Thoughts floating through my mind as I watch VH1 Classic, for no apparent reason except that I had on Madonna: Truth or Dare last night and just didn't change the channel:
Because Boy George would not specifically admit to being homosexual in interviews, I remember many people who actually believed he was not gay. Of course, those same people still think George Michael and Barry Manilow are straight, too.
Come to think of it, after watching about an hour of this, I've come to the conclusion that all the men in the '80s were gay. Just watch the Commodores' video for Nightshift and tell me I'm wrong. Clay Aiken was born too late.
Okay, they weren't all gay. There were the ugly balding fuckers like Phil Collins and Mark Knopfler, too. Bet they cashed in on all the pussy the pretty boys were passing up in the day. (Do you think it would confuse most people if a gay man wore a t-shirt emblazoned with the motto "I eschew pussy"?)
Why is her name Lisa Lisa? Wasn't one "Lisa" good enough for the bitch?
Did anyone ever actually take the band Men At Work seriously? I was speechless as I witnessed the lead singer step dancing in orange parachute pants. Is it normal for TV to trigger a need for Dramamine?
So many of the hairstyles look like festive porcupines perched atop the head; I have this insane urge to call animal control.
I still hate Money For Nothing with the same fresh venom I had for it when I'd seen the wretched video for the 43,274th time the first week it came out.
Elton John's squirrely little face under a pompadour wig is just downright unsettling in the video for I Guess That's Why They Call It the Blues. Why didn't somebody at least slap some shades on him, fer chrissake?
Someone needs to put an end to this '80s fashion nostalgia bullshit. The clothes and hair were awful then, and vomit does not need to be recycled. That's like thinking it's hip to bring back the Inquisition, or have a smallpox revival. Stop it, people, just stop it. Back away from the shoulder pads and cowl necks.
Written from my hiding place in the bedroom closet
Dear cats:
I'm sorry, I'm really really sorry, that I left you alone for almost two days, with only enough food and water for twenty cats for a week, and with no one to pamper/pet/appease you. It was negligent parenting on my part.
Mostly, though, I wish to apologize for leaving the TV on SoapNet with the sound up for the entire time I was gone. It was wrong, I know that now, and look forward to the chance to make things right with you. You guys like albacore tuna, right? Herb crusted with catnip?
Seriously, I'm waving the white flag here...can I get your promise that there will be no more attempts on my life? I understand that forcing one's pets to watch Dallas and Days of Our Lives for any length of time is strictly forbidden by the Geneva Convention, but can't we work out a compromise?
With love and a genuine fear for the unshredded parts of my skin,
Things I did today that might make someone proud: called a cab from a company whose fleet is nothing but hybrid cars.
Things I did today that would make no one proud: called said environmentally friendly cab because I had spent the entire day...well, drinking. (That's really all I'm prepared to say about my day. Not without someone here to take down the whole story for Penthouse Forum. Still unclear on how this whole set of Sound of Music plates from the Franklin Mint came to be lodged in my ass, but I'm hoping the security camera footage will shed some light on the matter.) Then I met Squirl and Ichabod for dinner and spent two hours stuffing my face with arguably the best Italian food in Grand Rapids; let's face it - I didn't lose any weight today. And I'm not sure I'm sober enough to give a shit.
After I had eaten most of the appetizer, all of my dinner, and a good bit of Squirl's cream of mushroom soup (how do they get all those mushrooms to cream so much?), I wandered outside and figured I'd top off the night by riding my tiny green cab back to the hotel. Alas, they could not send me a ride for at least an hour, so I called another number the hotel had given me. Damn, I sure as hell wasn't expecting the sleek-as-a-motherfucker black Lincoln Town Car that pulled around the corner for me about five minutes later.
The driver of my hybrid cab had been an earnest young man, the kind you'd expect to have an acoustic guitar at the ready whenever injustice needed to be...you know, sung about. With feeling. The driver of the Lincoln was a gorgeous tall man with a West Indies accent and a suit that couldn't have looked any better if Jesus himself had abandoned carpentry for fashion design and given him a personal fitting. When I'd ridden in the hybrid, my thoughts ran along the lines of This is a nice thing this company is doing. As I settled into the obscene comfort of the Lincoln's back seat, anonymous behind rockstar-tinted windows, my thoughts ran along the lines of I could get used to this; wish I had a naked broad and another drink back here.
Oh, there's the I Am Sixteen Going on Seventeen plate peeking out. Please excuse me; I've found this is a messy removal procedure. I just hope I didn't cram the Lonely Goatherd up there, too.
The world's most renowned walking-against-the-wind mime, Marcel Marceau, has been eternally silenced at the age of 84. And he's dead, too. His final words were " ."
Marceau's relationship with his family was strained at best; a family friend said Marceau hadn't spoken to his children in years. When fellow mimes were asked to chime in with their opinions, none had any comment.
In honor of Marceau's remarkably quiet life, a moment of silence will be observed, followed by probably more silence.
In a recent email conversation, I recommended the shows Modern Marvels: The Mackinac Bridge, Modern Marvels: Batteries (for the electric cars in it, not for the vibrators, you sick fuckers...although if you know of a vibrator battery that can go 200 miles before it has to be recharged, you let me know), and Sin Cities of the West: Deadwood, all of which happen to be showing on the History Channel.
After I read back what I'd written over several emails, I concluded that I must be of a "certain age" because I suddenly know a little too much about the History Channel. But then again, I countered, at least it wasn't Lifetime Network, home of the tragic bitches.
Then I started imagining my worst old-age nightmare: What if, someday, my body gives out after all the abuse I've dealt it, but my mind stays sharp? What if I was totally aware of everything around me but couldn't cause my body to respond to mental commands at all? With my luck, and with all the bad karma I'm busy accumulating, I'll get shipped off to some bargain-basement Ice Flo Retirement Home, one step lower than being fed to polar bears. And because they assume I have no idea what's going on, they'll put me in with an insomniac roommate who keeps the TV blaring 24 hours a day and watches a steady diet of Fox News, Lifetime Network, and NASCAR. There I'll be, this physical blob with an alert mind, never leaving my bed except when they need me as a backstop for cafeteria softball, never able to register my protest out loud, but inside my head keeping a constant monologue of "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGGGGHHHHHHHHHHH!" as I hear nothing but the TV:
"...and we have it on the best of authority that Bill Clinton's corpse was repeatedly fellated by..."
"I thought you loved me! How could you turn me into a...a...street whore? And my daughter!"
"Oh, what's gonna happen next? LEFT TURN! What's gonna happen next? LEFT TURN!"
I'd better hone my telekinetic powers now, so if that time ever comes, I can speed up the morphine drip every time I regain consciousness.
It's International Talk Like a Pirate Day! Get that parrot on your shoulder, matey, and bring me some grog and wenches. Or a cabin boy. Aye, a dainty cabin boy.
Shameful when you consider that I now live in a beach town and not once this year did my bare feet come into contact with any sand. But then again, the beach is more of a visual event for me than anything else. Really, I'm not into getting tanned, because I don't - I just burn over and over again, and I can think of all kinds of much more interesting ways to give myself cancer. Swimming is out; even if I could swim, which I can't, there's no fucking way you'd get me in the lake. I make it a point to avoid dipping myself in water where there's no clear indication if someone urinates.
So when I go to the lakeshore, I go as an observer. I do not participate, but instead am awestruck witness as thunderstorms roll in over Lake Michigan, twice as fierce over the water, as the seagulls mob unsuspecting beachgoers for their chips and fries, as a dazzling array of bikini-clad bosoms bounce and jostle past me on the uneven sand, leaving perfect thonged bottoms in their wake. It's not such a bad gig after all.
But now that I've realized that there are only a couple more days of summer left, officially speaking, there is a sense of urgency for me to go do some summery things that I vowed to do and somehow just never did:
I want to wander through some of the local parks before the leaves turn and drop. My one foray into Duncan Woods this year wasn't for very long, and I didn't get much farther than the parking lot. So, in the next few days, I need to hit Duncan Woods, Hoffma Park, Pottawatomie Park...isn't "Pottawatomie" a cool name? I grew up hearing it all the time around here, so never thought twice about it until I didn't live here anymore. It's a very percussive word. Pottawatomie. Pottawatomie. Pottawatomie. Yes, I'm easily amused.
The zoo, the zoo, the zoo! It's been too long since I went to any zoo, and I haven't been to John Ball Zoo in Grand Rapids since I was in high school. Was supposed to go there on a date a few weeks ago, but that didn't work out, so I think a solo trip is in order. You know I never pass up the chance to pester some animals. Just ask those farms cats that I chase around with my camera. Of course, I'm hoping to catch the monkeys spanking the monkey. Or do they call it that? Perhaps monkeys have no use for euphemisms, and they just call it "yay! fun penis yanking."
It's not like I haven't taken any road trips this summer, but I'm not ready to quit yet. I'm hankerin' for another travel adventure before I start teaching again in October. Who wants me to come over? I'll bring pretzels.
Before it starts to get cold out, I need to hold the Nerf dartgun tournament I've been dreaming of for months. There will be points awarded for both speed and accuracy as contestants use my Nerf gun to knock action figures off the porch. When this happens, you can expect video of the event to be shown here, exclusively. They will be SO jealous over at The Ocho.
My dream of riding through downtown Grand Haven as Lady Godiva must be realized before the temperatures drop. Since I refuse to ride a horse - I can think of better ways to make myself sore and bowlegged for days - I will have to use a bicycle for my nekkid parade. Um, does anyone have a protective seat cover I could borrow?
I've had a driver's license since 1990. Never before had I ever gotten a traffic ticket of any kind. Since I moved back to Michigan this year, I have received three, count 'em, three traffic tickets. Suck me, I'm getting a moped.
Going into the hospital to get my 'scrips filled today, I saw a big sign for the annual Hospice charity rubber duckie race. Jesus, has it really been almost a year that Mom has been gone? I know the duckie race was going on when we were up here with her last year. It just doesn't seem like it's possibly been that long.
Eeyore continues to become the most spoiled cat in the nation. My latest venture is to make him feel like he's being a daring, naughty kitty, which of course he is not. I've seen him drinking water out of dishes in the sink before, so I've started to set a clean bowl on the counter, and now when he drinks out of it, he looks very pleased with himself, like he's filching water from a people bowl and he shouldn't even really be doing it, but isn't he cool? Also, he enjoys scratching the "wood" frame around my office door, and I've noticed that he always makes sure I'm looking before he starts. So I've caught on, and now when he does it, I admonish him in my best mock-stern voice, "Eeyore, what are you doing, you silly kitty?" Then he stops and looks at me, and the expression on his face always says "Ha ha, I got away with that, didn't I? Oh, yeah, I'm a bad-ass!" *sigh* I do so love that boy.
Perhaps the strangest injury I've incurred lately is a sore jaw from being kicked in the face. Kicked in the face by a stripper, to be specific. A stripper wearing very high heels. Kids, I can't overemphasize the importance of keeping your face out of the girls' spinning radius. That look right up into her twat will be a short-lived victory when the paramedics are prying your eyeball off of her spike heel.
I'm starting to sing again and it's upsetting the cats. Many years ago, my cat Nudgie would vomit and attack me whenever I sang in her presence. Now, it seems that my singing causes aggression, and as soon as I start to karaoke, Eeyore and Thirteen begin to battle right in front of me. I stop? They stop. Just great. "No singing or the black cat gets it."
Going out to the mailbox today, I happened to catch a glimpse of myself in my car window, and took stock:
Hair nominally combed, no makeup, glasses slightly askew, tank top without benefit of a bra (oh, it's fucking brutal, people...gravity is a harsh, harsh mistress), jammie pants, and black bedroom slippers.
Something about my impromptu ensemble struck me, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Then it hit me like cold, raw pork upside the head: here I am, in this outfit, in a trailer park.
Even without a cigarette dangling from my lips and curlers in my hair, I am poised for stardom on COPS.
I cleaned the hell out of...well, out of half of my house. It's a start. The living room and everything west of that got the once over, and all the crap I didn't want to deal with got crammed into the rooms in the east wing. That's right, my trailer has wings - sort of like my maxi pad.
The living room is a whole different place. All the empty cans and bottles have disappeared from their various hiding places under the coffee tables, behind the chaise, and up my ass. No, wait, that's where I stashed all of the empties. Up my ass, that is.
The furniture is actually arranged so that a number of people could see each other and the TV. Both coffee tables are available for use now, since I've taken the plastic wrap and paper covering off the one I was using for Play-Doh. The books and magazines in here are stacked neatly, and I've even run the vacuum. This living room screams "An actual adult lives here!"
Warning: potentially lethal photographs, unless you're a heartless, cat-hating bastard, and then you can just fuck off, can't you?
I remembered to bring the good camera this time.
Hold still, bitch - here I come!
I has a crotch. Now what I do wif?
Seven-kitten pileup. Traffic carnage has rarely been more adorable. CORRECTION: It's a nine-kitten pileup (click picture to see Flickr version with notes).
I can't believe you didn't take me home, you raging cunt.
The last version of this that I had favorited got yanked off of YouTube, so play this before it disappears. Gwen Verdon's dancing, Bob Fosse's choreography, and Unk's tune.
I've seen other videos that lay modern tracks over classic video, but none so far that work as perfectly as this one (not to mention that this one is just plain amusing).
Now I need to go work on copying these killer dance moves...I think it will really wow the ladies.
Ashamed as I am to admit it, the Machine Shop opened in Flint in 2002, and last Friday night was the first time I was ever actually inside the place. If I lived that close to that bar now, I'd be there every weekend. Oh, well. At least now I know it's worth a trip to see bands there. The place kicks ass - I'll get pictures next time I go, but the walls are covered in classic tattoo flash and giant paintings of traditional tattoo motifs. The sound in the room is amazing, and the stage is huge. It's a hard rock bar that was built to be a hard rock bar, and a lot of great bands come through there. So FUCK YOU, all you Flintoids who can't stop saying "It doesn't matter if they put a great club with name bands in it - no one will come to Flint." Not true, fuckers. In fact, a whole, packed, sweaty roomful of people came to Flint last Friday, and by the time Black Stone Cherry left the stage, we were all drained, needed a cigarette, and were much too embarrassed to call each other in the morning.
I took way more pictures than what you see here, but unfortunately, not only is my camera pretty crappy, but I was being jostled much of the time, too. I'd managed to be one person back from the stage, and just as BSC made their entrance, this small but solid blonde shoved her way right in front of me and started dancing like she was being yanked around on ropes by angry giants. At first I was really pissed off, because I thought she was trying to knock me out of my spot, and by the power of Greyskull, there was no way I was getting pushed back, so I dug in and held my ground. Just about that time I realized that she wasn't trying to bump me out of the way...she was rubbing her ass all over me, very aggressively. Like, almost knocking me down aggressive. Now, I know I always bitch about not getting any action, but...well, Internet as a Whole, let me whisper this to you: even I have standards. 'Nuff said. I wasn't going to just let her fall over into me, into the other folks who'd been standing there as long as I had, so I was kind of blocking her and catching her when she'd lose her balance; the last thing we all needed was drunk domino people. It would have been easier if I'd just put my arms around her, but, um, there was no fucking way I was encouraging the attention. I breathed a giant sigh of relief when she finally staggered away, probably to go vomit in private (she wanted to preserve that one shred of dignity that she was under the illusion that she still possessed).
BSC burned up the stage, as they are wont to do. The guys all seemed pretty geeked about the packed house, packed like fudge in Boystown. Much to my delight, they added Crosstown Woman to the set; there isn't a song on their CD I dislike, but this is a particular favorite, and they didn't do it last time I saw them. The bass part on that song just rips a hole in the fabric of the universe, and their bass player, Jon Lawhon, deserves a showcase like that. Lots of talent in these baby boys! I'd also mention that they are all fucking adorable, but saying that makes me feel like I should be wearing a trenchcoat and leaning on the schoolyard fence with a bag of candy and an XBox.
"Dude, what the fuck is up with the old bag down there? Is she dressed for a funeral? Take my picture, grandma!"
I stuck around after the show to have a couple of drinks and meet the guys in BSC, got some autographs, bought a great t-shirt, got my picture taken by a fellow straggler who told me she had to get a shot because I looked like a "real rock star" (which I am in my own mind), and then [edited to reduce your potential nausea] went back to my lovely room at the Hookers n' Crack motel (of course I stayed there again, but no condoms were scattered about my car this time). However, I have a few things to say about my latest stay there that will, fortunately for you, need to wait for another post.
Guess what? I just found out there are three concerts I must see in November, all within the same five-day span (one day in between each show): Electric Six, They Might Be Giants, and Candye Kane, all in Grand Rapids. I think I'm going for a new record this year!
Okay, so I haven't gone anywhere near editing my BSC pictures, or writing my review of the show. I plead guilty to sleeping in and taking Labor Day off, even though, technically, I'm not working at the moment. Doesn't matter. Just showing my support for the working stiffs and stiffettes.
I'm at Tardist's place, leeching off his beer and wi-fi. If I tried to post anything meaningful right now, it would likely be a lengthy diatribe about people who won't stop telling me not to stick my finger up the cat's ass.
But if I can't do it, neither can you. Cat's ass, off limits.
Before I bring on the Cherry - Black Stone Cherry, that is - I wanted to give some love to the two opening bands that I saw Friday night (sorry, Brian Schram Band, but I'm elderly and needed my nap before I went out a-rockin', and I missed your set). I'll be back with the story of the whole night (well, the parts I'm telling the Internet as a Whole about, anyway) in a lengthy and overblown post, replete with pictures of the bad-ass baby boys in BSC.
The first band I saw was Sour Jane, hometown Flint boys (though I don't think I've jammed with any of them, it's possible we've staggered in the same circles before). You can hear a couple of their songs on their MySpace page, and find out even more about the guys on their official web site.
Next up? A band from Detroit called Ugly. They, too, have a MySpace page, though I don't think the song sample does a bit of justice to the energy and raw, ugly sex appeal of their live set.
The lead singer, Geo Teubi, opened their set wearing a giant foam cowboy hat; I really wish any of my shots of that would've turned out.
(Also, am I not too old to be directing you to MySpace pages? I only go there for the music, I swear! I'm really not picking up teenagers. Teenagers can't run down to the liquor store for me when the well runs dry, and there's no way I'm doing someone I can't trust to stay out of my Clearasil; some things in a woman's life are sacred.)
Now that I've trotted out the opening acts, I can go back to Photoshop and try to sort through the roughly 100 pictures I took of BSC (unfortunately, many of them while being jostled violently...but that's all part of tomorrow's post). I'll also be keeping an eye on these bands' schedules now, too. Damn, I'm becoming a social creature. Society should be a bit frightened.
