my way, or even a gesture of "Here I come!" she pulled her rustbucket right into my lane; if I hadn't hit the brakes, we'd have activated our Wonder Twin powers right there on southbound US-31. Oh, man, was I pissed! As I rode up on her sorry ass, I thought of all the ways drivers like her should be punished, and I decided on the ultimate torture: I will run her off the road, yank her bony ass out of her car, and force her to assemble Hobby Lobby drafting tables for eternity.
Someone found my site today via a search for the phrase "popsicle in the ass."
I looked on Google, and of the four results that appear for my search string "popsicle in the ass," the top two refer to my blog, and the third is another blogger referring to one of my pictures on his own site.
I'm all swelled up with pride. Or is that from the cookies?
Here's what's playing kick-the-can in my frontal lobe as I avoid the actual work I have in front of me:
Recently, I ordered an instructional and strictly educational book called Garage Glamour: Digital Nude and Beauty Photography Made Simple. When it arrived, I saw that the mailing label also included the following information:
YOUR ITEM ENCLOSED: GARAGE GLAMOUR - DIGITAL NUDE
That was it. They cut the title off there. So, not only did they feel the need to announce my purchase to the world, or at least to the mailman, but they didn't even leave on the part of the title that indicated its high-quality educational value. Now people are gonna think I'm some kind of deviate.
You'd best believe I won't be subscribing to Busty Sluts With Hand Grenades Quarterly from these guys anytime soon.
Don't know my own strength. Last night, during a post-midnight shopping excursion to Meijer, I was having a routine grope through the avocado bin when POP! one of them burst in my hand. There I stood, slightly aghast as I beheld my green, mush-covered fingers, made even more vivid and horrible by the grocery store lighting. It took me a minute to regain my composure; I hadn't seen anything like this since my ill-fated one night stand with the Hulk (although he was so sweet and apologetic afterward, and even sent over a fruit basket). Just like that time, I took care of it with a Kleenex and went on about my business.
My air conditioning unit is officially a pile of crap. Much as it pains and annoys me, mostly the annoying part, I must replace it in the near future. It's already this hot in June (lots of 80s this week), I can't imagine what it will be like in August. If it were just me, I'd live with fans, but there's no way I'm putting the cats through that, especially Eeyore. Really, when you translate cat years vs. human years, he's over 100 years old! I think he deserves to have his handsome, furry ass kissed at all costs.
I need to get the paintbrush back in my hand and at least get the living room/hallway finished. Jess is coming to visit in a couple of weeks, so maybe that will give me the incentive to get that room done and get the furniture moved around. Ostensibly, she's coming to visit me so we can go to a concert and hang out for a few days, but I have the feeling that she's going to steal Thirteen when she's here. And, truthfully, some days I'd giftwrap the little fucker for her! I'd even throw in a squirt bottle, free of charge.
There's no telling how or why it happened, but I just looked in the mirror and found that I had ice cream on my forehead. I must have gone at it with some vigor.
Whenever I see a musical instrument that's all white, or white with black accents, I automatically name that instrument "Casper." My first electric guitar, so cheap it didn't even have a brand name, was a Casper. It's not that I'm unduly fond of the friendly ghost, no offense to the little ethereal motherfucker. No, this all stems from my short but memorable stint playing string bass in junior high school. The school had a white fiberglass bass which I was allowed to keep at home for extended periods of time - that bass was nicknamed Casper (actually, that applied to any white fiberglass bass in the school system; Squirl used to bring home the high school's Casper when she was in the orchestra, too). The sound wasn't like what you could get out of the wood basses, but it sure was sharp to behold.
Thinking about Casper got me to wondering what my life would've been like if I hadn't been such a lazy, rebellious little turd, if I hadn't dropped out of orchestra after seventh grade, if I'd accepted that invitation to play bass for the West Shore Youth Symphony. Chances are I'd have gone on to be a music major in college, and I'd be making my living as a classical musician now. I don't know what the pay scale is for that, but it sounds like a pretty fulfilling line of work. I wouldn't even be bitchy about the clothes now like I was in junior high.
Of course, my continued employment would be completely dependent upon my ability to keep secret the fact that I'd be back there behind my bass, making up dirty lyrics to Mozart and drawing penis pictures on my sheet music. Also, busting out the rockabilly moves with the string bass would probably be ill advised, although I think some strategic spinnin' and slappin' would give a real boost to any performance of the 1812 Overture.
Maybe I'll just start my own orchestra. We'll include all the standard instruments, of course, but we'll also throw in some of our own embellishments, like kazoo and electric accordion. All the musicians will be wearing wifebeaters and boxer shorts (and bedroom slippers; this is a classy operation). I would really like to have strippers onstage, too, but that might be beyond the initial budget...unless the strippers are also the accordion players. Oh, but that could be quite pinchy; the details will need to be ironed out on that one.
The instruments would all be painted with fluorescent colors so the concerts could be held under black light. It'd be just like glow bowling, but with classical music and no balls. The conductor would use a glow stick, and we'd give everyone in the audience a hit of Ecstasy; that way, they'd love us no matter how much we suck. Hell, everybody in the orchestra would probably get laid after the show at that rate!
Challenges for position within the orchestra would henceforth be decided by the outcome of sword fights using French bows (it's advisable to borrow your weapons from the cellists). Eye gouging is not only permissible, it's recommended. Do you really want first chair or don't you?
If you believe you would be interested in becoming part of the Cotillion Symphony, applications can be obtained by buying me a nice big plate of crab legs and some expensive wine. Oral sex is never a bad strategy, either.
For you, I have drawn the Princess card. The Princess card signifies things about who you are and who you will be. You have a naturally regal bearing, and people will follow you, not necessarily for your sense of authority but because of your personal charisma. It is entirely likely that you will marry for money and position, and you will inevitably insist that your husband sleep in the wet spot, when there is a wet spot to be slept in, of course. Servants will fear and despise you because of your violent outbursts involving scissors and giblets. Most everyone will whisper that you are mad, completely and utterly mad, but you will forgive them all, just before you put their heads on pikes, because they could not possibly understand the scope of your mission. The only reason your untreated syphilis will not kill you is that you will choke to death on a stray pubic hair in your tossed salad before the brain ravages can become fatal.
The blue gypsy has spoken. Don't forget your tiara, and please take care not to rub your genitals on anything as you exit the tent.
Didja hear about the nudist who jumped over the fence and got caught by the fuzz?
Would you like to know what kind of day I had yesterday?
You know I'm gonna tell you whether or not you actually want to hear it, right? Just so we're clear.
I had the kind of day where you take (and swallow) three or four bites of Mexican sweet bread before realizing that the bottom of said sweet bread is covered in a light green fuzz, and it ain't a patch of shamrocks.
Like, gag me with a fungus!
On a happy note, Bravo is making all my gay television dreams come true by starting the new season of Kathy Griffin: My Life on the D-List. The woman is absolutely caustic and the gayboys worship her, which I guess is why she's found a home on Bravo. In other Bravo gay-related news, the new season of Top Chef starts next week. Now, do I record South Park and watch Top Chef, or do I record Top Chef and watch South Park? The only thing that could make this better is if somebody could tell me when the next season of Project Runway airs!
Oh, and speaking of high fashion, here's the long-promised photo of my fancy socks and bedroom slippers at the bar last week:
Here's why it is, perhaps, a little dangerous to leave me alone for such long stretches of time:
A few other notes for the night:
Squirl got me a birthday card that has a picture of a princess on the front, and on the inside it reads:
She rarely passed gas, but when she did, it came out pink and glittery, and it smelled like candy, and people cried when it went away.
She's been my sister for a long time - she oughta know!
In the middle of my David Lynch DVD-fest lately, I have found something even more surreal and disturbing to watch: The 3-DVD set of the best of the Captain and Tennille Show! Oh, the production numbers! Oh, the jawdroppingly awful costumes and sets! Oh, the ABC tie-in guest stars in the lamest comedy skits you will ever call "comedy skits" and not "suicide notes." Don't get me wrong; having this 30-years-later re-viewing of my once-favorite show has not lessened my adoration for the Captain and Tennille. On the contrary, this is giving me so many laughs I can share with my family and friends that I love them even a little bit more for releasing this bundle of joy into my life. Really, you haven't lived until you've seen Toni Tennille, clad in blue silk overalls and a straw hat, perform Elton John's Honky Cat while dancing among a half dozen of the lightest-loafered boys in the biz (also in overalls and straw hats). Yes, I suppose I've had the campiest of weekends.
Friday woke me up this morning by hooking a claw into my left big toe. I yanked my foot as I awoke, making it ever so much worse, and the pain was absolutely searing and insistent. I cursed my way to the bathroom, then went back to bed without really looking at my throbbing toe. When I came out of my morning stupor a few hours later, I examined my foot in the light and saw that my toe had bled more than a bit.
Now I'm worried; do you think the kittens are drinking my blood while I'm asleep? If so, do you think it will cause them to grow thumbs? I can't think of many nightmares worse than vampire kittens with opposable thumbs.
Some of what you are about to see may actually enhance your life; some of it, not. Proceed at your own risk!
Doe-Me-Doe Duds from the movie The 5,000 Fingers of Dr. T.
This is one of the gayest things I've ever seen, and I mean that in the best possible way. Even better? It was written by Dr. Seuss.
How to Make Poop (High Quality)
With a name like the German Porn Master, you know this has to be high-caliber stuff. Warning: High EWWWWW factor (in case the name "How to Make Poop" didn't tip you off). Personally, I believe he's overthinking it...there are simpler ways to make poop. I've got a panful I could send him.