OK, it's probably going to be Cheetah. After all, he and I had more in common than I did with Great Leader. (Refer to the illustration at the left, it speaks volumes!)
I just don't know where to start with Uncle Jung-iL. No, wait, yes I do. How about a little humor to brighten up the worlds loss. Ahh, poor Kim Jung-iL. But at least he no ill no more. He dead. HAHAHAHAHAHA!!! I swear, sometimes I just kill me.
I'll give the balding little Asian pear credit for one thing though, he sure knows how to make an exit. I mean, c'mon, THREE 1976 Lincoln Continental stretch limos (where the bloody hell did he get those things???), a fleet of Mercedes S-class sedans that stretched back to the horizon (how did he manage to keep all of the garage door openers organized???) and enough hired mourners to cast an Andrew Lloyd Weber musical with (all of whom were wearing brand new Western-style clothing. When did UPS start servicing Pyongyang???). I did think the Lincoln's were a nice touch even if the media did keep screwing the funeral cortege description up. They kept referring to him going to his last rewards in a Lincoln hearse. As in INSIDE a Lincoln hearse. What he actually did was go to his last rewards ON a Lincoln limo. As in strapped to the roof of it. I don't know about all of you but the only thing I could think of when I saw that was how the Griswold family strapped poor Aunt Edna to the roof of the Country Squire after she died in "National Lampoon's Vacation". All it would have taken was the driver slamming on the breaks to avoid a stray dog running across the street (yeah, like that's ever going to happen in North Korea) and the People's Glorious Republic would have had a dead despot, nipples to the wind, cascading down onto the hood of the Great Satan's vintage land yacht while children fainted, women wailed and vendors sold the local North Korean delicacies of dirt clod on a stick, dirt clod in a cup and dirt clod on a rope. As an aside on the Lincoln's, Ford headquarters has refused all requests for a comment. Something tells me someone in Detroit got a train load of kimchi back in 1976...
Have you noticed that there hasn't been a single word about how he died? That can only mean one thing: EMBARRASSING AS HELL!!! I'm opting for a scenario that includes a whore house, a three-legged mulatto conjoined twin hooker, a Hennessey cognac enema, a leather umbrella and a bit of auto-erotic asphyxiation that took a turn for the worse. I can only assume that the mop and bucket brigade that got sent in to "sanitize" the situation are all now pulling double shifts in a salt mine somewhere and their families have all been relocated to a communal farm where they are happily planting next years crop of dirt clods. Arbeit macht frei, as they say...
More than anything I will miss his fashion sense (OK, I've stopped laughing now) which was always about as exciting as beige. Well, now that I think about it, it actually was beige. He single handedly brought new importance to the polyester leisure suit, the comb-over and vintage Jackie-O "spot welder" sunglasses of which he was reported to have had over 500 pairs. He once told me that he had so many so he could keep a pair in each of his Mercedes'. Spoken like a true fashionista!!! Thank god Gianni Versace is dead, this would have killed him!!!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
I'm So Damned Old That I'm Analog!!!
OK, so a couple of weeks ago I got my car mushed. By a monster 4x4 creature about 22 feet long and 9 feet high. In a parking lot of a grocery store. In all honesty, the damned thing literally backed up completely over my car. Stop laughing, it's true. It flattened my hood and killed my grill. I was not amused. Pleasantries were NOT exchanged to say the least. I never knew how liberating it is to stand in the middle of a parking lot and scream "FUUUUCK!!!" at the top of your lungs 5 or 6 times. But I digress.
So, I take my car in to be fixed (at the 4x4's idiot owner's expense) and they hand me the keys to a free rental car. Very cool. A brand new 2012 Toyota Camry. VERY cool. And that puppy is loaded up to its tits with toys. Happy dance! I wasn't in the car more that 2 seconds when I went all deer in headlights though. I realized that I honestly didn't know how to drive it. Seriously, I was lost in the technology. Now I know how my great-grandfather must have felt when he retired the horse and got that Model T.
First, I couldn't find the parking brake lever. It wasn't on my side of the console, it wasn't on the passenger side of the console, hell, it wasn't even IN the console. I finally found it down in the foot well, to the left of the brake pedal. The same place they used to put them way back in the 1960's. Ahh, those wily Japanese, always something new to confuse us with. When I figured out where to put the key and started it up all hell broke loose. Lights, buzzers, bells and whirly-gigs started going off like crazy. Basically, everything short of a disco ball. The instrument cluster went nuts. It has 5 analog readouts, two multi-function digital ones and a total of 27 diagnostic idiot lights, including tire pressure, oil pressure, air pressure on Mars, MY blood pressure and one that told me that I was putting too much pressure on the steering wheel. One of the multi-function displays started giving me a choice of odometer, trip odometer, my average mpg rating, how many miles I had left on the tank or how many miles I had left to drive to my preset destination. Personally, I don't give a rats ass about any of that shit but thanks for the offer anyway. ALL of the controls for the windows, locks and the mirrors lit up on the armrest. ALL of the controls for the phone and the stereo system lit up on the steering wheel. As did the control arms for the lights, the wipers, the turn signals and the cruise control that were protruding from the steering column. The controls on the center stack looked like something out of the Starship Enterprise. I had heated and air conditioned seats, dual front climate controls (I could actually have the heat going on my side and the air conditioning going on the passenger side. Don't ask me why...), air bag controls and a 9-inch touch screen thing that was my radio, cd player, equalizer, phone, Blue Tooth, Blue Ray, Blue Meanie, Blue Danube, GPS, satellite navigation system and EKG moniter control command center. It was a bit like being trapped inside a 270 horsepower Christmas tree, for chris' sakes!!!
It has a floor mounted automatic and I couldn't figure out how to shift it into drive!!! You didn't do a straight line P-R-N-D-L shift, you had to jog it around like you were shifting a manual transmission. Then I noticed that it had one more position after the "L", something labeled "S". Huh??? Ahh, yes, that would stand for "Speed Shift". Huh??? It seems you put the car in that "gear" and it allows you to shift gears like it was manual using the two other paddles on the steering wheel. Left paddle, clutch. Right paddle, gear shift. What cretin thought that that makes any sense??? Give me a leather wrapped short shifter and a clutch pedal any day!!! I quickly found out that when you take the car out of Park all of the doors automatically lock and the trunk lid puckers.
The outside mirrors have a control signal that lights up to let me know if someone is trying to overcome me from the rear in my blind spots. I'm sorry, I just can't say that without blushing. And giggling. The inside mirror has 3 separate controls to work the 3 separate garage doors it apparently thinks I should have. I can't for the life of me figure out how to use the wipers but I have the cleanest front windshield you have ever seen because I somehow keep managing to mist it with solvent.
Cubby holes. Oh god, does this car have cubby holes. Everywhere!!! 5 in front and 3 in back. And they all have power plugs and USB points in them so we can all happily play our hand held games and listen to our iPods in peace. My god, don't people talk to each other in cars anymore???
I spent half an hour reading the manual for the touch screen thing just to learn how to work the stereo and I have to tell you that it was SO worth the effort!!! That bad boy ROCKS!!! It not only shows me the name of the radio station and the song they're playing it also tells me the title of the cd I'm listening to as well as the artist and title of the track. It has 4 front and rear mounted mid-range speakers, a front center mounted super tweeter, two front door mounted bass speakers and a SUBWOOFER IN THE TRUNK!!! It makes the mirrors vibrate, the trunk lid rattle, the fuel door to pop open indiscriminately and my ears bleed. In a Toyota!!! I'm in heaven. People next to me at stop lights just shake their heads. Not so much because of the noise but because they have been following behind me in the left hand lane for the last 5 miles afraid to pass me because I don't know how to turn off my right blinker.
Yes, I am an old man. In a big car. Sitting on the yellow pages so I can see over the steering wheel. With my turn signal in perpetual blinking mode for no good reason. With the radio tuned to "La Movida" 1480 AM and the volume cranked up to air-raid siren level while I sing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion. And thinking that all is right with the world while I cruise down the street doing 27 mph in a 40 mph zone during rush hour. In my Toyota.
So, I take my car in to be fixed (at the 4x4's idiot owner's expense) and they hand me the keys to a free rental car. Very cool. A brand new 2012 Toyota Camry. VERY cool. And that puppy is loaded up to its tits with toys. Happy dance! I wasn't in the car more that 2 seconds when I went all deer in headlights though. I realized that I honestly didn't know how to drive it. Seriously, I was lost in the technology. Now I know how my great-grandfather must have felt when he retired the horse and got that Model T.
First, I couldn't find the parking brake lever. It wasn't on my side of the console, it wasn't on the passenger side of the console, hell, it wasn't even IN the console. I finally found it down in the foot well, to the left of the brake pedal. The same place they used to put them way back in the 1960's. Ahh, those wily Japanese, always something new to confuse us with. When I figured out where to put the key and started it up all hell broke loose. Lights, buzzers, bells and whirly-gigs started going off like crazy. Basically, everything short of a disco ball. The instrument cluster went nuts. It has 5 analog readouts, two multi-function digital ones and a total of 27 diagnostic idiot lights, including tire pressure, oil pressure, air pressure on Mars, MY blood pressure and one that told me that I was putting too much pressure on the steering wheel. One of the multi-function displays started giving me a choice of odometer, trip odometer, my average mpg rating, how many miles I had left on the tank or how many miles I had left to drive to my preset destination. Personally, I don't give a rats ass about any of that shit but thanks for the offer anyway. ALL of the controls for the windows, locks and the mirrors lit up on the armrest. ALL of the controls for the phone and the stereo system lit up on the steering wheel. As did the control arms for the lights, the wipers, the turn signals and the cruise control that were protruding from the steering column. The controls on the center stack looked like something out of the Starship Enterprise. I had heated and air conditioned seats, dual front climate controls (I could actually have the heat going on my side and the air conditioning going on the passenger side. Don't ask me why...), air bag controls and a 9-inch touch screen thing that was my radio, cd player, equalizer, phone, Blue Tooth, Blue Ray, Blue Meanie, Blue Danube, GPS, satellite navigation system and EKG moniter control command center. It was a bit like being trapped inside a 270 horsepower Christmas tree, for chris' sakes!!!
It has a floor mounted automatic and I couldn't figure out how to shift it into drive!!! You didn't do a straight line P-R-N-D-L shift, you had to jog it around like you were shifting a manual transmission. Then I noticed that it had one more position after the "L", something labeled "S". Huh??? Ahh, yes, that would stand for "Speed Shift". Huh??? It seems you put the car in that "gear" and it allows you to shift gears like it was manual using the two other paddles on the steering wheel. Left paddle, clutch. Right paddle, gear shift. What cretin thought that that makes any sense??? Give me a leather wrapped short shifter and a clutch pedal any day!!! I quickly found out that when you take the car out of Park all of the doors automatically lock and the trunk lid puckers.
The outside mirrors have a control signal that lights up to let me know if someone is trying to overcome me from the rear in my blind spots. I'm sorry, I just can't say that without blushing. And giggling. The inside mirror has 3 separate controls to work the 3 separate garage doors it apparently thinks I should have. I can't for the life of me figure out how to use the wipers but I have the cleanest front windshield you have ever seen because I somehow keep managing to mist it with solvent.
Cubby holes. Oh god, does this car have cubby holes. Everywhere!!! 5 in front and 3 in back. And they all have power plugs and USB points in them so we can all happily play our hand held games and listen to our iPods in peace. My god, don't people talk to each other in cars anymore???
I spent half an hour reading the manual for the touch screen thing just to learn how to work the stereo and I have to tell you that it was SO worth the effort!!! That bad boy ROCKS!!! It not only shows me the name of the radio station and the song they're playing it also tells me the title of the cd I'm listening to as well as the artist and title of the track. It has 4 front and rear mounted mid-range speakers, a front center mounted super tweeter, two front door mounted bass speakers and a SUBWOOFER IN THE TRUNK!!! It makes the mirrors vibrate, the trunk lid rattle, the fuel door to pop open indiscriminately and my ears bleed. In a Toyota!!! I'm in heaven. People next to me at stop lights just shake their heads. Not so much because of the noise but because they have been following behind me in the left hand lane for the last 5 miles afraid to pass me because I don't know how to turn off my right blinker.
Yes, I am an old man. In a big car. Sitting on the yellow pages so I can see over the steering wheel. With my turn signal in perpetual blinking mode for no good reason. With the radio tuned to "La Movida" 1480 AM and the volume cranked up to air-raid siren level while I sing "My Heart Will Go On" by Celine Dion. And thinking that all is right with the world while I cruise down the street doing 27 mph in a 40 mph zone during rush hour. In my Toyota.
Monday, November 28, 2011
The Catch-22's Of 'sconsin...
When the bloody hell did this state turn into Gomerville??? 'sconsin used to be sensible. And safe. Or at the very least a little bit sane. Not any more though. We're so clustered here we couldn't fuck if our lives depended on it. I swear to god, every time you drop the soap here you've got an elected official sneaking up your ass just to hit you with a new turd tax!!!
We recently passed a new state law that makes it perfectly legal to carry concealed hand guns in public. As in EVERYWHERE in public. Schools, hospitals, stores, churches, town hall meetings, bars (never a good idea), public buildings and government buildings. You name it, if you can GPS it then you can pack heat in it. Needless to say, license applications poured into court houses from one end of the state to the other like a tsunami. It seems like every one and their grandmother wanted to get in on that ride. So much so in fact that the State Attorney General just enacted an official order that resends the mandated 4-hour training course that was required to qualify for the license. Why? It was going to cause an "undue financial burden" on the state and would be a "constrictive and invasive burden" on the applicants to have to schedule the time to learn how to properly use a hand gun. Huh??? A one week waiting period for purchase? No problem. A background check? No problem. Four hours to learn how to not shoot yourself or your kids? Now THAT'S a serious violation of your god given right to be stupid!!! And of course, the local police are dumbfounded at the recent increase of arrests of suspicious individuals in and around the county courthouse. Who, BTW, are all packing heat. DUH!!! Hell, I'm gonna start packing heat myself. And using it too. I've got the perfucked alibi now. I didn't know it was loaded. This thing has a safety??? I didn't know that it was a gun. Don't ask me, I couldn't see it either. Ah, yes, four hours very well saved...
As an aside to the above mess, we have the newly elected governor from hell. He's a bigger ass wipe than Charmin. He's fucked up every thing he can get his hands on since the day he took office and has driven the citizens of 'sconsin to protest in numbers not seen since the heady days of the late 1960's. He's so bad that even the Republicans who put him in office hate him. Of course, he's in the process of being recalled. His latest "cost saving" maneuver has been to remove all of the metal detectors and security at the entrances to the Capital building. Which is where he works. Hmmm... Please refer to the previous paragraph...
Necrophilia. Yes, I know, I hate to keep harping on this one but it just sort of riles me a bit. It's not against the law in 'sconsin. Yep, you heard me right. Humping a has-been is perfectly legal here. Just as long as you can manage to figure out how to jump through all of the states legal caveats that is. Want to date a corpse? No problem. Want to become engaged to a corpse? No problem. Want to marry a corpse? Again, no problem, just as long as the two of you are of the opposite sex. (More on that little catch-22 later.) Want to possess a corpse? That's a no-no. Want to dig one up? That's another no-no. Want to "defile, defame or degrade a corpse? (Yes, they actually do word it like that!!!) MAJOR no-no!!! Now, correct me if I'm wrong but to be defiled or defamed don't you have to have something to lose to begin with? You're a corpse. You're dead. Psychologically, isn't your bank account already empty??? And as far as degrading goes, don't corpses already sort of do that one on their own without the need for any outside help??? This is the most convoluted set of laws and non-laws I have ever seen. It's like a hiring a security force of eight year olds to guard the Hershey's factory!!! Here's your badges, boys, just make sure you don't touch anything...
Marriage. OK, personally I don't believe in it. Straight or gay. Legal marriage only leads to legal divorce. Trust me, the last thing we really need to see is a couple of pissed off, lawyered up queens on opposite sides of the net going after each others Cuisinart in court. In a valiant attempt to make sure that us gay folks don't try to muscle in on the straights side of the pie we passed a resolution that legally defines marriage as a civil or religious based, performed and recognized contract of union between one man and one woman. In their minds this does not discriminate against gays it merely takes us out of the running. Marriage is not a "right", it's just a "service" that we don't biologically qualify for. Disregard the fact that sexual orientation is one of the many things that cannot be used for the purpose of discrimination or the denial or rights and freedoms under our state constitution. At any rate, Sea Squirt and I granted and guaranteed each other all of the rights and protections of marriage that we needed just by sitting down with a lawyer for an hour and half and filing some legal paperwork for things like powers of attorney, executorships, inheritance, etc. Bases covered. And it still protects my right to toss his ass out onto the street if he doesn't stop leaving those damned used teabags on the counter without the need to hire a lawyer and start claiming dumb ass shit like alienation of affection, he's a whore or that I have just decided that I want someone who is taller.
In 'sconsin we actually have a law that says individuals are not legally required to carry car insurance. Odd, I know. It is followed by a law that says if an individual is involved in a accident, no matter how minor, and does not have insurance that the state has the right to fuck with you for the rest of your life, literally. Why? Because you are an ignorant shit head that was stupid enough to take the first law seriously. This is very akin to the conundrum that a hungry fish must face as it stares at the worm. Yes, that worm looks damned good but is it good enough to make you want to spend the last few hours of your life in a cooler with the Old Milwaukee???
Why am I required to show any law enforcement officer that asks for it, for any reason, a valid photo ID but the concept of having to show a valid photo ID at a polling place is considered, by our state legislature, to be some sort of attempted communist take over?
Why does the city council think raising the small business license fees of family owned resale shops from $66 a year to over $500 is the perfect way to keep crackheads from stealing stuff to pawn?
I swear, I'm gonna run for public office. I think my campaign slogan will be "C'mon, How Much Worse Could I Fuck Things Up?"
We recently passed a new state law that makes it perfectly legal to carry concealed hand guns in public. As in EVERYWHERE in public. Schools, hospitals, stores, churches, town hall meetings, bars (never a good idea), public buildings and government buildings. You name it, if you can GPS it then you can pack heat in it. Needless to say, license applications poured into court houses from one end of the state to the other like a tsunami. It seems like every one and their grandmother wanted to get in on that ride. So much so in fact that the State Attorney General just enacted an official order that resends the mandated 4-hour training course that was required to qualify for the license. Why? It was going to cause an "undue financial burden" on the state and would be a "constrictive and invasive burden" on the applicants to have to schedule the time to learn how to properly use a hand gun. Huh??? A one week waiting period for purchase? No problem. A background check? No problem. Four hours to learn how to not shoot yourself or your kids? Now THAT'S a serious violation of your god given right to be stupid!!! And of course, the local police are dumbfounded at the recent increase of arrests of suspicious individuals in and around the county courthouse. Who, BTW, are all packing heat. DUH!!! Hell, I'm gonna start packing heat myself. And using it too. I've got the perfucked alibi now. I didn't know it was loaded. This thing has a safety??? I didn't know that it was a gun. Don't ask me, I couldn't see it either. Ah, yes, four hours very well saved...
As an aside to the above mess, we have the newly elected governor from hell. He's a bigger ass wipe than Charmin. He's fucked up every thing he can get his hands on since the day he took office and has driven the citizens of 'sconsin to protest in numbers not seen since the heady days of the late 1960's. He's so bad that even the Republicans who put him in office hate him. Of course, he's in the process of being recalled. His latest "cost saving" maneuver has been to remove all of the metal detectors and security at the entrances to the Capital building. Which is where he works. Hmmm... Please refer to the previous paragraph...
Necrophilia. Yes, I know, I hate to keep harping on this one but it just sort of riles me a bit. It's not against the law in 'sconsin. Yep, you heard me right. Humping a has-been is perfectly legal here. Just as long as you can manage to figure out how to jump through all of the states legal caveats that is. Want to date a corpse? No problem. Want to become engaged to a corpse? No problem. Want to marry a corpse? Again, no problem, just as long as the two of you are of the opposite sex. (More on that little catch-22 later.) Want to possess a corpse? That's a no-no. Want to dig one up? That's another no-no. Want to "defile, defame or degrade a corpse? (Yes, they actually do word it like that!!!) MAJOR no-no!!! Now, correct me if I'm wrong but to be defiled or defamed don't you have to have something to lose to begin with? You're a corpse. You're dead. Psychologically, isn't your bank account already empty??? And as far as degrading goes, don't corpses already sort of do that one on their own without the need for any outside help??? This is the most convoluted set of laws and non-laws I have ever seen. It's like a hiring a security force of eight year olds to guard the Hershey's factory!!! Here's your badges, boys, just make sure you don't touch anything...
Marriage. OK, personally I don't believe in it. Straight or gay. Legal marriage only leads to legal divorce. Trust me, the last thing we really need to see is a couple of pissed off, lawyered up queens on opposite sides of the net going after each others Cuisinart in court. In a valiant attempt to make sure that us gay folks don't try to muscle in on the straights side of the pie we passed a resolution that legally defines marriage as a civil or religious based, performed and recognized contract of union between one man and one woman. In their minds this does not discriminate against gays it merely takes us out of the running. Marriage is not a "right", it's just a "service" that we don't biologically qualify for. Disregard the fact that sexual orientation is one of the many things that cannot be used for the purpose of discrimination or the denial or rights and freedoms under our state constitution. At any rate, Sea Squirt and I granted and guaranteed each other all of the rights and protections of marriage that we needed just by sitting down with a lawyer for an hour and half and filing some legal paperwork for things like powers of attorney, executorships, inheritance, etc. Bases covered. And it still protects my right to toss his ass out onto the street if he doesn't stop leaving those damned used teabags on the counter without the need to hire a lawyer and start claiming dumb ass shit like alienation of affection, he's a whore or that I have just decided that I want someone who is taller.
In 'sconsin we actually have a law that says individuals are not legally required to carry car insurance. Odd, I know. It is followed by a law that says if an individual is involved in a accident, no matter how minor, and does not have insurance that the state has the right to fuck with you for the rest of your life, literally. Why? Because you are an ignorant shit head that was stupid enough to take the first law seriously. This is very akin to the conundrum that a hungry fish must face as it stares at the worm. Yes, that worm looks damned good but is it good enough to make you want to spend the last few hours of your life in a cooler with the Old Milwaukee???
Why am I required to show any law enforcement officer that asks for it, for any reason, a valid photo ID but the concept of having to show a valid photo ID at a polling place is considered, by our state legislature, to be some sort of attempted communist take over?
Why does the city council think raising the small business license fees of family owned resale shops from $66 a year to over $500 is the perfect way to keep crackheads from stealing stuff to pawn?
I swear, I'm gonna run for public office. I think my campaign slogan will be "C'mon, How Much Worse Could I Fuck Things Up?"
Friday, November 18, 2011
Sea Squirt Is Convinced That I Am The Anti-Christ...
I suppose it had to happen sooner or later so I resigned myself to my rightful destiny and wear the title proudly. At the moment I am still waiting for my crown, scepter and cloven-hoofed feet to arrive...
For reasons unknown (I decided not to ask for fear that I would receive an answer) Sea Squirt has recently decided that it would be "fun" to go grocery shopping with me. Keep in mind that in the 7 years that we have been together he has never accompanied me into a grocery store to do the weekly shopping or as I refer to it, my sojourn into hell. I do not know where his decision came from but I can only surmise that it is linked to some form of recent blunt head trauma. Once the shock of his announcement wore off and I had a chance to think about it I actually thought that it could be a good thing. After all I could plant him at the end of an aisle to guard the cart (with an end cap of bright shiny objects to keep him occupied) while I ran the gauntlet of stupid shoppers, screaming children and cell-phoners on foot to grab the single jar of marinated artichokes from the far end of the aisle that I needed without having to maneuver the cart through the log jam. Please, don't ask me what I was thinking.
So, off to Woodman's we go. With me on a mission and him completely lost at sea. Just so you know, when I go shopping I have a plan. And a routine. I have been shopping at Woodman's for 16 years and I know the place like the back of my hand. My shopping list is organized by the aisle. I am also armed with my recycled shopping bags, a pen, a calculator, a stack of coupons and more attitude than one human should ever be legally allowed to have. Sea Squirt, however, was not so prepared. Did he offer to push the cart? No. Did he offer to manage the list? No. Did he work the calculator? No. The coupons? No. What did he do? Tope me at every opportunity and get smacked in the face with sticker shock:
"Honey, is butter always this expensive?"
"Yes, dear."
"Honey, does orange juice always cost this much?"
"Yes, dear."
"Honey, is peanut butter really $5.49 a jar?"
"Yes, dear."
"Honey, how come cookies cost this much?"
"Yes, dear." As my eyes glazed over.
Did I neglect to mention that we had gone shopping on a Tuesday? Tuesday is "Senior Day" at Woodman's. Don't ask me why, it just is. And they don't even offer any senior discounts. But the store is always a sea of little blue hairs with their totally disinterested retired husbands in tow who are always just totally lost in the whole adventure. It was also apparently a school holiday of some sort because every child in the free world was there with mom. All of them kicking, screaming, running, tearing into boxes of cereal or just wandering around in their pajamas. Yes, their pajamas. WTF??? Log jam!!!
So, we turn into the ethnic aisle and it's just a cluster-fuck of confused gringos blocking the entire aisle. I groaned. Then I barked. Then I got ugly. I loudly announced "Comin' through! Comin' through! Old guy with cancer! Clock is running! Comin' through!" and launched the cart into the fray with no concern for the casualties that might ensue. When I finally made it to the section that I needed I found it blocked by Edna and Earl. Edna was 112 if she was a day and was having difficulty seeing over the handle of their cart and Earl, who was about 115, had come to a screeching halt directly in front of her and was staring straight up, scratching his head totally confused by the pinatas. This did not amuse me at all because they were blocking my access to the Maria's, the cajeta and the Crema Media. I was close to exploding and I turned around to let Sea Squirt know that I was going to kill them. What do I find? Sea Squirt pointing up and asking me if we can buy a pinata!!! OMG. I had my own personal Earl!!!
For seven years Sea Squirt has heard me bitch like crazy when I get home from shopping, complain about the brain dead people that block aisles and gets a play by play of who I cussed out and who I decided to play "secret shopper" to. He always thought I was kidding. He now knows better. He has heard me tell a 5-year old to shut the fuck up, seen me toss expensive weird shit into other peoples carts just to piss them off after they get home (this last trip the recipient got 3 jars of saffron, total value $58.00), ram someone on a cell phone with my cart and has experienced me letting loose with that "noise from the back of the cave" sound that I learned from my mother when the lady blocking the aisle in front of me thought it would be a good idea to let little Jimmy take his damned sweet time deciding which size box of Coco-Puffs he wanted. He is amazed that I have not had security called on me or at the very least been punched out a time or two. I explained to him that as long as I don't touch them then they have to make the first move and that keeps me in the enviable position of being able to claim that I am the innocent victim of shopping-rage and elder abuse. That, coupled with my amazing ability of have nose bleeds on command should pretty much cover all of my bases...
When we go shopping next week I am going to use one of those motorized carts, wear my sunglasses, pretend to be blind, run the cart into every end cap of stacked canned goods I can find, have Sea Squirt follow me around the store and every time he asks me a question I'm going to look in the other direction and scream "I DON"T LIKE CHEESE!!! IT BLOCKS ME UP!!!". I should be back to shopping on my own before the end of the month. :-)
For reasons unknown (I decided not to ask for fear that I would receive an answer) Sea Squirt has recently decided that it would be "fun" to go grocery shopping with me. Keep in mind that in the 7 years that we have been together he has never accompanied me into a grocery store to do the weekly shopping or as I refer to it, my sojourn into hell. I do not know where his decision came from but I can only surmise that it is linked to some form of recent blunt head trauma. Once the shock of his announcement wore off and I had a chance to think about it I actually thought that it could be a good thing. After all I could plant him at the end of an aisle to guard the cart (with an end cap of bright shiny objects to keep him occupied) while I ran the gauntlet of stupid shoppers, screaming children and cell-phoners on foot to grab the single jar of marinated artichokes from the far end of the aisle that I needed without having to maneuver the cart through the log jam. Please, don't ask me what I was thinking.
So, off to Woodman's we go. With me on a mission and him completely lost at sea. Just so you know, when I go shopping I have a plan. And a routine. I have been shopping at Woodman's for 16 years and I know the place like the back of my hand. My shopping list is organized by the aisle. I am also armed with my recycled shopping bags, a pen, a calculator, a stack of coupons and more attitude than one human should ever be legally allowed to have. Sea Squirt, however, was not so prepared. Did he offer to push the cart? No. Did he offer to manage the list? No. Did he work the calculator? No. The coupons? No. What did he do? Tope me at every opportunity and get smacked in the face with sticker shock:
"Honey, is butter always this expensive?"
"Yes, dear."
"Honey, does orange juice always cost this much?"
"Yes, dear."
"Honey, is peanut butter really $5.49 a jar?"
"Yes, dear."
"Honey, how come cookies cost this much?"
"Yes, dear." As my eyes glazed over.
Did I neglect to mention that we had gone shopping on a Tuesday? Tuesday is "Senior Day" at Woodman's. Don't ask me why, it just is. And they don't even offer any senior discounts. But the store is always a sea of little blue hairs with their totally disinterested retired husbands in tow who are always just totally lost in the whole adventure. It was also apparently a school holiday of some sort because every child in the free world was there with mom. All of them kicking, screaming, running, tearing into boxes of cereal or just wandering around in their pajamas. Yes, their pajamas. WTF??? Log jam!!!
So, we turn into the ethnic aisle and it's just a cluster-fuck of confused gringos blocking the entire aisle. I groaned. Then I barked. Then I got ugly. I loudly announced "Comin' through! Comin' through! Old guy with cancer! Clock is running! Comin' through!" and launched the cart into the fray with no concern for the casualties that might ensue. When I finally made it to the section that I needed I found it blocked by Edna and Earl. Edna was 112 if she was a day and was having difficulty seeing over the handle of their cart and Earl, who was about 115, had come to a screeching halt directly in front of her and was staring straight up, scratching his head totally confused by the pinatas. This did not amuse me at all because they were blocking my access to the Maria's, the cajeta and the Crema Media. I was close to exploding and I turned around to let Sea Squirt know that I was going to kill them. What do I find? Sea Squirt pointing up and asking me if we can buy a pinata!!! OMG. I had my own personal Earl!!!
For seven years Sea Squirt has heard me bitch like crazy when I get home from shopping, complain about the brain dead people that block aisles and gets a play by play of who I cussed out and who I decided to play "secret shopper" to. He always thought I was kidding. He now knows better. He has heard me tell a 5-year old to shut the fuck up, seen me toss expensive weird shit into other peoples carts just to piss them off after they get home (this last trip the recipient got 3 jars of saffron, total value $58.00), ram someone on a cell phone with my cart and has experienced me letting loose with that "noise from the back of the cave" sound that I learned from my mother when the lady blocking the aisle in front of me thought it would be a good idea to let little Jimmy take his damned sweet time deciding which size box of Coco-Puffs he wanted. He is amazed that I have not had security called on me or at the very least been punched out a time or two. I explained to him that as long as I don't touch them then they have to make the first move and that keeps me in the enviable position of being able to claim that I am the innocent victim of shopping-rage and elder abuse. That, coupled with my amazing ability of have nose bleeds on command should pretty much cover all of my bases...
When we go shopping next week I am going to use one of those motorized carts, wear my sunglasses, pretend to be blind, run the cart into every end cap of stacked canned goods I can find, have Sea Squirt follow me around the store and every time he asks me a question I'm going to look in the other direction and scream "I DON"T LIKE CHEESE!!! IT BLOCKS ME UP!!!". I should be back to shopping on my own before the end of the month. :-)
Saturday, October 29, 2011
It's raining... WHALES???
Even though it was almost 41 years ago I remember this news story way too vividly for my own good. I think that I actually blew milk out of my nose when I watched it the first time.
DATELINE: 1970, Florence, Oregon. BTW, at that time Florence was a small village on the Pacific coast where you could literally walk out of your front door, cross the street, walk across the sand dunes and be in the ocean in less than 300 feet.
So, one morning the village wakes up to a rather vile, over powering stench. Shortly thereafter a number of beach walkers discovered the culprit: an 8-ton, 45-foot dead whale had washed up on the beach and was rapidly (RAPIDLY!!!) decomposing. EWW!!! Within a matter of hours a horde of onlookers and slew of news crews from Portland had arrived to "admire" the disaster. Hmmm, what to do with this nightmare. Bury it? No, it would only wash up again in the tide. Drag it back out to sea? Nope, it just pulled apart when they tried that. EWW!!! Cut it up for disposal? No one in their right mind volunteered for that cluster fuck!!! Hey, I know! Let's blow it up!!! WHAT??? Yet, that solution won approval...
The DOT was called in with some backhoes, some forklifts, a half a TON of dynamite and an additional half a ton of idiots to supervise the insanity. The beach side of the whale was hiked up and dynamite was packed underneath it with idea being to blow the majority of the thing back out to sea and leave the "smaller parts" left to the natural beach scavengers to take care of. ROLTFLMFAO!!! OK, whatever, sounds good on paper... Why does it always sound good "on paper"???
So, with the explosives set, the crowd is moved back a safe distance of a quarter of a mile and the blast is let loose. What happened next can only be described as unholy and truly unhuman. The blast rivaled Nagasaki in it's attempt. The assembled crowd was cheering. The newscaster was overjoyed. And then the unthinkable happened. It started raining whale. Everywhere. Yes, they had all been taught a very valuable lesson... just like sheep, whales do not fly as much as they, how shall I put this... plummet. Spectators were running for their lives. The camera crew was pummeled. The newscaster was covered in decomposing whale parts. EWW!!! And then they cut to the parking lot several blocks away. Not a pretty sight. Multiple cars had been smashed beyond recognition by sofa sized pieces of whale parts. And I am talking SERIOUSLY smashed. I wasn't sure how to view this mayhem. Was it "It's Raining Men" from the Weather Girls gone horridly awry or that chapter from the "Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy" about the inter galactic interstate by-pass reconstruction thing come way too true. It was whale "goo" on a scale way too much for me to even consider... Oh, the humanity!!!
Think I'm kidding? Google up YouTube, do a search for "1970, exploding whale, Oregon" and see what you find. I CANNOT make this shit up!!!
Now... for those of you out there with even a stronger sense of stomach, stay on YouTube and search for "exploding whale Taiwan". Other than that it involves a larger whale, a flatbed truck, a crowded intersection and couple of mini-malls, that is all I'm gonna say. Happy flukes to you...
Again, I just can't make this crap up...
DATELINE: 1970, Florence, Oregon. BTW, at that time Florence was a small village on the Pacific coast where you could literally walk out of your front door, cross the street, walk across the sand dunes and be in the ocean in less than 300 feet.
So, one morning the village wakes up to a rather vile, over powering stench. Shortly thereafter a number of beach walkers discovered the culprit: an 8-ton, 45-foot dead whale had washed up on the beach and was rapidly (RAPIDLY!!!) decomposing. EWW!!! Within a matter of hours a horde of onlookers and slew of news crews from Portland had arrived to "admire" the disaster. Hmmm, what to do with this nightmare. Bury it? No, it would only wash up again in the tide. Drag it back out to sea? Nope, it just pulled apart when they tried that. EWW!!! Cut it up for disposal? No one in their right mind volunteered for that cluster fuck!!! Hey, I know! Let's blow it up!!! WHAT??? Yet, that solution won approval...
The DOT was called in with some backhoes, some forklifts, a half a TON of dynamite and an additional half a ton of idiots to supervise the insanity. The beach side of the whale was hiked up and dynamite was packed underneath it with idea being to blow the majority of the thing back out to sea and leave the "smaller parts" left to the natural beach scavengers to take care of. ROLTFLMFAO!!! OK, whatever, sounds good on paper... Why does it always sound good "on paper"???
So, with the explosives set, the crowd is moved back a safe distance of a quarter of a mile and the blast is let loose. What happened next can only be described as unholy and truly unhuman. The blast rivaled Nagasaki in it's attempt. The assembled crowd was cheering. The newscaster was overjoyed. And then the unthinkable happened. It started raining whale. Everywhere. Yes, they had all been taught a very valuable lesson... just like sheep, whales do not fly as much as they, how shall I put this... plummet. Spectators were running for their lives. The camera crew was pummeled. The newscaster was covered in decomposing whale parts. EWW!!! And then they cut to the parking lot several blocks away. Not a pretty sight. Multiple cars had been smashed beyond recognition by sofa sized pieces of whale parts. And I am talking SERIOUSLY smashed. I wasn't sure how to view this mayhem. Was it "It's Raining Men" from the Weather Girls gone horridly awry or that chapter from the "Hitch Hiker's Guide To The Galaxy" about the inter galactic interstate by-pass reconstruction thing come way too true. It was whale "goo" on a scale way too much for me to even consider... Oh, the humanity!!!
Think I'm kidding? Google up YouTube, do a search for "1970, exploding whale, Oregon" and see what you find. I CANNOT make this shit up!!!
Now... for those of you out there with even a stronger sense of stomach, stay on YouTube and search for "exploding whale Taiwan". Other than that it involves a larger whale, a flatbed truck, a crowded intersection and couple of mini-malls, that is all I'm gonna say. Happy flukes to you...
Again, I just can't make this crap up...
I SO Know This Womans' Pain...
I live for stories like this. Have you heard about this one yet? It's hysterical. For the last two days I have not been able to not break out into snorting laughter when someone even says a word that remotely rhymes with dildo. BTW, much like "orange", there are NO words that rhyme with "dildo". Trust me, I have Googled it with no success.
OK, short story long. A woman flying from Newark, NJ to Dublin on vacation goes to "Babeland" (yes, it really was called that) and purchases a dildo that she feels will not alert the TSA officials when she packs it in her checked luggage. Oh sweet jesus, what is stranger, buying a dildo that meets TSA standards or thinking that anything in your checked luggage isn't going to give TSA a hard-on that demands a search??? So, she gets to Dublin, checks into her hotel and begins to unpack. What does she find inside the suitcase that has the dildo in it? One of those ubiquitous TSA forms that lets you know that your luggage was selected for a "random" search. And on the the official form is a note written in ink that says "Get your freak on!". Well, of course, she feels horribly "violated" by this action. Personally, I would have been standing there in the hotel room, laughing my ass off and raiding the mini-bar with a vengeance. But that's just the way I am... This woman scanned the TSA form into her computer and posted it on her blog. Guess what, it has gone wildly viral. It's everywhere. And she is so pissed off she could eat nails. Hey, lady, exhale. You have proof that at least one TSA Nazi has a sense of humor and you still have your dildo. It was NOT misinterpreted as a potential incendiary device and detonated on the tarmac. FYI to the TSA, by their very nature and design and how they are meant to be used a dildo is not meant to explode. You? Yes! The dildo? No!
Again, I know her anguish...
Several years ago on our return trip back to the States from Mexico I found myself in a somewhat similar situation. Does this surprise you at all??? We were flying Business Class that trip so we had pretty much unlimited checked luggage availability which I of course pounced on like a street dog on an unguarded child. Two of my three checked suitcases went down empty so I could fill them up on one of my famous Mexican shopping sprees. Which I happily did. On the way back all three of my suitcases were not only grossly overweight and WAY over the limits on things like booze (just shy of a full case) and cigarettes (about ten cases) but stuffed full of groceries, handicrafts (I love that term, it's so all encompassing) and assorted weird shit that only I can find in a serious alley crawl south of the border. Now, Mexico has its own version of the TSA. It's called the TdHdC. Which basically translates to Transportante de Horrible de Chupacabra. They descend upon you like a swarm of flies before you get closer than 20 feet to the check-in counter, seize your luggage, spread it out on banquet tables and begin to rummage through it like they were at a flea market. OK, I'm used to that so I'm not paying attention to what is going on until I notice that Sea Squirt has this rather shocked look on his face that was a bit deer in headlight-esque and he's staring over my shoulder. Then I turned my head and saw what was getting his attention. The TdHdC guy has just opened my first suitcase and is starting to go through my shaving kit. What does he have hanging off of his rubber gloved index finger? A cascade of 4 cock rings. One metal, two leather and one a combination of the two. Oh, fuck... And btw, I do indeed travel internationally with a selection of those things. Yes, I am indeed THAT gay...
Suddenly I find myself between a rock and a really shitty place. Sea Squirt is beside himself, I'm trying not to burst into laughter or make myself look like I have a couple of kilos of coke up my ass and I'm desperately trying not to strangle the rancid old queen at the table to my left who is getting her luggage raped but is snickering at what is happening to me. Well, since I didn't know how to say "baby bracelets" in Spanish (which I knew stood a snow balls chance in Jalisco of even getting remotely airborne) I was considering just pointing at the rancid old queen to my left and starting to scream "Le Bomba!!! Le Bomba!!!" at the top of my lungs. Which, btw, does not mean "bomb" in Spanish as much as it means "water heater" but I figured, what the hell, I have nothing to lose at this point. Then I hear the sound of grinding metal as all of the gears inside TdHdC guys head lock as he finally realizes just exactly what he has hanging off of his finger actually is. At that point I am resigned to being led away to a small, windowless room and forcibly strip searched by a crowd of badly uniformed Federale's who are all making a rather unsettling sucking noise through their teeth and saying something loosely translatable as "Hey, Bay-bee!!! Hey, Bay-bee!!!" while they make me dance on a table for them.
Luckily, calmer heads prevailed. TdHdC guy slipped the chandelier of cock rings back into my shaving kit, zipped it up, put it back into my suitcase, closed it and then proceeded to grab all three of my suitcases off of the table and took them straight to the check-in counter with a look of disgust on his whitened face which, I might add, is quite difficult for a Mexican national to attain. After he gave my luggage to the ticketing agent he grabbed the bottle of hand sanitizer from the counter and drank it. Two minutes later we are ticketed, boarding passed and on the escalator up to the boarding level, where I immediately plant my ass at the first bar I can find, slam a couple of shooters and then head to the Duty Free area to fill my empty shoulder bag with a couple of more bottles of tequila and a carton or two of more cigarettes. Needless to say, Sea Squirt was appalled at my bravado. Fuck him.
Guess who sat directly across the aisle from me from Vallarta to O'Hare??? That snickering, rancid old queen who was not at all happy since she had gotten her luggage dumped completely out on the table and had been put face up against a wall and patted down like an illegal alien. Hey, bitch, what comes around goes around... I happily drank my way to O'Hare and relished on the two contraband apples I had stashed in my shoulder bag. Apparently, if you distract security with some rather unsavory sex toys they just don't seem to care that you're smuggling produce...
OK, short story long. A woman flying from Newark, NJ to Dublin on vacation goes to "Babeland" (yes, it really was called that) and purchases a dildo that she feels will not alert the TSA officials when she packs it in her checked luggage. Oh sweet jesus, what is stranger, buying a dildo that meets TSA standards or thinking that anything in your checked luggage isn't going to give TSA a hard-on that demands a search??? So, she gets to Dublin, checks into her hotel and begins to unpack. What does she find inside the suitcase that has the dildo in it? One of those ubiquitous TSA forms that lets you know that your luggage was selected for a "random" search. And on the the official form is a note written in ink that says "Get your freak on!". Well, of course, she feels horribly "violated" by this action. Personally, I would have been standing there in the hotel room, laughing my ass off and raiding the mini-bar with a vengeance. But that's just the way I am... This woman scanned the TSA form into her computer and posted it on her blog. Guess what, it has gone wildly viral. It's everywhere. And she is so pissed off she could eat nails. Hey, lady, exhale. You have proof that at least one TSA Nazi has a sense of humor and you still have your dildo. It was NOT misinterpreted as a potential incendiary device and detonated on the tarmac. FYI to the TSA, by their very nature and design and how they are meant to be used a dildo is not meant to explode. You? Yes! The dildo? No!
Again, I know her anguish...
Several years ago on our return trip back to the States from Mexico I found myself in a somewhat similar situation. Does this surprise you at all??? We were flying Business Class that trip so we had pretty much unlimited checked luggage availability which I of course pounced on like a street dog on an unguarded child. Two of my three checked suitcases went down empty so I could fill them up on one of my famous Mexican shopping sprees. Which I happily did. On the way back all three of my suitcases were not only grossly overweight and WAY over the limits on things like booze (just shy of a full case) and cigarettes (about ten cases) but stuffed full of groceries, handicrafts (I love that term, it's so all encompassing) and assorted weird shit that only I can find in a serious alley crawl south of the border. Now, Mexico has its own version of the TSA. It's called the TdHdC. Which basically translates to Transportante de Horrible de Chupacabra. They descend upon you like a swarm of flies before you get closer than 20 feet to the check-in counter, seize your luggage, spread it out on banquet tables and begin to rummage through it like they were at a flea market. OK, I'm used to that so I'm not paying attention to what is going on until I notice that Sea Squirt has this rather shocked look on his face that was a bit deer in headlight-esque and he's staring over my shoulder. Then I turned my head and saw what was getting his attention. The TdHdC guy has just opened my first suitcase and is starting to go through my shaving kit. What does he have hanging off of his rubber gloved index finger? A cascade of 4 cock rings. One metal, two leather and one a combination of the two. Oh, fuck... And btw, I do indeed travel internationally with a selection of those things. Yes, I am indeed THAT gay...
Suddenly I find myself between a rock and a really shitty place. Sea Squirt is beside himself, I'm trying not to burst into laughter or make myself look like I have a couple of kilos of coke up my ass and I'm desperately trying not to strangle the rancid old queen at the table to my left who is getting her luggage raped but is snickering at what is happening to me. Well, since I didn't know how to say "baby bracelets" in Spanish (which I knew stood a snow balls chance in Jalisco of even getting remotely airborne) I was considering just pointing at the rancid old queen to my left and starting to scream "Le Bomba!!! Le Bomba!!!" at the top of my lungs. Which, btw, does not mean "bomb" in Spanish as much as it means "water heater" but I figured, what the hell, I have nothing to lose at this point. Then I hear the sound of grinding metal as all of the gears inside TdHdC guys head lock as he finally realizes just exactly what he has hanging off of his finger actually is. At that point I am resigned to being led away to a small, windowless room and forcibly strip searched by a crowd of badly uniformed Federale's who are all making a rather unsettling sucking noise through their teeth and saying something loosely translatable as "Hey, Bay-bee!!! Hey, Bay-bee!!!" while they make me dance on a table for them.
Luckily, calmer heads prevailed. TdHdC guy slipped the chandelier of cock rings back into my shaving kit, zipped it up, put it back into my suitcase, closed it and then proceeded to grab all three of my suitcases off of the table and took them straight to the check-in counter with a look of disgust on his whitened face which, I might add, is quite difficult for a Mexican national to attain. After he gave my luggage to the ticketing agent he grabbed the bottle of hand sanitizer from the counter and drank it. Two minutes later we are ticketed, boarding passed and on the escalator up to the boarding level, where I immediately plant my ass at the first bar I can find, slam a couple of shooters and then head to the Duty Free area to fill my empty shoulder bag with a couple of more bottles of tequila and a carton or two of more cigarettes. Needless to say, Sea Squirt was appalled at my bravado. Fuck him.
Guess who sat directly across the aisle from me from Vallarta to O'Hare??? That snickering, rancid old queen who was not at all happy since she had gotten her luggage dumped completely out on the table and had been put face up against a wall and patted down like an illegal alien. Hey, bitch, what comes around goes around... I happily drank my way to O'Hare and relished on the two contraband apples I had stashed in my shoulder bag. Apparently, if you distract security with some rather unsavory sex toys they just don't seem to care that you're smuggling produce...
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Amy Winewhore...
Let me preface this by stating that I am a firm believer in kicking them when their down. Especially if they are 6 feet down. Then I kick them even harder. Why? Because they can't fight back and if they're 6 feet under it's more than likely due to stupidity on their part. More on the "Darwin Awards" in a bit...
Which brings me to Amy Winehouse. Just typing her name makes be shake my head in bewilderment. I will be forever linked to weirdness in a truly strange way... She died on July 23, 2011. My birthday. If I ever get that as a Trivia question I am SO snagging a piece of the pie!!! Now, in all fairness, I did think she had a truly amazing voice and I loved the way that she barged through life like a rhino on steroids. Which apparently was about the only class of drugs she wasn't abusing. Schedule One's, Schedule Two's and a variety of Schedule Three's seemed to serve as a form of mother's milk to that train wreck. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget alcohol. That seems to have served as her alternative to oxygen from all accounts. She passed out on stage more times than I have been served with speeding tickets. She had more ink on her body than she did pink and had a fascination with over the top bouffant hairdon'ts that would make even the most seasoned drag queen run for the exits. One of the more exotic traits that she exhibited was in her touring contracts. She demanded that she be given a private dressing room and that it be stocked with two (yes, two) cases of Chivas Regal. That clause may have played a factor in the passing out on stage thing...
Yet, she had a wall of awards to her credit, including 5 Grammy's that she won on a single night which included 3 of the big 4. Tony Bennett recorded a duet with her and described her as the single most amazing female performer that he has ever encountered. OK, either she was really fucking amazing or he's so damned old he puts his Depends on backwards over his head!!!
So, she dies on my birthday. She was 27. Why do they always managed to die at the age of 27??? Her death did not surprise me. I waited with baited breath for the release of the coroner's report. I could only imagine that they would find enough drugs in her system to perform a root canal on King Kong. Guess what??? Nothing. Nada. Zip. She was clean. And just to deepen the mystery the coroner reported that all of her internal organs appeared to be in a healthy state. WHAT??? At the very least I was expected to hear about a liver that looked like something out of the Petrified Forest.
OK, so I'm getting my hair cut today and a "News Of The Weird" blurb comes on the radio and it's about Amy. The medical examiner released her official cause of death. Of course, my ears perked up. Would you believe "wreckless misadventure"??? Something to do with a blood alcohol level of .53. .53??? .53!!! Holy shit, what did she drink, fucking Milwaukee??? I cannot comprehend a blood alcohol level of that amount. Hell, I can't imagine having the ability to successfully find my mouth after I hit a .3 let alone maintain the ability to keep pounding them down to achieve a .53. Let's just say that I was sitting in the chair giggling my ass off at this news. Of course, my stylist is completely unfamiliar with the term wreckless misadventure so I had to explain it to her. I started out with the self-inflicted injury route but that just didn't seem to carry the weight I was looking for so I just jumped right into the Darwin Award's category. Which, btw, are ALWAYS awarded posthumously. It's just the nature of the beast. Think of that news story we hear every 4th of July of the idiot who blows himself up lighting off fireworks outside of his single wide while smoking a cigarette and standing next to 5 gallon can of gasoline. Or the idiot who takes his Hummer H3 out on the lake to go ice fishing. Or the idiot who decides to put his car battery in the oven to keep it warm in the winter. Oh, wait a minute, that was me... Or, my favorite, the idiot who climbs up to the top of his silo to get a really good picture of that funnel cloud. #1, you are too stupid to be allowed to live anymore and #2, you actually do pose a serious threat to the gene pool. My stylist, bless her heart, understood perfectly. Or so I thought. She asked me if the awards were televised. I mentally penciled her in as potential nominee.
Which brings me to Amy Winehouse. Just typing her name makes be shake my head in bewilderment. I will be forever linked to weirdness in a truly strange way... She died on July 23, 2011. My birthday. If I ever get that as a Trivia question I am SO snagging a piece of the pie!!! Now, in all fairness, I did think she had a truly amazing voice and I loved the way that she barged through life like a rhino on steroids. Which apparently was about the only class of drugs she wasn't abusing. Schedule One's, Schedule Two's and a variety of Schedule Three's seemed to serve as a form of mother's milk to that train wreck. Oh, yeah, and let's not forget alcohol. That seems to have served as her alternative to oxygen from all accounts. She passed out on stage more times than I have been served with speeding tickets. She had more ink on her body than she did pink and had a fascination with over the top bouffant hairdon'ts that would make even the most seasoned drag queen run for the exits. One of the more exotic traits that she exhibited was in her touring contracts. She demanded that she be given a private dressing room and that it be stocked with two (yes, two) cases of Chivas Regal. That clause may have played a factor in the passing out on stage thing...
Yet, she had a wall of awards to her credit, including 5 Grammy's that she won on a single night which included 3 of the big 4. Tony Bennett recorded a duet with her and described her as the single most amazing female performer that he has ever encountered. OK, either she was really fucking amazing or he's so damned old he puts his Depends on backwards over his head!!!
So, she dies on my birthday. She was 27. Why do they always managed to die at the age of 27??? Her death did not surprise me. I waited with baited breath for the release of the coroner's report. I could only imagine that they would find enough drugs in her system to perform a root canal on King Kong. Guess what??? Nothing. Nada. Zip. She was clean. And just to deepen the mystery the coroner reported that all of her internal organs appeared to be in a healthy state. WHAT??? At the very least I was expected to hear about a liver that looked like something out of the Petrified Forest.
OK, so I'm getting my hair cut today and a "News Of The Weird" blurb comes on the radio and it's about Amy. The medical examiner released her official cause of death. Of course, my ears perked up. Would you believe "wreckless misadventure"??? Something to do with a blood alcohol level of .53. .53??? .53!!! Holy shit, what did she drink, fucking Milwaukee??? I cannot comprehend a blood alcohol level of that amount. Hell, I can't imagine having the ability to successfully find my mouth after I hit a .3 let alone maintain the ability to keep pounding them down to achieve a .53. Let's just say that I was sitting in the chair giggling my ass off at this news. Of course, my stylist is completely unfamiliar with the term wreckless misadventure so I had to explain it to her. I started out with the self-inflicted injury route but that just didn't seem to carry the weight I was looking for so I just jumped right into the Darwin Award's category. Which, btw, are ALWAYS awarded posthumously. It's just the nature of the beast. Think of that news story we hear every 4th of July of the idiot who blows himself up lighting off fireworks outside of his single wide while smoking a cigarette and standing next to 5 gallon can of gasoline. Or the idiot who takes his Hummer H3 out on the lake to go ice fishing. Or the idiot who decides to put his car battery in the oven to keep it warm in the winter. Oh, wait a minute, that was me... Or, my favorite, the idiot who climbs up to the top of his silo to get a really good picture of that funnel cloud. #1, you are too stupid to be allowed to live anymore and #2, you actually do pose a serious threat to the gene pool. My stylist, bless her heart, understood perfectly. Or so I thought. She asked me if the awards were televised. I mentally penciled her in as potential nominee.
Friday, October 7, 2011
My Own Private Bataan Death March...
OK, this is just SO me that it hurts. And I do mean hurts.
This afternoon I go up to the PDQ gas station on Monona Dr. to put some air in the tires. A simple enough task on the surface and one that I have managed to effortlessly accomplish innumerable times before. Today however I decided to throw myself a curve ball. Guess who managed to lock the keys in the car??? Yes, that would be me. No problemo, I think to myself, I'll just give AAA a call and ask for lock-out assistance. Where was my AAA card? In my wallet, of course. Which was sitting clearly on the passenger seat. Calling Sea Squirt was a useless option as we are now a one vehicle family and I had no money in my pockets to use the pay phone even if I wanted to. Why the pay phone you ask. Because the cell phone was charging at home. FMTT!!! My only option was to hike my ass home on foot and grab the other set of keys. Again, FMTT!!! I have since learned through a MapQuest search that the distance is a total of a little over 4.25 miles. And guess who has on a brand new pair of topsiders that are nowhere near broken in??? Boned just doesn't begin to describe the start of this cascade of errors.
As I walk across the gas station parking lot another customer approaches me and asks where the McDonald's is. I point down Broadway (the direction I need to go) and say turn left at the third light, two miles at the most. Do I think to ask if I can catch a lift that far with him? Hell no, that would have been way too easy!!! I just stood there, angry at my new shoes and watched him drive away. DUH!!!
I hadn't made it more than six blocks when my shins and calves started hurting and by the time I made it up the aforementioned McDonald's the first of my hips was starting to give out. (Did I mention that I am a very, VERY old person?). But at least I was "almost" half way home. And now walking directly into the wind for the rest of the journey. By the time I made it up the train tracks I was giving serious thought to just laying down on them and doing a Pearl Pureheart on myself with the next passing Burlington Northern. Cooler heads managed to somehow prevail and once I had finally stopped crying I continued on my sojourn. I had barely made it past the sewage treatment plant (thank god the wind was in my favor) when I knew I was in serious trouble. Remember those new shoes??? I had blisters on both heels and had managed to wear the better part of one of my little toes completely off. Hobbling along just doesn't adequately describe the rest of my journey.
An hour and a half after starting this hike from hell I finally made it home. Sea Squirt just happened to be looking out of the front window when he saw me come limping up the side lawn and needing to be buzzed in. He wasn't sure if I had been car-jacked or had managed to wreck the car again in one of my infamous T-Boning incidents. I know that he wanted to burst out laughing when I told him that I had locked the keys in the car but I think that he realized that had he done that I would have taken him out back and fed him to the squirrels. With the help of a neighbor who gave me a ride I was back home with car in about 20 minutes. Windblown, limping, slightly bloody and dehydrated I might add.
I quickly bellied up to the medicine cabinet and washed down half a sleeve of Mexican aspirin with a pitcher of Kool-Aid. Then, just for good measure, I tongued the last two 20 mg tabs of morphine that I had left to my name. Hey, I looked and felt like day old shit on a stick so it just seemed like a good idea at the time. What can I say, self medicating is one of my fortes. An hour later I felt better. A LOT better. Of course, with 40 mg's of morphine in me I also felt younger, prettier and totally smokin' hot as well. Opiates. They'll do that to ya...
How I somehow manage to spend entire days maneuvering the "streets" and "sidewalks" in Mexico (let alone the canyons of Calle de Fiba) and still want to go dancing until dawn is beyond me. Must be the brisk salt air. Or the tequila...
Have I learned a lesson from todays little adventure? You betcha!!! From now on Sea Squirt is in charge of putting air in the tires!!!
This afternoon I go up to the PDQ gas station on Monona Dr. to put some air in the tires. A simple enough task on the surface and one that I have managed to effortlessly accomplish innumerable times before. Today however I decided to throw myself a curve ball. Guess who managed to lock the keys in the car??? Yes, that would be me. No problemo, I think to myself, I'll just give AAA a call and ask for lock-out assistance. Where was my AAA card? In my wallet, of course. Which was sitting clearly on the passenger seat. Calling Sea Squirt was a useless option as we are now a one vehicle family and I had no money in my pockets to use the pay phone even if I wanted to. Why the pay phone you ask. Because the cell phone was charging at home. FMTT!!! My only option was to hike my ass home on foot and grab the other set of keys. Again, FMTT!!! I have since learned through a MapQuest search that the distance is a total of a little over 4.25 miles. And guess who has on a brand new pair of topsiders that are nowhere near broken in??? Boned just doesn't begin to describe the start of this cascade of errors.
As I walk across the gas station parking lot another customer approaches me and asks where the McDonald's is. I point down Broadway (the direction I need to go) and say turn left at the third light, two miles at the most. Do I think to ask if I can catch a lift that far with him? Hell no, that would have been way too easy!!! I just stood there, angry at my new shoes and watched him drive away. DUH!!!
I hadn't made it more than six blocks when my shins and calves started hurting and by the time I made it up the aforementioned McDonald's the first of my hips was starting to give out. (Did I mention that I am a very, VERY old person?). But at least I was "almost" half way home. And now walking directly into the wind for the rest of the journey. By the time I made it up the train tracks I was giving serious thought to just laying down on them and doing a Pearl Pureheart on myself with the next passing Burlington Northern. Cooler heads managed to somehow prevail and once I had finally stopped crying I continued on my sojourn. I had barely made it past the sewage treatment plant (thank god the wind was in my favor) when I knew I was in serious trouble. Remember those new shoes??? I had blisters on both heels and had managed to wear the better part of one of my little toes completely off. Hobbling along just doesn't adequately describe the rest of my journey.
An hour and a half after starting this hike from hell I finally made it home. Sea Squirt just happened to be looking out of the front window when he saw me come limping up the side lawn and needing to be buzzed in. He wasn't sure if I had been car-jacked or had managed to wreck the car again in one of my infamous T-Boning incidents. I know that he wanted to burst out laughing when I told him that I had locked the keys in the car but I think that he realized that had he done that I would have taken him out back and fed him to the squirrels. With the help of a neighbor who gave me a ride I was back home with car in about 20 minutes. Windblown, limping, slightly bloody and dehydrated I might add.
I quickly bellied up to the medicine cabinet and washed down half a sleeve of Mexican aspirin with a pitcher of Kool-Aid. Then, just for good measure, I tongued the last two 20 mg tabs of morphine that I had left to my name. Hey, I looked and felt like day old shit on a stick so it just seemed like a good idea at the time. What can I say, self medicating is one of my fortes. An hour later I felt better. A LOT better. Of course, with 40 mg's of morphine in me I also felt younger, prettier and totally smokin' hot as well. Opiates. They'll do that to ya...
How I somehow manage to spend entire days maneuvering the "streets" and "sidewalks" in Mexico (let alone the canyons of Calle de Fiba) and still want to go dancing until dawn is beyond me. Must be the brisk salt air. Or the tequila...
Have I learned a lesson from todays little adventure? You betcha!!! From now on Sea Squirt is in charge of putting air in the tires!!!
Friday, September 23, 2011
Drumroll Please!!!
OK, it seems that Google served many of you very well in response to the quotation trivia test. I should have known that you would all figure that one out. Still, two answers seemed to stump you all somehow. So, without further adieu...
1. Helen Mirren in "Elizabeth 1st".
2. Dorothy Parker on her opinion of Katharine Hepburn.
3. Chiwetel Ejiofor as Lola in "Kinky Boots" upon being presented with
the wrong color of kinky boots.
5. Eva Gardner to Miss Fellowes in "Night Of The Iquana".
7. Guy Pierce as Felicia in "Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert".
8. Joan Crawford as Chrystal in "The Women".
9. Dolly Parton as Truvy in "Steel Magnolia's".
10. Mercy to George in "The Killing Of Sister George".
11. Zsa Zsa Gabor as Talleah in "Queen Of Outer Space".
Now, as for the two that you all seemed to miss...
4. How could you have missed this one??? It's so obvious!!! CHER!!!
On her opinion of the "other divas", Brittany, Celine and Madonna, at
the opening of the last concert in her farewell tour.
6. OK, I was particularly proud of this one. Ernest Hemingway to the
household help on hearing that Eva Gardner had just finished
skinny dipping in his pool. I just love it!!!
1. Helen Mirren in "Elizabeth 1st".
2. Dorothy Parker on her opinion of Katharine Hepburn.
3. Chiwetel Ejiofor as Lola in "Kinky Boots" upon being presented with
the wrong color of kinky boots.
5. Eva Gardner to Miss Fellowes in "Night Of The Iquana".
7. Guy Pierce as Felicia in "Priscilla, Queen Of The Desert".
8. Joan Crawford as Chrystal in "The Women".
9. Dolly Parton as Truvy in "Steel Magnolia's".
10. Mercy to George in "The Killing Of Sister George".
11. Zsa Zsa Gabor as Talleah in "Queen Of Outer Space".
Now, as for the two that you all seemed to miss...
4. How could you have missed this one??? It's so obvious!!! CHER!!!
On her opinion of the "other divas", Brittany, Celine and Madonna, at
the opening of the last concert in her farewell tour.
6. OK, I was particularly proud of this one. Ernest Hemingway to the
household help on hearing that Eva Gardner had just finished
skinny dipping in his pool. I just love it!!!
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
Who Said This?
OK, it's trivia time. Well, actually it's gay trivia time so that makes it even harder to play. Try to identify who said these just flamingly queer things. The answers will appear in the next post. C'mon, jump on in, the water's fabulous!!!
1. "Fetch me a priest, girl. I'm minded to die."
2. "She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B."
3. "Burgundy??? Please, god, tell me I have not inspired ANYTHING
burgundy. Red, Charlie Boy, I said 'RED!!!'. Red is the color of sex!!!
Burgundy is the color of lunch with your grandmother!!!"
4. "I've been working stages for more than 40 freaking years. Top that
you bitches!!!"
5. "Well, geography is my specialty, honey. Did you know that if it
wasn't for dykes, the plains of Texas would be... uh... engulfed by the
gulf. It's true. I saw it in a book once."
6. "OK, everybody listen up! Nobody touch the swimming pool! I'm
gonna drain it and use the water to make ice cubes for my martinis!"
7. "Oh, that was fucking charming! You gutless pack of dickheads!!!"
8. "There's a name for you, ladies, but it isn't used in high society....
outside of a kennel."
9. "Well, Louie brought his new girlfriend over last night and the nicest
thing I can say about her is all of her tattoos are spelled correctly."
10. "It so happens that your death will coincide with Road Safety
Awareness Week, a cause which we all know is close to your heart."
And just for good measure...
11. "I hate her! I hate that Qveen!!!"
1. "Fetch me a priest, girl. I'm minded to die."
2. "She runs the gamut of emotions from A to B."
3. "Burgundy??? Please, god, tell me I have not inspired ANYTHING
burgundy. Red, Charlie Boy, I said 'RED!!!'. Red is the color of sex!!!
Burgundy is the color of lunch with your grandmother!!!"
4. "I've been working stages for more than 40 freaking years. Top that
you bitches!!!"
5. "Well, geography is my specialty, honey. Did you know that if it
wasn't for dykes, the plains of Texas would be... uh... engulfed by the
gulf. It's true. I saw it in a book once."
6. "OK, everybody listen up! Nobody touch the swimming pool! I'm
gonna drain it and use the water to make ice cubes for my martinis!"
7. "Oh, that was fucking charming! You gutless pack of dickheads!!!"
8. "There's a name for you, ladies, but it isn't used in high society....
outside of a kennel."
9. "Well, Louie brought his new girlfriend over last night and the nicest
thing I can say about her is all of her tattoos are spelled correctly."
10. "It so happens that your death will coincide with Road Safety
Awareness Week, a cause which we all know is close to your heart."
And just for good measure...
11. "I hate her! I hate that Qveen!!!"
Monday, September 19, 2011
Seventeen Days And Counting...
My word, where has the time gone? Forty-one years... I can't believe it.
October 4, 2011 will mark the 40th anniversary of the death of Janis Joplin, an explosive force of nature that we still haven't seen the likes of cross our paths again. Janis was a broad, true and simple. She had stones the size of Buicks' and a voice that was even bigger still. Hell, here voice could give a microphone a hard-on.
Her style was unique, a cross of rock, soul, jazz and just plain gut-bucket blues. Her voice spread itself between raw, raspy and raucous all the way over to almost lullabyish and hurting so badly you could damn near taste the pain inside. She could erupt on stage like a volcano one moment and turn into a wounded bird the next and all the while taking you along for the ride of your life Visually she was much larger than life. Musically she was decades ahead of her time. And personally she was a bloody mess with enough baggage to move to Mars with. But it all served to make her who she was deep down inside: Pearl.
Always the outcast she never seemed to quite fit in anywhere. Her early life was a disaster. As to her youth in Port Arthur, Texas she said, "They laughed me outta class, they laughed me outta school and they laughed me outta town." To get even for that, several months before her death, she returned to Texas to attend her 10-year high school reunion. When she showed up she poured herself out of the back of the longest limo anyone had ever seen, awash in feathers, sequins and velvet and was descended upon by more news media than you can imagine. Guess what? Not only did no one remember her from high school they didn't even know who she was as a world famous performer!!! So much for Port Arthur. She snuck out the back entrance in tears and never looked back.
Less than 3 months later she was dead. While working on recording her upcoming new album she was found face down, dead, in her hotel room on the morning of October 4 1971. The coroner ruled her death the result of ingestion of large amounts of alcohol and almost pure heroin. From an underage high school chick that would sneak into honky-tonks and play for drinks to "the voice" of Big Brother and The Holding Company to fronting her own bands, Full Tilt Boogie and The Kozmic Blues Band, she managed to ride a lightning bolt bareback and barefoot. All with a smile on her face, an unmistakable cackle in her throat and a wisp of innocence about her that belied the hard wood that lay beneath. She left this plain at the height of her career and we will never know what might have been. I can only imagine what she would be like today at the age of 67. Whoa, doggies!!!
Pearl, I have everything that you ever recorded, I know every word to every song and I still hold that invaluable lesson that you taught me dear to my heart---you gotta "Try, Just A Little Bit Harder"...
October 4, 2011 will mark the 40th anniversary of the death of Janis Joplin, an explosive force of nature that we still haven't seen the likes of cross our paths again. Janis was a broad, true and simple. She had stones the size of Buicks' and a voice that was even bigger still. Hell, here voice could give a microphone a hard-on.
Her style was unique, a cross of rock, soul, jazz and just plain gut-bucket blues. Her voice spread itself between raw, raspy and raucous all the way over to almost lullabyish and hurting so badly you could damn near taste the pain inside. She could erupt on stage like a volcano one moment and turn into a wounded bird the next and all the while taking you along for the ride of your life Visually she was much larger than life. Musically she was decades ahead of her time. And personally she was a bloody mess with enough baggage to move to Mars with. But it all served to make her who she was deep down inside: Pearl.
Always the outcast she never seemed to quite fit in anywhere. Her early life was a disaster. As to her youth in Port Arthur, Texas she said, "They laughed me outta class, they laughed me outta school and they laughed me outta town." To get even for that, several months before her death, she returned to Texas to attend her 10-year high school reunion. When she showed up she poured herself out of the back of the longest limo anyone had ever seen, awash in feathers, sequins and velvet and was descended upon by more news media than you can imagine. Guess what? Not only did no one remember her from high school they didn't even know who she was as a world famous performer!!! So much for Port Arthur. She snuck out the back entrance in tears and never looked back.
Less than 3 months later she was dead. While working on recording her upcoming new album she was found face down, dead, in her hotel room on the morning of October 4 1971. The coroner ruled her death the result of ingestion of large amounts of alcohol and almost pure heroin. From an underage high school chick that would sneak into honky-tonks and play for drinks to "the voice" of Big Brother and The Holding Company to fronting her own bands, Full Tilt Boogie and The Kozmic Blues Band, she managed to ride a lightning bolt bareback and barefoot. All with a smile on her face, an unmistakable cackle in her throat and a wisp of innocence about her that belied the hard wood that lay beneath. She left this plain at the height of her career and we will never know what might have been. I can only imagine what she would be like today at the age of 67. Whoa, doggies!!!
Pearl, I have everything that you ever recorded, I know every word to every song and I still hold that invaluable lesson that you taught me dear to my heart---you gotta "Try, Just A Little Bit Harder"...
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
Out Of The Frying Pan and Into The Fire!!!
Good grief, have the Easy-Bake Oven people totally lost their minds??? Have you heard about this? It's just so freaking "America" it hurts!!!
Remember the Easy-Bake Oven? Well, after 48-years and 12 different design versions they are still kicking around. But today they managed to leap head long into the 20th century and a new level of madness. When first introduced in 1963 they were made of metal, resembled an actual oven and were powered by two 100-watt lightbulbs. Can you say hotter than fuck and scream third-degree burns at the top of your lungs? Trust me, LOTS of little girls did. Hell a few even managed to lose a finger or two in the process... White hot metal apparently gets pretty sharp. (Tell me what is horridly wrong with the picture to the left...)
Aside from a nauseating array of colors not found in nature this "toy" went through a number of changes. First it went down to just one lightbulb. Then it became made of plastic. Then it got a microwave design just to modern it up a bit. Hmmm, lets think about this a second... a 100-watt lightbulb inside of a plastic container the size of a shoe box. While the outside did not get white hot like the metal ones did it did get hot enough to melt and stick to your hands. Emergency room, here we come!!!
Enter the Federal Government. (NEVER a good thing) A recall? Hell no!!! Just another insane ruling. It seems they are legally phasing out incandescent lightbulbs (I'm stocking up on them) and are going to push those damned CF bulbs down our throats whether we want them or not. Apparently incandescent bulbs really are the gateway lighting source to heavy petting, communist thoughts and plaids. Who knew??? Sensing the lions at the gates the Easy-Bake Oven folks decided to come up with a 13th version of their toy. (Can the 13th of anything EVER be a good thing???) Get this... the new version is twice the size of the last model, looks something like the head of "Rosie", the Jetson's robot maid, is purple with "cool" graphics, costs twice as much as the last one ($49.99!!! For that price why not just go buy your child and actual microwave???) and has done away with the lightbulb altogether. In favor of an actual heating element!!! Just like a "real oven" as they like to promote it. Well, no more third-degree burns or severed fingers, now we just have to worry about house fires. And they still call this creature from the 5th gate of hell a toy??? I can't wait for the lawsuits to start.
Through all of its 48 years though, the little oven that could has had one constant. It still consistently makes the crappiest "treats" known to man. Runny "cupcakes", burnt "pizza", "cookies" that rival talavera tiles in texture and "pancakes" as good as any shingle I have ever chipped a tooth on. Don't even get me started on the "brownies". And I used to think toys couldn't get any worse than Barbie...
Remember the Easy-Bake Oven? Well, after 48-years and 12 different design versions they are still kicking around. But today they managed to leap head long into the 20th century and a new level of madness. When first introduced in 1963 they were made of metal, resembled an actual oven and were powered by two 100-watt lightbulbs. Can you say hotter than fuck and scream third-degree burns at the top of your lungs? Trust me, LOTS of little girls did. Hell a few even managed to lose a finger or two in the process... White hot metal apparently gets pretty sharp. (Tell me what is horridly wrong with the picture to the left...)
Aside from a nauseating array of colors not found in nature this "toy" went through a number of changes. First it went down to just one lightbulb. Then it became made of plastic. Then it got a microwave design just to modern it up a bit. Hmmm, lets think about this a second... a 100-watt lightbulb inside of a plastic container the size of a shoe box. While the outside did not get white hot like the metal ones did it did get hot enough to melt and stick to your hands. Emergency room, here we come!!!
Enter the Federal Government. (NEVER a good thing) A recall? Hell no!!! Just another insane ruling. It seems they are legally phasing out incandescent lightbulbs (I'm stocking up on them) and are going to push those damned CF bulbs down our throats whether we want them or not. Apparently incandescent bulbs really are the gateway lighting source to heavy petting, communist thoughts and plaids. Who knew??? Sensing the lions at the gates the Easy-Bake Oven folks decided to come up with a 13th version of their toy. (Can the 13th of anything EVER be a good thing???) Get this... the new version is twice the size of the last model, looks something like the head of "Rosie", the Jetson's robot maid, is purple with "cool" graphics, costs twice as much as the last one ($49.99!!! For that price why not just go buy your child and actual microwave???) and has done away with the lightbulb altogether. In favor of an actual heating element!!! Just like a "real oven" as they like to promote it. Well, no more third-degree burns or severed fingers, now we just have to worry about house fires. And they still call this creature from the 5th gate of hell a toy??? I can't wait for the lawsuits to start.
Through all of its 48 years though, the little oven that could has had one constant. It still consistently makes the crappiest "treats" known to man. Runny "cupcakes", burnt "pizza", "cookies" that rival talavera tiles in texture and "pancakes" as good as any shingle I have ever chipped a tooth on. Don't even get me started on the "brownies". And I used to think toys couldn't get any worse than Barbie...
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
Vivere.
I love that word! Well, actually it's not a word so much as it's a phrase. It's Italian, they have things like that, go figure. It means "dare to live". How can you not love a challenge of that enormity??? It has a Spanish equivalent, "Viva Ya", but that just doesn't seem to carry the same degree of UMPH that "Vivere" does. Sad but true.
Anyway, I got to see a perfect example of vivere in action the other day and I was genuinely impressed. I was shopping at Woodman's (and you all know what kind of trouble I can get into at Woodman's) and I inevitably find myself caught in a log jam in the meat department that is being caused by the lady on the end cap who is passing out the freebies. Of course, the masses are descending on her like harpies creating something akin to a 300 car pile up on the I-5. I have NO patience for this kind of crap. All I want to do is get into the other aisle and start rifling through the bacon to find a couple of good packages. But no, I am stuck in the shark tank at feeding time. I just decided to give up the ghost and kept myself entertained by hiding packages of frozen breakfast sausages behind the hamburger buns that were on display next to me. Should smell lovely in a couple of days, I thought to myself. Finally the masses had satiated themselves and moved on to greener end caps when I get to the end of the aisle and see what all of the fuss was about. OMG, I was in heaven!!! The days freebie was Hebrew National All Beef Hotdogs!!! HEBREW NATIONAL ALL BEEF HOTDOGS!!! They're all beef!!! They're Kosher!!! They plump up!!! They were FREE!!! FREE!!! I jammed on the brakes so hard I left rubber in the aisle. There they were. Wonderfully browned, cut into quarters and laid out on a plate with pretty little frilly toothpicks in them. There were four of them left. That would make an entire hot dog. An entire Hebrew National All Beef Hotdog. Mine, I said to myself. MINE!!! And them I saw him...
He was four at the very most and since he was standing up in the cart that his mother was pushing in my direction we were eye to eye with each other. I could see the spark in his eyes. I could feel the fire in his soul, hell you could of roasted marshmallows with it. And I could read his mind. Mine, I heard him think. Those hotdogs are mine!!! MINE!!! He had this look on his face that I can only describe as cross between "I haven't eaten since last week" and "You mean Santa is actually REAL???". And he had some fresh drool running down his chin. Ah, the power of vivere!!! So he and I start giving each other the hairy eyeball in between glances over at the hotdog. Yes, I was having a stare down with a four year old over a hotdog. A small part of me was embarrassed. OK, a very small part because the majority of me was concentrating on all beef goodness. I knew I had him bested, after all as I am want to say, old age and treachery will always overcome youth and beauty. Then the little shit beat me to the punch. He jumps to the front of the cart, grabs all four pieces of hotdog and proceeds to jam them into his mouth. Toothpicks and all. You little fucker!!!
OK, I immediately descend into full melt down mode. I was THIS close to starting to stamp my feet, wave my arms in the air wildly, get my lower lip vibrating wildly and start doing one of those 45 second inhales that results in a glass shattering High-C over Middle-C outburst of rage. Luckily the freebie lady sensed all hell was going to be breaking loose shortly so she quickly started slicing up some more and rolling them in my direction. I quickly consumed Hebrews with a gusto heretofore unknown on that end cap. Life was good.
And then I heard him. His High-C over Middle-C was extraordinary. As was the sight of his mother trying to pull several toothpicks out of his tongue as he stamped up and down on the bread, eggs and juice packs that were in the cart with him. Hey, little dude, Carpe Diem. Just make sure that you take the toothpicks out first!!!
Anyway, I got to see a perfect example of vivere in action the other day and I was genuinely impressed. I was shopping at Woodman's (and you all know what kind of trouble I can get into at Woodman's) and I inevitably find myself caught in a log jam in the meat department that is being caused by the lady on the end cap who is passing out the freebies. Of course, the masses are descending on her like harpies creating something akin to a 300 car pile up on the I-5. I have NO patience for this kind of crap. All I want to do is get into the other aisle and start rifling through the bacon to find a couple of good packages. But no, I am stuck in the shark tank at feeding time. I just decided to give up the ghost and kept myself entertained by hiding packages of frozen breakfast sausages behind the hamburger buns that were on display next to me. Should smell lovely in a couple of days, I thought to myself. Finally the masses had satiated themselves and moved on to greener end caps when I get to the end of the aisle and see what all of the fuss was about. OMG, I was in heaven!!! The days freebie was Hebrew National All Beef Hotdogs!!! HEBREW NATIONAL ALL BEEF HOTDOGS!!! They're all beef!!! They're Kosher!!! They plump up!!! They were FREE!!! FREE!!! I jammed on the brakes so hard I left rubber in the aisle. There they were. Wonderfully browned, cut into quarters and laid out on a plate with pretty little frilly toothpicks in them. There were four of them left. That would make an entire hot dog. An entire Hebrew National All Beef Hotdog. Mine, I said to myself. MINE!!! And them I saw him...
He was four at the very most and since he was standing up in the cart that his mother was pushing in my direction we were eye to eye with each other. I could see the spark in his eyes. I could feel the fire in his soul, hell you could of roasted marshmallows with it. And I could read his mind. Mine, I heard him think. Those hotdogs are mine!!! MINE!!! He had this look on his face that I can only describe as cross between "I haven't eaten since last week" and "You mean Santa is actually REAL???". And he had some fresh drool running down his chin. Ah, the power of vivere!!! So he and I start giving each other the hairy eyeball in between glances over at the hotdog. Yes, I was having a stare down with a four year old over a hotdog. A small part of me was embarrassed. OK, a very small part because the majority of me was concentrating on all beef goodness. I knew I had him bested, after all as I am want to say, old age and treachery will always overcome youth and beauty. Then the little shit beat me to the punch. He jumps to the front of the cart, grabs all four pieces of hotdog and proceeds to jam them into his mouth. Toothpicks and all. You little fucker!!!
OK, I immediately descend into full melt down mode. I was THIS close to starting to stamp my feet, wave my arms in the air wildly, get my lower lip vibrating wildly and start doing one of those 45 second inhales that results in a glass shattering High-C over Middle-C outburst of rage. Luckily the freebie lady sensed all hell was going to be breaking loose shortly so she quickly started slicing up some more and rolling them in my direction. I quickly consumed Hebrews with a gusto heretofore unknown on that end cap. Life was good.
And then I heard him. His High-C over Middle-C was extraordinary. As was the sight of his mother trying to pull several toothpicks out of his tongue as he stamped up and down on the bread, eggs and juice packs that were in the cart with him. Hey, little dude, Carpe Diem. Just make sure that you take the toothpicks out first!!!
Thursday, September 8, 2011
How The Hell Did I Miss This One???
I like to tell myself that I am on top of things. Always up on the latest trends. Both canines sunk deeply into what is "now". Cutting edge, if you will. Boy what a difference a day makes!
Yesterday while surfing the www. I stumbled upon the name Paul O'Grady. The lead in was "Paul O'Grady and his alter-ego Lily Savage...". Well, that was all that I needed to see. I clicked that link so fast I broke a nail. Boy, did I get my eyes opened up. It seems that Paul O'Grady is a very successful English stage and TV performer and host with a career that spans decades. And he's as gay as a goose (well, of course he is... he's English). It seems though, that his biggest claim to fame is his "sister", Lucy Savage. This immediately piqued my interest and I was soon off to Google-Land.
Ah, Lucy. What can I say, she's... um, well... she's Lucy. Lucy is England's version of Dame Edna only a LOT more vulgar and totally tarted and boozed up. REALLY big platinum blond hair, awash in sequins, fur, polka spots, chandelier earrings and thigh high boots with 6 inch heels. And she appears to be adept enough with those heels to run a marathon if push came to shove. Pink seems to be her "signature colour". Her trademark expressions tend to be "Oh, just bloody bugger off!", "What the fuck?", "You should have seen the size of the skid mark I left on that towel!" and "So, I was in Harrod's yesterday picking up some tampons...". Her favorite way to combat insomnia is getting on the phone at 3 AM and sending pizzas (double eel, hold the cheese) to Charles and Camilla. She hates the royals, says she finds them a bit standoffish for people on the public payroll. She also says that she'd rather chew her own nipples off than vote for a Tory. Lucy even hosted her own game show for 3 years on the BBC. Lord, this is SO my kind of woman!!!
Several years ago Paul "retired" Lucy. Said she had "seen the light, taken the veil and went to a convent in France.". The public screamed in outrage. Earlier this year Lucy apparently made an escape and did a guest performance at a telethon fund raiser for Japanese Tsunami Relief in London. Apparently ratings were astronomical. Was Lucy back for good? Sadly no because Paul later said that Lucy has subsequently been bricked up inside of a chimney by the Mother Superior for her own good. Not Lucy's own good, mind you. For the Mother Superior's own good.
If you want a good giggle then Google "Lucy Savage Youtube". There are literally hours of her there to enjoy. How the bloody hell did this treasure slip through my fingers unnoticed for all of these years??? My Old-timers disease must be worse than I thought...
Yesterday while surfing the www. I stumbled upon the name Paul O'Grady. The lead in was "Paul O'Grady and his alter-ego Lily Savage...". Well, that was all that I needed to see. I clicked that link so fast I broke a nail. Boy, did I get my eyes opened up. It seems that Paul O'Grady is a very successful English stage and TV performer and host with a career that spans decades. And he's as gay as a goose (well, of course he is... he's English). It seems though, that his biggest claim to fame is his "sister", Lucy Savage. This immediately piqued my interest and I was soon off to Google-Land.
Ah, Lucy. What can I say, she's... um, well... she's Lucy. Lucy is England's version of Dame Edna only a LOT more vulgar and totally tarted and boozed up. REALLY big platinum blond hair, awash in sequins, fur, polka spots, chandelier earrings and thigh high boots with 6 inch heels. And she appears to be adept enough with those heels to run a marathon if push came to shove. Pink seems to be her "signature colour". Her trademark expressions tend to be "Oh, just bloody bugger off!", "What the fuck?", "You should have seen the size of the skid mark I left on that towel!" and "So, I was in Harrod's yesterday picking up some tampons...". Her favorite way to combat insomnia is getting on the phone at 3 AM and sending pizzas (double eel, hold the cheese) to Charles and Camilla. She hates the royals, says she finds them a bit standoffish for people on the public payroll. She also says that she'd rather chew her own nipples off than vote for a Tory. Lucy even hosted her own game show for 3 years on the BBC. Lord, this is SO my kind of woman!!!
Several years ago Paul "retired" Lucy. Said she had "seen the light, taken the veil and went to a convent in France.". The public screamed in outrage. Earlier this year Lucy apparently made an escape and did a guest performance at a telethon fund raiser for Japanese Tsunami Relief in London. Apparently ratings were astronomical. Was Lucy back for good? Sadly no because Paul later said that Lucy has subsequently been bricked up inside of a chimney by the Mother Superior for her own good. Not Lucy's own good, mind you. For the Mother Superior's own good.
If you want a good giggle then Google "Lucy Savage Youtube". There are literally hours of her there to enjoy. How the bloody hell did this treasure slip through my fingers unnoticed for all of these years??? My Old-timers disease must be worse than I thought...
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
I've Just Remembered Why I Liked The 1980's So Much.
In a word, the "B-52's". What can I say, I love this band. How can you not? Skin tight mini-dresses, thigh high go-go boots, bee-hive hairdo's, plastic neon colored jewelry, hair colors that can only be described as raspberry, suicide blond and not found in nature and mascara for days. And those were just the guys in the group. The girls were a WHOLE lot more flashy!!! They were thrift store chic right out of the gate.
Their music was fun as hell and their sound was amazingly unique, a strange blend of New Wave, 1960's surfer style and cowbell. Yes, cowbell. And damned good cowbell to be truthful. I can only assume that mastering the cowbell is right up there with learning how to play the saw and still managing to keep all of your fingers...
I can remember the first time that I heard the B-52's. It was 1978 in San Francisco. I was sitting in a dumpy little gay bar called Toad Hall and "Rock Lobster" started blaring over the juke box. That bar came to LIFE in about half a nano-second. Holy shit, that song just rocks. Tonight on the radio they played a version of it I have never heard before, a 15 minute long extended dance mix. I was in heaven!!! Sea Squirt caught me in the kitchen just rocking out and doing the "robot". It was not pretty but as I like to say, sometimes you just gotta dance like nobody's watching.
Throughout the 80's and 90's the B-52's kept me smiling, laughing, dancing in elevators and singing at the top of my lungs in the car with the windows rolled all of the way up. I was known to freak the shit out of people when I was stopped at the lights. Hey, when songs like "Dry County", "Love Shack", "Bouncing Off The Satellite's", "Private Idaho", "Dance That Mess Around" and "Deadbeat Club" came on the stereo I just had to cut loose. I still do.
Today the group is still together, recording and touring and all of them approaching legal retirement age. But still up there on stage. Go-go boots and cowbells. Mini skirts and mile-high hairdos. Hip replacements and hearing aids. Lord, I certainly understand that one!!! They've been around for so long that they are now being "discovered" by a whole new generation. One young enough to be their grandchildren. Think about it... How cool must it be to tell your friends that your grandma or grandpa is in the B-52's??? Yep, that's my grandpa Fred up there with the cowbell and the Foster-Grants. I LOVE IT!!!
I raise my shot glass to Keith, Cindy, Kate and Fred. Guys, keep on shakin' that shack cause it still sounds damned good from here!!!
Their music was fun as hell and their sound was amazingly unique, a strange blend of New Wave, 1960's surfer style and cowbell. Yes, cowbell. And damned good cowbell to be truthful. I can only assume that mastering the cowbell is right up there with learning how to play the saw and still managing to keep all of your fingers...
I can remember the first time that I heard the B-52's. It was 1978 in San Francisco. I was sitting in a dumpy little gay bar called Toad Hall and "Rock Lobster" started blaring over the juke box. That bar came to LIFE in about half a nano-second. Holy shit, that song just rocks. Tonight on the radio they played a version of it I have never heard before, a 15 minute long extended dance mix. I was in heaven!!! Sea Squirt caught me in the kitchen just rocking out and doing the "robot". It was not pretty but as I like to say, sometimes you just gotta dance like nobody's watching.
Throughout the 80's and 90's the B-52's kept me smiling, laughing, dancing in elevators and singing at the top of my lungs in the car with the windows rolled all of the way up. I was known to freak the shit out of people when I was stopped at the lights. Hey, when songs like "Dry County", "Love Shack", "Bouncing Off The Satellite's", "Private Idaho", "Dance That Mess Around" and "Deadbeat Club" came on the stereo I just had to cut loose. I still do.
Today the group is still together, recording and touring and all of them approaching legal retirement age. But still up there on stage. Go-go boots and cowbells. Mini skirts and mile-high hairdos. Hip replacements and hearing aids. Lord, I certainly understand that one!!! They've been around for so long that they are now being "discovered" by a whole new generation. One young enough to be their grandchildren. Think about it... How cool must it be to tell your friends that your grandma or grandpa is in the B-52's??? Yep, that's my grandpa Fred up there with the cowbell and the Foster-Grants. I LOVE IT!!!
I raise my shot glass to Keith, Cindy, Kate and Fred. Guys, keep on shakin' that shack cause it still sounds damned good from here!!!
Saturday, September 3, 2011
My Pot Holders Are In The Bermuda Triangle!!!
OK, this is SO not a good way of doing business and whoever decided it was needs to be shot out of cannon!!!
It all started out simply enough. I decided to do a bit of online shopping, as I am very prone to do, at one of my favorite places, Kohls.com. Yes, I could just as easily driven less than two miles down the road and actually shopped at a Kohl's store but this just seemed easier. Or so I thought. I clicked onto the Clearance link (I LOVE that link) and quickly found a pot holder and towel set in a garishly attractive banana leaf motive that I just had to have for the grill accessories. In fact, they were so hideous that I ordered two sets just to be safe. What can I say, they were on sale. Originally $14.99 a set, clearance priced down to $4.79 a set. Then I threw a 20% discount coupon at them and gladly accepted the FREE shipping. Happy dance!!! Moments later I received a confirmation email letting me know that my order had been received, would be shipped FedEx standard ground and that they would email me again when my order was ready to be shipped. All seemed right with the world.
Then the second email arrived informing me that my order was ready to be shipped and would be using FedEx SmartPost standard ground. Wha??? A couple of Google's later and I knew more about SmartPost than I ever wanted to know. Twenty-seven pages worth to be exact and not a single good review anywhere amongst them. It seems that SmartPost is an evil entity in it's own right with the reliability factor of a fish with one leg. They are a small, independent parcel service that specializes in light weight shipments from online retailers that has been subcontracted by FedEx to do the little shit that they don't really want to be bothered with. Fuck, I've been outsourced. Anyway, they work by carting parcels to any one of more than a dozen scattered locations they have around the country that they call "Sortation Centers". Is that even a real word??? The object of all of this is to eventually get your parcel to a center that is closest to your delivery zip-code. Where they hand it over to the Postal Service to do the actual delivery. Wha??? In short, FedEx actually has nothing to do with the shipment whatsoever. Wha???
OK, so I've been able to track the package online and monitor it's "progress" (I use that term lightly) and I have to say, it's a total cluster fuck. On August 30th it left the Kohl's shipping center in Hazelton, OH and went to the Sortation Center in Grove City, OH. Twentyfour hours later it started its journey to the next Sortation Center in New Berlin, WI which is not only SmartPost's national headquarters, it is only 70 miles east of here. It was scanned in there at 11:19 pm on September 1st (that would be 48 hours ago) and until about 20 minutes ago had just been sitting there in limbo. A recent check of the tracking shows that it is on its way again to the next Sortation Center... In Harrisburg, PA!!! WTF?!?
With any luck I may still manage to receive my pot holders while it is still warm enough to grill out. But probably not. Who the hell does SmartPost have working at HQ, Jethro Bodine??? Some of Elly May's critters??? Granny after a couple of shots of "recipe"??? Duke???
Yes, I know, I shouldn't bitch, after all shipping was free. But I don't think that it qualifies my pot holders to get a Grand Tour of Europe in the process either. And the final insult? I don't get to wage a complaint until after my delivery is 22 days late past the "estimated" delivery date. And that would be September 29th. Hell, by then we could have snow on the ground and I could be in muck-lucks!!! I just want my jungle print pot holders and I want the motherfuckers god damned NOW!!!
It all started out simply enough. I decided to do a bit of online shopping, as I am very prone to do, at one of my favorite places, Kohls.com. Yes, I could just as easily driven less than two miles down the road and actually shopped at a Kohl's store but this just seemed easier. Or so I thought. I clicked onto the Clearance link (I LOVE that link) and quickly found a pot holder and towel set in a garishly attractive banana leaf motive that I just had to have for the grill accessories. In fact, they were so hideous that I ordered two sets just to be safe. What can I say, they were on sale. Originally $14.99 a set, clearance priced down to $4.79 a set. Then I threw a 20% discount coupon at them and gladly accepted the FREE shipping. Happy dance!!! Moments later I received a confirmation email letting me know that my order had been received, would be shipped FedEx standard ground and that they would email me again when my order was ready to be shipped. All seemed right with the world.
Then the second email arrived informing me that my order was ready to be shipped and would be using FedEx SmartPost standard ground. Wha??? A couple of Google's later and I knew more about SmartPost than I ever wanted to know. Twenty-seven pages worth to be exact and not a single good review anywhere amongst them. It seems that SmartPost is an evil entity in it's own right with the reliability factor of a fish with one leg. They are a small, independent parcel service that specializes in light weight shipments from online retailers that has been subcontracted by FedEx to do the little shit that they don't really want to be bothered with. Fuck, I've been outsourced. Anyway, they work by carting parcels to any one of more than a dozen scattered locations they have around the country that they call "Sortation Centers". Is that even a real word??? The object of all of this is to eventually get your parcel to a center that is closest to your delivery zip-code. Where they hand it over to the Postal Service to do the actual delivery. Wha??? In short, FedEx actually has nothing to do with the shipment whatsoever. Wha???
OK, so I've been able to track the package online and monitor it's "progress" (I use that term lightly) and I have to say, it's a total cluster fuck. On August 30th it left the Kohl's shipping center in Hazelton, OH and went to the Sortation Center in Grove City, OH. Twentyfour hours later it started its journey to the next Sortation Center in New Berlin, WI which is not only SmartPost's national headquarters, it is only 70 miles east of here. It was scanned in there at 11:19 pm on September 1st (that would be 48 hours ago) and until about 20 minutes ago had just been sitting there in limbo. A recent check of the tracking shows that it is on its way again to the next Sortation Center... In Harrisburg, PA!!! WTF?!?
With any luck I may still manage to receive my pot holders while it is still warm enough to grill out. But probably not. Who the hell does SmartPost have working at HQ, Jethro Bodine??? Some of Elly May's critters??? Granny after a couple of shots of "recipe"??? Duke???
Yes, I know, I shouldn't bitch, after all shipping was free. But I don't think that it qualifies my pot holders to get a Grand Tour of Europe in the process either. And the final insult? I don't get to wage a complaint until after my delivery is 22 days late past the "estimated" delivery date. And that would be September 29th. Hell, by then we could have snow on the ground and I could be in muck-lucks!!! I just want my jungle print pot holders and I want the motherfuckers god damned NOW!!!
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Just Chalk It Up To Yet Another "Farming Accident".
Nothing brings a cringe to our faces or makes the hair on the back of our necks stand up quite like hearing the term "farming accident" does to us Outlanders. This is 'sconsin after all and we are up to our missing extremities in these things. Trust me, I watch the news...
In between harvesters, back hoes, Bob-Cats, tractors, grain belts, combines, silos, planters, block and tackles, barbed wire, electric fences, fan belts, pulleys, chain drives, barn doors, loaders, chain saws, stupidity and milking machines (don't ask what you lose with a milking machine, it's kind of "personal") a few missing digits, a hand (hands), a foot (feet), an arm or two, a leg or two, a lower body or a head is not at all unusual in this neck of the woods. Add a limp into the equation and you have a Royal Flush to say the very least. Basically, the more of you that is missing the longer you have been farming. Missing teeth don't count. Those are usually attributable to getting kicked in the face by one of the herd and that's just the nature of the profession. Especially if your hands are cold... Think about it.
In 'sconsin a farmer with his body completely intact says one of two things: he's either way to careful to get any appreciable amount of actual work done or he has a shit load of hired help to do his dirty work for him. Both situations, by the way, lead to local rural scorn and getting your mail box smashed with a baseball bat in the middle of the night. Farmers can be so cruel...
Around here we have wonderfully inventive types of farming accidents to say the least. OK, truly weird shit when you get right down to it. My favorites are the farmer who fell into his half full silo and suffocated from the fumes. When they found him a day later is was partially dissolved from the acidic build up in the silo. Pretty. And the guy who was trampled to death by his herd of Holstein's for no other reason than that he was half an hour late to milk them and he had the stupidity to turn his back on them. These were Holstein's for chris' sake, the nice cows that we get milk from. Go figure. And most recently the idiot who decided to go do a bit of tweeking on the engine of the John Deere before he went to church. Of course, his tie gets caught in the fan belt which pulled him down into the fan blades basically turning his head into something akin to a spiral-cut Easter ham. A donation was taken in his honor later that day...
Farming is actually considered the 4th most dangerous job in America. Right after astronaut, test pilot and process server. Why anyone in their right minds would want to be a farmer is beyond my comprehension. Personally, I value my thumbs. I have found a myriad of uses for them that I have become quite fond of. Don't ask, don't tell...
"Farming accident" falls right up there with "grease fire", "smoking in bed" and "alcohol may have played a factor" kind of incidents. All of which I have some experience with to some degree or another. Yes, I have done some really stupid ass shit in my life. I have fed my arm into a wringer style washing machine (I was 5), I have slammed my hand in a car door (I was 6), I have gotten my arm caught in a revolving door (I was 16 and VERY high), I have grabbed unto an electric fence (I was 21 and ditto on the VERY high thing) and I have even temporarily lost a couple of finger prints to a meat slicer (I was 30 and just not paying attention...) but to this day I am still symmetrical for the most part. 2-2-10-2 & 10 as it were. I'm going to try to keep it that way. Unlike Oliver Wendall Douglas from "Green Acres", farm living is NOT the life for me. I'd probably end up having to teach the pig how to drive because what was left of my good leg would be too short to reach the pedals. Which is just as well because with the eye patch I'd probably just keep driving around in circles in the front yard anyway...
In between harvesters, back hoes, Bob-Cats, tractors, grain belts, combines, silos, planters, block and tackles, barbed wire, electric fences, fan belts, pulleys, chain drives, barn doors, loaders, chain saws, stupidity and milking machines (don't ask what you lose with a milking machine, it's kind of "personal") a few missing digits, a hand (hands), a foot (feet), an arm or two, a leg or two, a lower body or a head is not at all unusual in this neck of the woods. Add a limp into the equation and you have a Royal Flush to say the very least. Basically, the more of you that is missing the longer you have been farming. Missing teeth don't count. Those are usually attributable to getting kicked in the face by one of the herd and that's just the nature of the profession. Especially if your hands are cold... Think about it.
In 'sconsin a farmer with his body completely intact says one of two things: he's either way to careful to get any appreciable amount of actual work done or he has a shit load of hired help to do his dirty work for him. Both situations, by the way, lead to local rural scorn and getting your mail box smashed with a baseball bat in the middle of the night. Farmers can be so cruel...
Around here we have wonderfully inventive types of farming accidents to say the least. OK, truly weird shit when you get right down to it. My favorites are the farmer who fell into his half full silo and suffocated from the fumes. When they found him a day later is was partially dissolved from the acidic build up in the silo. Pretty. And the guy who was trampled to death by his herd of Holstein's for no other reason than that he was half an hour late to milk them and he had the stupidity to turn his back on them. These were Holstein's for chris' sake, the nice cows that we get milk from. Go figure. And most recently the idiot who decided to go do a bit of tweeking on the engine of the John Deere before he went to church. Of course, his tie gets caught in the fan belt which pulled him down into the fan blades basically turning his head into something akin to a spiral-cut Easter ham. A donation was taken in his honor later that day...
Farming is actually considered the 4th most dangerous job in America. Right after astronaut, test pilot and process server. Why anyone in their right minds would want to be a farmer is beyond my comprehension. Personally, I value my thumbs. I have found a myriad of uses for them that I have become quite fond of. Don't ask, don't tell...
"Farming accident" falls right up there with "grease fire", "smoking in bed" and "alcohol may have played a factor" kind of incidents. All of which I have some experience with to some degree or another. Yes, I have done some really stupid ass shit in my life. I have fed my arm into a wringer style washing machine (I was 5), I have slammed my hand in a car door (I was 6), I have gotten my arm caught in a revolving door (I was 16 and VERY high), I have grabbed unto an electric fence (I was 21 and ditto on the VERY high thing) and I have even temporarily lost a couple of finger prints to a meat slicer (I was 30 and just not paying attention...) but to this day I am still symmetrical for the most part. 2-2-10-2 & 10 as it were. I'm going to try to keep it that way. Unlike Oliver Wendall Douglas from "Green Acres", farm living is NOT the life for me. I'd probably end up having to teach the pig how to drive because what was left of my good leg would be too short to reach the pedals. Which is just as well because with the eye patch I'd probably just keep driving around in circles in the front yard anyway...
Friday, August 26, 2011
This Is Going On Your "Permanent Record Folder"!!!
Does anyone else out there remember these things??? Or the threat they represented??? These things were presented to follow you to the grave. And beyond. My first grade teacher, Sister Mary Josef Mengele smacked me up against the back of my head with this concept one day, along with that rosary/belt/cat-o-nine-tails thing that she wore around her waist. Christ on a crutch, she had incredibly good aim with both of those things!!!
Yes, the PERMANENT RECORD FOLDER!!! Everything I did was in that thing. Nothing good, just the bad shit. And Sister MJM made damned sure of that. I hated that bitch!!! I would later learn that she left the order, turned totally dike and hooked up with a lesbian truck driver from Louisiana named "Gus". I should have known...
As a product of 12 years of private Catholic boys schools I can tell you that the permanent record folder is a device of the most unholy torture that is unimaginable to the thinking world. Trust me, been there, got the scars. I still have vivid nightmares and wake up with the sheets soaking wet. NO, I am not a bed wetter!!! I just wake up with the sheets soaking wet and babbling about large penguins with rosaries. Strange but true...
I am damaged goods, a broken toy if you will. I have stolen cars, I have blown at least one up as I remember, I have done more drugs than Timothy Leary (a feat not easy to accomplish), I have written bad checks and been homeless on a couple of occasions. But yet, my saggy little Jew ass is still here. Happy, fat and still functioning. Full blown bat shit crazy, nowhere near holding down a productive job but still holding a valid passport. Apparently my government doesn't give a rats ass about my PERMANENT RECORD FOLDER!!! Either that or they are just glad to see me leave the country on a regular basis... If they had any sense at all they would just cancel my citizenship the next time I board a plane and just be rid of me for good. I would love to be a citizen without a country on a black sand beach somewhere dodging the falling coconuts in my flip flops. Yes, I do have some goals. They're just not sane... Which is so me that it just hurts.
My permanent record folder starts out with parchment, moves onto carbon paper, has a few layers of Xerox copies and then ends with a police blotter. It's actually more of a rap sheet than anything else. And I'm kind of proud of that actually. How else do you evolve into the loony that I am today without some "life experience" under your belt???
To borrow a line from "Steel Magnolias" , "Those things that do not kill us only make us stronger.". And a hell of a lot more cunning. Don't ever forget that I am a primate after all (a Great Ape to be exact) and I know what to do with these thumbs!!!
I was raised (indoctrinated???) to believe that the Permanent Record Folder was a couple of rungs higher up the ladder than a credit report in terms of importance. And a lot more damaging in the long run. I was convinced that thing was going to shadow me for all eternity like a KGB agent on Black Beauties. Not a comforting thought... But then something strange happened. The Fates got dealt a hand of Ace's & Eights while I was holding a Royal Flush. In the middle of my Senior year of high school we moved from California to Wisconsin and I found myself in public school for the first time in my life. Talk about culture shock. My former school had to mail all of my records to the new school because they were filled with "double secret-secret" information that even my parents weren't allowed access to. Yes, apparently you actually need some sort of security clearance to have access to school records. Who knew??? Guess what? They NEVER arrived. EVER. Somewhere between the nuns and the United States Post Office ALL of my school transcripts had managed to go AWOL. Panic set in. Was I going to have to start all over again? Was I going to be the only student in kindergarten with a drivers license? How was I going to squeeze into those little bitty desks? Let alone use those teeny tiny toilets??? And just how big of a rug was I going to have to buy to make nap time bearable???
Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and after a couple of phone calls to the penguins back at Divine Savor-Holy Angles Academy for Aspiring Young Homosexuals later an additional copy of my transcripts was finally pieced together. But alas, the Permanent Record Folder that disappeared into the ethers was the only hard copy in existence. HAPPY DANCE!!! I felt vindicated, freed, paroled and pardoned. Expunged as it were. I was suddenly a man without a past. So, THIS is what witness protection must feel like, I said to myself. Fuckin' sweet!!!
In 1995 President Clinton greatly expanded the scope of the Federal Freedom of Information Act and allowed private individuals to access "sensitive" government information that was more than 25 years old. I was all over that like white on rice. I was dying to see what the FBI had on me in their files. Yes, I have an FBI file. Don't forget, I am a child of the 60's and between 1968 and 1970 was arrested 4 times for shit like unlawful assembly, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct and inciting public mayhem (actually, the last one was all about tossing a tear gas canister back at the cops). Hey, what can I say, there was a war going on at the time.
So, I sent in my request and dutifully wait for their reply. A month later a business sized envelope arrives with a total of 4 photocopied pages detailing my transgressions as a teen aged anti-war protester. Not a single word blocked out at all. Apparently nothing on my record was still too sensitive to need hiding. I was impressed with myself. Then the second mailing arrived a week later. It was in an over sized manila envelope and appeared to contain something similar in size to the New York City Yellow Pages. Ah, I thought to myself, NOW the game is afoot. This is where my real dirt comes to light. I gleefully ripped into the envelope. Inside was a document totaling 872 pages with every single word on every page blocked out save for three words at the top of the very first page: "Permanent Record Folder". What in the name of toasted cheese sandwiches had those penguins put in this thing??? Yes, I'm Jewish but that doesn't mean I knew the Rosenberg's personally. I was only kidding when I said that I'd sell secrets to the Soviets for dark chocolate. And that whole thing about me and Daniel Ellsberg was taken way out of context. I mean, really, he was like 40 and I was only 17. I was a minor. I can not be held responsible for what I did to him at the Yogi Bear Campground that weekend. Enough said.
Yes, apparently my Permanent Record Folder is indeed permanent. As permanent as the permanent Magic Marker that is hiding it from me. Permanently. I know it would make a good read, too. I can only imagine what Tennessee Williams could have done with it...
Yes, the PERMANENT RECORD FOLDER!!! Everything I did was in that thing. Nothing good, just the bad shit. And Sister MJM made damned sure of that. I hated that bitch!!! I would later learn that she left the order, turned totally dike and hooked up with a lesbian truck driver from Louisiana named "Gus". I should have known...
As a product of 12 years of private Catholic boys schools I can tell you that the permanent record folder is a device of the most unholy torture that is unimaginable to the thinking world. Trust me, been there, got the scars. I still have vivid nightmares and wake up with the sheets soaking wet. NO, I am not a bed wetter!!! I just wake up with the sheets soaking wet and babbling about large penguins with rosaries. Strange but true...
I am damaged goods, a broken toy if you will. I have stolen cars, I have blown at least one up as I remember, I have done more drugs than Timothy Leary (a feat not easy to accomplish), I have written bad checks and been homeless on a couple of occasions. But yet, my saggy little Jew ass is still here. Happy, fat and still functioning. Full blown bat shit crazy, nowhere near holding down a productive job but still holding a valid passport. Apparently my government doesn't give a rats ass about my PERMANENT RECORD FOLDER!!! Either that or they are just glad to see me leave the country on a regular basis... If they had any sense at all they would just cancel my citizenship the next time I board a plane and just be rid of me for good. I would love to be a citizen without a country on a black sand beach somewhere dodging the falling coconuts in my flip flops. Yes, I do have some goals. They're just not sane... Which is so me that it just hurts.
My permanent record folder starts out with parchment, moves onto carbon paper, has a few layers of Xerox copies and then ends with a police blotter. It's actually more of a rap sheet than anything else. And I'm kind of proud of that actually. How else do you evolve into the loony that I am today without some "life experience" under your belt???
To borrow a line from "Steel Magnolias" , "Those things that do not kill us only make us stronger.". And a hell of a lot more cunning. Don't ever forget that I am a primate after all (a Great Ape to be exact) and I know what to do with these thumbs!!!
I was raised (indoctrinated???) to believe that the Permanent Record Folder was a couple of rungs higher up the ladder than a credit report in terms of importance. And a lot more damaging in the long run. I was convinced that thing was going to shadow me for all eternity like a KGB agent on Black Beauties. Not a comforting thought... But then something strange happened. The Fates got dealt a hand of Ace's & Eights while I was holding a Royal Flush. In the middle of my Senior year of high school we moved from California to Wisconsin and I found myself in public school for the first time in my life. Talk about culture shock. My former school had to mail all of my records to the new school because they were filled with "double secret-secret" information that even my parents weren't allowed access to. Yes, apparently you actually need some sort of security clearance to have access to school records. Who knew??? Guess what? They NEVER arrived. EVER. Somewhere between the nuns and the United States Post Office ALL of my school transcripts had managed to go AWOL. Panic set in. Was I going to have to start all over again? Was I going to be the only student in kindergarten with a drivers license? How was I going to squeeze into those little bitty desks? Let alone use those teeny tiny toilets??? And just how big of a rug was I going to have to buy to make nap time bearable???
Fortunately, cooler heads prevailed and after a couple of phone calls to the penguins back at Divine Savor-Holy Angles Academy for Aspiring Young Homosexuals later an additional copy of my transcripts was finally pieced together. But alas, the Permanent Record Folder that disappeared into the ethers was the only hard copy in existence. HAPPY DANCE!!! I felt vindicated, freed, paroled and pardoned. Expunged as it were. I was suddenly a man without a past. So, THIS is what witness protection must feel like, I said to myself. Fuckin' sweet!!!
In 1995 President Clinton greatly expanded the scope of the Federal Freedom of Information Act and allowed private individuals to access "sensitive" government information that was more than 25 years old. I was all over that like white on rice. I was dying to see what the FBI had on me in their files. Yes, I have an FBI file. Don't forget, I am a child of the 60's and between 1968 and 1970 was arrested 4 times for shit like unlawful assembly, resisting arrest, disorderly conduct and inciting public mayhem (actually, the last one was all about tossing a tear gas canister back at the cops). Hey, what can I say, there was a war going on at the time.
So, I sent in my request and dutifully wait for their reply. A month later a business sized envelope arrives with a total of 4 photocopied pages detailing my transgressions as a teen aged anti-war protester. Not a single word blocked out at all. Apparently nothing on my record was still too sensitive to need hiding. I was impressed with myself. Then the second mailing arrived a week later. It was in an over sized manila envelope and appeared to contain something similar in size to the New York City Yellow Pages. Ah, I thought to myself, NOW the game is afoot. This is where my real dirt comes to light. I gleefully ripped into the envelope. Inside was a document totaling 872 pages with every single word on every page blocked out save for three words at the top of the very first page: "Permanent Record Folder". What in the name of toasted cheese sandwiches had those penguins put in this thing??? Yes, I'm Jewish but that doesn't mean I knew the Rosenberg's personally. I was only kidding when I said that I'd sell secrets to the Soviets for dark chocolate. And that whole thing about me and Daniel Ellsberg was taken way out of context. I mean, really, he was like 40 and I was only 17. I was a minor. I can not be held responsible for what I did to him at the Yogi Bear Campground that weekend. Enough said.
Yes, apparently my Permanent Record Folder is indeed permanent. As permanent as the permanent Magic Marker that is hiding it from me. Permanently. I know it would make a good read, too. I can only imagine what Tennessee Williams could have done with it...
Sunday, August 14, 2011
July 27th.
Lord, I love this day. It's one of my favorite Mexican holidays. The Day of The Clowns. Yes indeed, the Day of The Clowns. Every year thousands of Mexican clowns converge at the Cathedral of Guadalupe in Mexico City for their annual official blessing. Now that is a church service you just GOTTA love!!! Imagine a cathedral full of polka dots, weird hair, suspenders, seltzer bottles, big foam noses, really small cars and midgets dressed up as baby pigs. I am SO there!!!
As you all know, I am a clown down to my marrow. I could have actually been one. Officially. Refer to an earlier post. But then my mother intervened. Life is so unfair...
To this day I still have several clown wigs that I am known to wear to Madison street festivals on a regular basis. How can I not? This is Madison, after all. And no one really notices anyway. Again, Madison... It really is just 72 square miles surronded my reality.
Coulrophopia. Ah, yes, the term that describes the condition of an unnatural fear of clowns. How the bloody fuck can you be afraid of clowns??? They're clowns!!! NOT nuns!!! But yet I still know a few individuals who suffer from this condition. Psychologically I prey on them like flies are attracted to something dead on the side of the road. I will not name any names but you all know who you are. I happily relate stories of "Zu-Zu" the vampire clown, "Choppy" the cannibal clown and "RUN!!!" the REALLY creepy clown. What can I say, when I see a bulls eye on anyones forehead I just have to go for it. I love watching people wet themselves in public. "Zu-Zu", "Choppy" and "RUN!!!" have all been incorporated into bedtime stories for my faux niece. We giggle and then we swap boogers. Why those two gave me their only child to babysit is unimaginable to me. Yet, I am the little ones baby sitter of choice. Go figure... Apparently it takes a village full of clowns to raise a child in the style that I see befitting of humanity.
Bottom line: duck and cover, find the access code to the bunker and grab lots of bottled water. The clowns are at the gates!!! WE WANT SELTZER!! WE WANT SELTZER!!! WE WANT SELTZER!!!
As you all know, I am a clown down to my marrow. I could have actually been one. Officially. Refer to an earlier post. But then my mother intervened. Life is so unfair...
To this day I still have several clown wigs that I am known to wear to Madison street festivals on a regular basis. How can I not? This is Madison, after all. And no one really notices anyway. Again, Madison... It really is just 72 square miles surronded my reality.
Coulrophopia. Ah, yes, the term that describes the condition of an unnatural fear of clowns. How the bloody fuck can you be afraid of clowns??? They're clowns!!! NOT nuns!!! But yet I still know a few individuals who suffer from this condition. Psychologically I prey on them like flies are attracted to something dead on the side of the road. I will not name any names but you all know who you are. I happily relate stories of "Zu-Zu" the vampire clown, "Choppy" the cannibal clown and "RUN!!!" the REALLY creepy clown. What can I say, when I see a bulls eye on anyones forehead I just have to go for it. I love watching people wet themselves in public. "Zu-Zu", "Choppy" and "RUN!!!" have all been incorporated into bedtime stories for my faux niece. We giggle and then we swap boogers. Why those two gave me their only child to babysit is unimaginable to me. Yet, I am the little ones baby sitter of choice. Go figure... Apparently it takes a village full of clowns to raise a child in the style that I see befitting of humanity.
Bottom line: duck and cover, find the access code to the bunker and grab lots of bottled water. The clowns are at the gates!!! WE WANT SELTZER!! WE WANT SELTZER!!! WE WANT SELTZER!!!
Thursday, August 11, 2011
I Remember A Place Called The Malecon...
The Malecon was wonderful. It means Boardwalk in Spanish. It spanned about 4 blocks in El Centro in Vallarta. It ran parallel to the ocean and was the main drag of Hwy 200 running through the business and tourista district. It was busy, loud, clogged with taxis and filled with wonderful sculptures. It was a meeting place for Vallarta, locals and gringos filled it day and night, eating street tacos and dodging time-share vampires. About 150 feet west of it waves were crashing ashore. Across the street to the east music was blaring and people were partying. It was the typical Mexican dichotomy. Beautiful and weird. Calming and scary. All at the same time. I loved it.
Several months ago the "restoration" started. That is SO not a word you want to hear in Mexico. In English it loosely translates as "cluster fuck". In my years in Vallarta I have seen them level parks and green spaces for "improvement", build parking garages that make no fucking sense and build high rises that are destined to come sliding down off of hill sides. But this one just takes the cake in my opinion. The malecon had a broad stretch of beach, a 6 foot high sea wall, a wide sidewalk and a counter sunk three lane highway that was impossible to cross by foot unless you were either drunk or suicidal.
What do they do to this thing??? They demolish it. Completely. The sea wall is gone. The sculptures are either damaged beyond repair or "lost". LOST??? How the fuck do you lose sculptures the size of my apartment??? OK, Mexico... The counter sunk street has disappeared and has been replaced by a pedestrian mall, all of which is at beach level. I don't know where the next storm surge is supposed to go. Less than a decade ago Hurricane Kenna brought a storm surge up to 300 meters inland in this area and devastated everything in site. It was nothing but mud, goo and dead shit everywhere. It was like Vulcan's Hammer come to life!!! On a good day that part of the bay can have waves we call "beach busters" that can be 20 feet high when they hit the shore. You don't just hear them, you actually feel them!!!
This is a disaster just waiting to happen. Yeah, it may be pretty and tourista friendly but it is a nightmare in the making. I can only imagine Calle de Juarez becoming something akin to the canals of Venice and the Cathedral de Guadalupe washing out to the Isla de Morietas with the cross becoming a nesting grounds for the frigate birds. What is the current mayor of Vallarta thinking??? Stop listening to the local gringos!!! We're dumber than shit and we are fucking up your city!!!
Give me back the Mexico I love and stop Miami-ing your lovely city because we tell you that we want it more "user friendly"!!!
Several months ago the "restoration" started. That is SO not a word you want to hear in Mexico. In English it loosely translates as "cluster fuck". In my years in Vallarta I have seen them level parks and green spaces for "improvement", build parking garages that make no fucking sense and build high rises that are destined to come sliding down off of hill sides. But this one just takes the cake in my opinion. The malecon had a broad stretch of beach, a 6 foot high sea wall, a wide sidewalk and a counter sunk three lane highway that was impossible to cross by foot unless you were either drunk or suicidal.
What do they do to this thing??? They demolish it. Completely. The sea wall is gone. The sculptures are either damaged beyond repair or "lost". LOST??? How the fuck do you lose sculptures the size of my apartment??? OK, Mexico... The counter sunk street has disappeared and has been replaced by a pedestrian mall, all of which is at beach level. I don't know where the next storm surge is supposed to go. Less than a decade ago Hurricane Kenna brought a storm surge up to 300 meters inland in this area and devastated everything in site. It was nothing but mud, goo and dead shit everywhere. It was like Vulcan's Hammer come to life!!! On a good day that part of the bay can have waves we call "beach busters" that can be 20 feet high when they hit the shore. You don't just hear them, you actually feel them!!!
This is a disaster just waiting to happen. Yeah, it may be pretty and tourista friendly but it is a nightmare in the making. I can only imagine Calle de Juarez becoming something akin to the canals of Venice and the Cathedral de Guadalupe washing out to the Isla de Morietas with the cross becoming a nesting grounds for the frigate birds. What is the current mayor of Vallarta thinking??? Stop listening to the local gringos!!! We're dumber than shit and we are fucking up your city!!!
Give me back the Mexico I love and stop Miami-ing your lovely city because we tell you that we want it more "user friendly"!!!
Tuesday, August 9, 2011
We Are All Just A Single Phone Call Away From Our Knees...
Trust me on this one. Those phone calls suck ass. Big time. I've been there. I've done that. I've got WAY too fucking many t-shirts!!! Those calls are the Exit to Hell... And they all end in a cul-de-sac. You're trapped.
If my phone rings before 7 AM or after 10 PM somebody better be dead. And they usually are. I'm 58. You think I would have learned not to pick up the phone at this point. But I haven't.
"Mr. Colee, this is Doctor Headupmyass. Did I wake you? I just wanted to give you your HIV test results. You are positive. Please call my nurse if you have any questions. Click." I called in sick, drove to the coast and spent the day getting puking drunk on champaign and throwing rocks at the seagulls.
"Hi, honey, this is your Aunt Jeanne. Please sit down, I don't know how to say this. Your dad is dead." I kind of remember dropping the phone.
"Donn!!! OMg!!! Turn on your TV!!! The Trade Towers have been hit!!!" I will never, EVER forget that wake-up call as long as I live. What I watched unfold that morning is burnt into my memory.
"Donn??? (Long pause...) Grab a chair. I have bad news. John Geske just died in Mexico." I dropped the phone. Again.
Then there was the dead body in the basement in the middle of the night. Oh, yeah, that was a delicious roller coaster ride. 2 AM. Dead body. Basement. SO not a pretty adventure. I spent over an hour "sanitizing" that house before I called 911. There where drugs everywhere. And fingerprints. Mostly mine. And a dead body in the basement. With dildos, a tank of nitrous oxide and duct tape. A suicide is never pretty. Crunch the freaking numbers.... I was totally fucking boned. And not in that good way that I usually like. I chained smoked and drank bourbon out of the bottle for the next 10 hours while I was being interrogated in the dining room. Can you say "homo-cide"???
We have all been gob-smacked by these things. They are like a bowling ball to the back of the head with enough force to leave a crater on the surface of the moon that is visible from Earth. Cold cocked is an understatement. Uncomfortably numb doesn't even come close. It's like being fucked up the ass, raw and dry, in an alley in the middle of the night next to a dumpster. It's "short, sharp and shock" in the worst way imaginable. And there you are. On your knees. Thinking about what the next chapter may hold. And finding yourself afraid to turn the page... You just don't want to know what the next intersection may hold... Perhaps a train wreck. Which, considering the cesspool you find yourself in at the moment, just might be a welcome relief of sorts...
There is an ancient Chinese curse. It goes "May you lead an interesting life.". It is SO not Zen it just hurts. It's all about living your life like water. Don't try to overcome obstacles, go around them. Again, a closet full of t-shirts.
Yet, I keep going down that highway. In the middle of the night. Over driving my headlights. And nervously giggling behind the steering wheel. Just waiting to see that deer in the headlights that I am about to smash into that just stands there stupidly. Somehow, ready for the impact that is about to happen. That is a reality that I know all too well. I hate it with all of my heart.
I have lost too much, too many and too soon. And always with a phone call. And usually in the middle of the night. My knees are damned near 6 freaking decades old and have been knocked down to the concrete more times than I care to count. If I see one more casket I swear to god I'm taking out an McDonald's with my bare teeth and a plastic butter knife!!!
I could write a book...
If my phone rings before 7 AM or after 10 PM somebody better be dead. And they usually are. I'm 58. You think I would have learned not to pick up the phone at this point. But I haven't.
"Mr. Colee, this is Doctor Headupmyass. Did I wake you? I just wanted to give you your HIV test results. You are positive. Please call my nurse if you have any questions. Click." I called in sick, drove to the coast and spent the day getting puking drunk on champaign and throwing rocks at the seagulls.
"Hi, honey, this is your Aunt Jeanne. Please sit down, I don't know how to say this. Your dad is dead." I kind of remember dropping the phone.
"Donn!!! OMg!!! Turn on your TV!!! The Trade Towers have been hit!!!" I will never, EVER forget that wake-up call as long as I live. What I watched unfold that morning is burnt into my memory.
"Donn??? (Long pause...) Grab a chair. I have bad news. John Geske just died in Mexico." I dropped the phone. Again.
Then there was the dead body in the basement in the middle of the night. Oh, yeah, that was a delicious roller coaster ride. 2 AM. Dead body. Basement. SO not a pretty adventure. I spent over an hour "sanitizing" that house before I called 911. There where drugs everywhere. And fingerprints. Mostly mine. And a dead body in the basement. With dildos, a tank of nitrous oxide and duct tape. A suicide is never pretty. Crunch the freaking numbers.... I was totally fucking boned. And not in that good way that I usually like. I chained smoked and drank bourbon out of the bottle for the next 10 hours while I was being interrogated in the dining room. Can you say "homo-cide"???
We have all been gob-smacked by these things. They are like a bowling ball to the back of the head with enough force to leave a crater on the surface of the moon that is visible from Earth. Cold cocked is an understatement. Uncomfortably numb doesn't even come close. It's like being fucked up the ass, raw and dry, in an alley in the middle of the night next to a dumpster. It's "short, sharp and shock" in the worst way imaginable. And there you are. On your knees. Thinking about what the next chapter may hold. And finding yourself afraid to turn the page... You just don't want to know what the next intersection may hold... Perhaps a train wreck. Which, considering the cesspool you find yourself in at the moment, just might be a welcome relief of sorts...
There is an ancient Chinese curse. It goes "May you lead an interesting life.". It is SO not Zen it just hurts. It's all about living your life like water. Don't try to overcome obstacles, go around them. Again, a closet full of t-shirts.
Yet, I keep going down that highway. In the middle of the night. Over driving my headlights. And nervously giggling behind the steering wheel. Just waiting to see that deer in the headlights that I am about to smash into that just stands there stupidly. Somehow, ready for the impact that is about to happen. That is a reality that I know all too well. I hate it with all of my heart.
I have lost too much, too many and too soon. And always with a phone call. And usually in the middle of the night. My knees are damned near 6 freaking decades old and have been knocked down to the concrete more times than I care to count. If I see one more casket I swear to god I'm taking out an McDonald's with my bare teeth and a plastic butter knife!!!
I could write a book...
Thursday, August 4, 2011
If This Doesn't Put You Off Your Food I Don't Know What Will...
Just Google "Warren Jeffs Wiki" and see what you get. Then hit on some of the other links to this monster.
Enough said...
EWWWW!!!!! Yeah, this bastard gets 4 exclamation points...
Enough said...
EWWWW!!!!! Yeah, this bastard gets 4 exclamation points...
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
I Swear, Texas Just Gets Stranger By The Minute!!!
OMg, it's the End of Days!!! This could only happen in west Texas. Just how loony are those cow pokers???
Have you heard about this? It's stupifyingly frightening to say the least. First, they build a man made lake with no real fresh water feeding into it. STEE-RIKE ONE! They are now in one of the worst droughts since the Dust Bowl and the lake is about 10-percent of it's original size. STEE-RIKE TWO!! It full of dead, rotting fish, smells like a sewer and has turned blood red. STEE-RIKE THREE!!! Of course, none of these things has anything to do with science, reason or reality. IT IS THE END OF DAYS!!! Yes, this is the Nile River of west Texas. They're all shaking in their c'boy boots down there, waving hands full of snakes at the sky and stocking up at the local Wal-Mart. News reports say that there is not a single tube of Pringle's, a 12-pack of Barq's rootbeer, a Moon Pie or any Kodiak "chew" left on the shelves. May they all lock themselves into their single-wides and await the outcome. With the windows closed. In the heat. Good riddance!!!
You idiots, it's an algae bloom on a dead lake that should have never been built in the first place!!! This thing must smell just lovely in early August. I have one question though... Some reports call this a lake. Other reports call it a reservoir. You swam and fished in this nightmare??? This cluster fuck was your water supply??? You actually drank, bathed and cooked from this thing??? No wonder the Wal-Mart pharmacy is doing such a land office business. And that most of you have one eye and three thumbs!!!
This is not, I repeat, NOT a portent from god!!! If it were she would have smote y'all several generations ago just to get you off of her desert and clear out all of those cars on cement blocks you seem to love so much.
Personally, as you all know, I am not a big fan of water. I never have been. I really do shower with a life preserver on. I hate water. It's just my nature. Y'know why? FISH FUCK IN IT!!!
Have you heard about this? It's stupifyingly frightening to say the least. First, they build a man made lake with no real fresh water feeding into it. STEE-RIKE ONE! They are now in one of the worst droughts since the Dust Bowl and the lake is about 10-percent of it's original size. STEE-RIKE TWO!! It full of dead, rotting fish, smells like a sewer and has turned blood red. STEE-RIKE THREE!!! Of course, none of these things has anything to do with science, reason or reality. IT IS THE END OF DAYS!!! Yes, this is the Nile River of west Texas. They're all shaking in their c'boy boots down there, waving hands full of snakes at the sky and stocking up at the local Wal-Mart. News reports say that there is not a single tube of Pringle's, a 12-pack of Barq's rootbeer, a Moon Pie or any Kodiak "chew" left on the shelves. May they all lock themselves into their single-wides and await the outcome. With the windows closed. In the heat. Good riddance!!!
You idiots, it's an algae bloom on a dead lake that should have never been built in the first place!!! This thing must smell just lovely in early August. I have one question though... Some reports call this a lake. Other reports call it a reservoir. You swam and fished in this nightmare??? This cluster fuck was your water supply??? You actually drank, bathed and cooked from this thing??? No wonder the Wal-Mart pharmacy is doing such a land office business. And that most of you have one eye and three thumbs!!!
This is not, I repeat, NOT a portent from god!!! If it were she would have smote y'all several generations ago just to get you off of her desert and clear out all of those cars on cement blocks you seem to love so much.
Personally, as you all know, I am not a big fan of water. I never have been. I really do shower with a life preserver on. I hate water. It's just my nature. Y'know why? FISH FUCK IN IT!!!
Lasagna! Lasagna! Lasagna!
Did you know that in Polish it means "I love you"? Oh hell, don't believe that, I lie like a cheap suit!!! Trust me, it's true...
In 1980 I was living in Minneapolis with my first partner David, (he called himself Dave but I called him David. Pissed him off so badly he blew smoke out of his ass). More on that later...
So, I'm in the kitchen cooking up some soup one day and David comes home from work. Keep in mind that this was my day off so naturally I had a few martini's in me. As did the soup. We were both feeling wonderful... god only knows what got into me but from out of nowhere I grabbed him and forced him into a polka thru the living room all the while singing "Lasagna, lasagna, lasagna! In Polish it means I love you!" Repeatedly. As we did the polka. And I have to tell you, he was damned good at the polka. After all, he was from Pittsburgh and of heavy Polish descent. He bit on this one hook, line and sinker so I reeled him in. In less than two minutes I had him believing that lasagna really was Polish for I love you!!! He actually thanked me for teaching him a new word in Polish. Lasagna??? He was Polish for chris'sakes and he fell for this one???
Jump ahead a few years. He goes to visit family in Pittsburgh that he has not seen in almost 2 decades. He walks up to one of his aunts, throws his arms around her and gleefully exclaims "LASAGNA!" Well, of course, she looks at him like he's nuts. A short time later he is made aware of the fact that lasagna is NOT Polish for I love you but instead is an Italian pasta dish. He was crushed. And I got a phone call from Pittsburgh. I won't share the gory details...
Jump ahead another 20 years. Sea Squirt. Oh god, he is so gullible that it's almost criminal for me to be with him at times. I turned him onto Mexico and he lost his heart to her. He thinks I "speak" Spanish. LMAO!!! Oh, well, he is from the Fox Valley after all... When we met he didn't know a word in Spanish so I decided to start teaching him some along with a few phrases to get him by when we are down there. He's a quick learner so all went well. Then the urge hit me. I just HAD to teach him something really stupid in Spanish. Nosotros. In Spanish it means "we" depending upon the context of use. By the time I was finished with him he thought it meant "many noses". Sorry, I just couldn't help myself.
Anyone out there remember Firesign Theater and their 1970's comedy album "I Think We're All Bozo's On This Bus"? There is a line on that album, " 'Bozotros', from the Spanish 'nosotros', meaning 'many noses' ". Think about it, it's about clowns on a bus!!! I love that line. So, several years ago we're down in Bucerias and the fridge is covered in those little magnets with words on them that you make sentences out of as you sober up. All of them in Spanish. And what do I find??? One that says "nosotros"!!! I was in heaven. Especially since that was the year we were down there for Halloween and I had brought a selection of foam clown noses to pass around. The very next day, Sea Squirt is talking with our good friend who lives next door and "nosotros" reared it's ugly, if not hilarious, head.
I was up on the roof of the house we were staying in catching some rays and swilling margy's when I hear our good friend break into peels of laughter. Then I hear her say, "He told you WHAT???" followed immediately by "Donn!!! Get your ass over here NOW!!!" By the time I get downstairs I am met in the driveway by Sea Squirt and our friend, who has both hands on her hips and patting a flip-flopped foot in the dirt so frantically even the scorpions were running. With her head cocked at an angle and one eye brow dangerously arched she looks me straight in the eye and says "NOSOTROS???". Busted. Then she broke into laughter again, gave me a hug and said, "Priceless!!!". I love her!!!
Sea Squirt quickly informed me that he will never again trust me around anything even remotely involving a foreign tongue. Well, he might just be right on that one. I don't trust myself around foreign tongues either...
Adios! Which, BTW, is Mandarin for "Got any gum?".
In 1980 I was living in Minneapolis with my first partner David, (he called himself Dave but I called him David. Pissed him off so badly he blew smoke out of his ass). More on that later...
So, I'm in the kitchen cooking up some soup one day and David comes home from work. Keep in mind that this was my day off so naturally I had a few martini's in me. As did the soup. We were both feeling wonderful... god only knows what got into me but from out of nowhere I grabbed him and forced him into a polka thru the living room all the while singing "Lasagna, lasagna, lasagna! In Polish it means I love you!" Repeatedly. As we did the polka. And I have to tell you, he was damned good at the polka. After all, he was from Pittsburgh and of heavy Polish descent. He bit on this one hook, line and sinker so I reeled him in. In less than two minutes I had him believing that lasagna really was Polish for I love you!!! He actually thanked me for teaching him a new word in Polish. Lasagna??? He was Polish for chris'sakes and he fell for this one???
Jump ahead a few years. He goes to visit family in Pittsburgh that he has not seen in almost 2 decades. He walks up to one of his aunts, throws his arms around her and gleefully exclaims "LASAGNA!" Well, of course, she looks at him like he's nuts. A short time later he is made aware of the fact that lasagna is NOT Polish for I love you but instead is an Italian pasta dish. He was crushed. And I got a phone call from Pittsburgh. I won't share the gory details...
Jump ahead another 20 years. Sea Squirt. Oh god, he is so gullible that it's almost criminal for me to be with him at times. I turned him onto Mexico and he lost his heart to her. He thinks I "speak" Spanish. LMAO!!! Oh, well, he is from the Fox Valley after all... When we met he didn't know a word in Spanish so I decided to start teaching him some along with a few phrases to get him by when we are down there. He's a quick learner so all went well. Then the urge hit me. I just HAD to teach him something really stupid in Spanish. Nosotros. In Spanish it means "we" depending upon the context of use. By the time I was finished with him he thought it meant "many noses". Sorry, I just couldn't help myself.
Anyone out there remember Firesign Theater and their 1970's comedy album "I Think We're All Bozo's On This Bus"? There is a line on that album, " 'Bozotros', from the Spanish 'nosotros', meaning 'many noses' ". Think about it, it's about clowns on a bus!!! I love that line. So, several years ago we're down in Bucerias and the fridge is covered in those little magnets with words on them that you make sentences out of as you sober up. All of them in Spanish. And what do I find??? One that says "nosotros"!!! I was in heaven. Especially since that was the year we were down there for Halloween and I had brought a selection of foam clown noses to pass around. The very next day, Sea Squirt is talking with our good friend who lives next door and "nosotros" reared it's ugly, if not hilarious, head.
I was up on the roof of the house we were staying in catching some rays and swilling margy's when I hear our good friend break into peels of laughter. Then I hear her say, "He told you WHAT???" followed immediately by "Donn!!! Get your ass over here NOW!!!" By the time I get downstairs I am met in the driveway by Sea Squirt and our friend, who has both hands on her hips and patting a flip-flopped foot in the dirt so frantically even the scorpions were running. With her head cocked at an angle and one eye brow dangerously arched she looks me straight in the eye and says "NOSOTROS???". Busted. Then she broke into laughter again, gave me a hug and said, "Priceless!!!". I love her!!!
Sea Squirt quickly informed me that he will never again trust me around anything even remotely involving a foreign tongue. Well, he might just be right on that one. I don't trust myself around foreign tongues either...
Adios! Which, BTW, is Mandarin for "Got any gum?".
Monday, August 1, 2011
Dum & Dumerer...
Oh, lord, Madison has certainly had a weekend that befits us. www.channel3000.com has been a plethora of local stupidity on a grand scale. Humankind will never cease to amaze, confound and depress me. And keep me laughing what is left of my ass off. We have opposable thumbs. Fabulous invention. What do most of us do with them? Roll our boogers till they get dry enough to flick them off... Trust me, I can't make this kind of shit up.
First, there was a train and vehicle "mishap". Some idiot was racing a train to an intersection crossing. Never a good thing. The driver apparently thought that he could make it over the unprotected crossing first. NOT!!! Damned near cut the car in half. Since the driver is no longer with us I plan on nominating him for a "Darwin Award". That's the award you win when you are just TOO FUCKING STUPID to be alive. It's like a Nobel Prize for the shallow end of the gene pool. And what the fuck is up with unprotected railroad crossings??? A yield sign is not enough in my opinion.
Then there was the idiot with the horses. Three of them to be exact. Which he abandoned on the Capital Square to die of hunger, thirst and heat exhaustion. He had just ridden them here from southern Florida to raise awareness for hunger. Hunger. How about you feed your freaking horses, you bastard!!! What part of the hottest summer in the history of Earth did you miss??? And yes, he is now in jail. The horses are now in protective custody under the witness protection program and hooked up to saline and glucose IV push therapy. Much to their delight.
Here's my favorite. A cop exits the police station to go and grab dinner. Who does he find leaning up against the side of his squad car in the parking lot? A TOTALLY brain dead individual smoking a joint the size of a cigar and drinking a 40 ounce of Old English out of a paper bag!!! Dude, you are in the police station parking lot!!! You have a rapsheet longer than Grace Jones's tongue!!! You are waiting outside while a friend of yours bails out her husband inside the station!!! Hello??? You are not the shallow end of the gene pool, you are the shore line!!! Needless to say, he is now sharing a cell with the horse guy.
I guess they don't call us Mad-Town without good reason...
First, there was a train and vehicle "mishap". Some idiot was racing a train to an intersection crossing. Never a good thing. The driver apparently thought that he could make it over the unprotected crossing first. NOT!!! Damned near cut the car in half. Since the driver is no longer with us I plan on nominating him for a "Darwin Award". That's the award you win when you are just TOO FUCKING STUPID to be alive. It's like a Nobel Prize for the shallow end of the gene pool. And what the fuck is up with unprotected railroad crossings??? A yield sign is not enough in my opinion.
Then there was the idiot with the horses. Three of them to be exact. Which he abandoned on the Capital Square to die of hunger, thirst and heat exhaustion. He had just ridden them here from southern Florida to raise awareness for hunger. Hunger. How about you feed your freaking horses, you bastard!!! What part of the hottest summer in the history of Earth did you miss??? And yes, he is now in jail. The horses are now in protective custody under the witness protection program and hooked up to saline and glucose IV push therapy. Much to their delight.
Here's my favorite. A cop exits the police station to go and grab dinner. Who does he find leaning up against the side of his squad car in the parking lot? A TOTALLY brain dead individual smoking a joint the size of a cigar and drinking a 40 ounce of Old English out of a paper bag!!! Dude, you are in the police station parking lot!!! You have a rapsheet longer than Grace Jones's tongue!!! You are waiting outside while a friend of yours bails out her husband inside the station!!! Hello??? You are not the shallow end of the gene pool, you are the shore line!!! Needless to say, he is now sharing a cell with the horse guy.
I guess they don't call us Mad-Town without good reason...
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Alice In Dairyland.
Oh, lord... Only is 'sconsin is this type of insanity not only legal but encouraged, celebrated and made public. Yes, Alice In Dairyland. She is an institution here. Nay, an icon. When you see her pass by in any one of the innumerable local parades she graces you put your hand over your heart. And her in 'sconsin that just means that your cholesterol level is in the 4 digit range from all of the dairy products that you have been consuming and that you are about to drop to the pavement. I am an oddity in 'sconsin because I do not have a cholesterol level. Seriously. When they check my levels they always ask if I am vegetarian. I have actually presented readings that were classified as unhealthily low. Now I hit the drive up window for two double bacon cheeseburgers, an order of large fries and grocery store for a pint of heavy whipping cream just to wash it all down with before I go to the clinic just to give them something to count. Bite me!!! I will outlive you all...
Here in 'sconsin we are the "Dairy State". Well, not really. California stole that title from us about 15 years ago. But we still proudly put "Wisconsin. The Dairy State" on our license plates. Why? Because we are 'sconsin. We are a state of truly bull headed bohunks that just don't like being fucked with. Yep, we just love our Holsteins!!! And our cheese. And our butter. And our whole milk, Half & Half, HEAVY whipping cream, sour cream, ice cream and custard. The average 'sconsinite weighs in at about 487 pounds. We are so gung-ho on dairy here that the Monroe Cheese Factory is the only place in the world to produce Limburger cheese out side of Limburger, Germany. It took them almost half of a century of cajoling and petitioning just to get the starter mix sent over. BTW, I LOVE Limburger cheese. It's like the durian fruit of dairy...
Anyway, back to Alice. The title goes back to 1947 and it is a really big thing here. It is sponsored by the 'sconsin Dairy Advisory Board and they shower the newly crowned one with goodies. She gets a car, a scholarship, a chunk of cash, a clothing allowance and an appearance schedule and tons of endorsements. She is indeed "Queen For A Day". All 365 of them. And then she is tossed out onto the compost heap and forgotten. Why? Because we have a new Alice to be excited about. 'sconsinites can be so fickle it just hurts!!!
The highlight of the current reigning Alice are all of the county fairs she makes an appearance at as well as the crowning glory, the 'sconsin State Fair. At these events she gets reduced to pure cholesterol in the weirdest way imaginable. The Alice In Dairyland Butter Carving Contests. Yes, you heard me right, I actually said that. "Artists" are given a 75 pound block of butter and proceed to carve a bust in the likeness of Alice. Alice herself traditionally gets to pick the winner. They give prizes for this insanity. And then you get to shake her hand with your greasy fat fingers. Who in their right mind would want to wear this crown??? The ultimate mental melt down, however, is the State Fair. After the carving contest winner is announced a group of true loonies set down for the butter eating contest. Yes, I actually said that too... It's sad. Contestants set down, face to face with "Alice" (literally) and proceed to see how much of one of the carvings they can each consume in 30 minutes. I am gagging as I type. Oh lord... Difibrillators are usually placed strategically around the tent and within easy arms reach because heart attacks are a common occurrence. Why do they do this? Because the "winner" gets a brand new motor home!!! Which they will never get to drive because they have stroked out, are on a ventilator for the rest of their lives and have lost the use of their legs.
If I get caught with a roach in my pocket my ass goes to jail. If I set down and eat the better part of 75 pounds of butter in public I get a motor home. WTF??? Just how shell shocked were we all after World War II that this sort of nuttiness and abuse made sense to anyone with a dimes worth of gray matter??? Alice, oh Alice. You are a wicked mistress...
Here in 'sconsin we are the "Dairy State". Well, not really. California stole that title from us about 15 years ago. But we still proudly put "Wisconsin. The Dairy State" on our license plates. Why? Because we are 'sconsin. We are a state of truly bull headed bohunks that just don't like being fucked with. Yep, we just love our Holsteins!!! And our cheese. And our butter. And our whole milk, Half & Half, HEAVY whipping cream, sour cream, ice cream and custard. The average 'sconsinite weighs in at about 487 pounds. We are so gung-ho on dairy here that the Monroe Cheese Factory is the only place in the world to produce Limburger cheese out side of Limburger, Germany. It took them almost half of a century of cajoling and petitioning just to get the starter mix sent over. BTW, I LOVE Limburger cheese. It's like the durian fruit of dairy...
Anyway, back to Alice. The title goes back to 1947 and it is a really big thing here. It is sponsored by the 'sconsin Dairy Advisory Board and they shower the newly crowned one with goodies. She gets a car, a scholarship, a chunk of cash, a clothing allowance and an appearance schedule and tons of endorsements. She is indeed "Queen For A Day". All 365 of them. And then she is tossed out onto the compost heap and forgotten. Why? Because we have a new Alice to be excited about. 'sconsinites can be so fickle it just hurts!!!
The highlight of the current reigning Alice are all of the county fairs she makes an appearance at as well as the crowning glory, the 'sconsin State Fair. At these events she gets reduced to pure cholesterol in the weirdest way imaginable. The Alice In Dairyland Butter Carving Contests. Yes, you heard me right, I actually said that. "Artists" are given a 75 pound block of butter and proceed to carve a bust in the likeness of Alice. Alice herself traditionally gets to pick the winner. They give prizes for this insanity. And then you get to shake her hand with your greasy fat fingers. Who in their right mind would want to wear this crown??? The ultimate mental melt down, however, is the State Fair. After the carving contest winner is announced a group of true loonies set down for the butter eating contest. Yes, I actually said that too... It's sad. Contestants set down, face to face with "Alice" (literally) and proceed to see how much of one of the carvings they can each consume in 30 minutes. I am gagging as I type. Oh lord... Difibrillators are usually placed strategically around the tent and within easy arms reach because heart attacks are a common occurrence. Why do they do this? Because the "winner" gets a brand new motor home!!! Which they will never get to drive because they have stroked out, are on a ventilator for the rest of their lives and have lost the use of their legs.
If I get caught with a roach in my pocket my ass goes to jail. If I set down and eat the better part of 75 pounds of butter in public I get a motor home. WTF??? Just how shell shocked were we all after World War II that this sort of nuttiness and abuse made sense to anyone with a dimes worth of gray matter??? Alice, oh Alice. You are a wicked mistress...
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