I just cannot imagine that. Allergic to milk? Milk eventually transforms into ice cream. Of varied flavors. All of which, I love. And lots of stuff in between. Again, all of which I love. Allergic to milk? Dude, that has to suck ass big time!!! Yet, on the other hand, I used to suffer from this. I just don't remember it. I was only 9 months old.
I was a breast fed baby. Which was unfortunate since I was lactose intolerant. Yes, I was actually allergic to my mother. At the ripe old age of 9 months I was in surgery for a double hernia from convulsing and screaming. Yes, my parents let this madness go on for 9 months. What were they thinking??? Anyway, I suddenly became a formula baby. It was new back then. Sort of like the Smartphone of nutrition. My word, I was cutting edge at 9 months old.
Yet, from my earliest memories, I've always been a milk junkie. In all of it's wondrous forms. OMg!!! I really was just allergic to my mother. That answers SO many questions.
At the age of 13 my latent lactose puberty gene kicked in and my life was transformed. I started consuming milk like a new born calf. I discovered cheese. OMg!!! Cheese!!! Oh, wonderful cheese!!! I could smell a dairy across the next time zone. I drank milk by the gallon. Hell, I wanted to "dock" with a cow!!! What can I say, I put cheese on cheese. And then I deep fry it. After I beer batter it...
Yes, I am a lactose whore. Anytime. Anywhere. Oh, hell, just flip me over and slip it up my backside. Oh, yeah, put a 5 pound brick of extra sharp brie up my pooper and I'm happy. OK, tmi...
I have done things with cheese that would scare you. Actually, I have done things without cheese that would scare you. Don't ask...
I am old. And yes, I look like morel. I blame my great-grandmother for that. Paternal side. What can I say???
Again, what can I say....
Monday, April 1, 2013
Thursday, March 28, 2013
WHEN THE BLOODY HELL DID I GET DIMPLES???
So, I'm looking in the mirror the other day. Actually, I was shaving. Not an easy task for a man my age. You have to start moving parts of what's left of your face around. By hand. Literally. It's not pretty. Hell, a week ago I was "attempting" to shave my neck and damned near severed my head. No shit. I bled like a stuck pig. I just stood over the sink and drained for about 45 minutes. Seasquirt came home from work to find me with a bloody towel about my head looking way too much like something out of "Le Mis". Enough said...
Anyway. I was shaving. Actually, I was done shaving. I was trimming my mustache. For those of you not in the know, the mustache is sort of, well... large now. And the goatee is back as well. They are both completely gray. I want to die. If any of you happen to see a sale on wooden boat oars with the bronze edges, let me know. I'll drive. Just use them on me. Trust me, it's a family tradition...
Again, back to the dimples. So, as I trim off all of the stranglers on my mustache and even off the bottom of the thing I decide to start giving myself a few expressions in the mirror just to see how the mustache "moves". Suddenly, I see dimples staring back at me. Dimples. Yes, dimples. I have never had dimples in my life. Why is Sam Elliott staring back at me in my bathroom mirror??? Dimples. Dimples??? Their they were. Big as life. I freaked out. Dimples??? Where the hell did these things come from??? Yeah, they're cute when you're in high school but on a man on the downhill part of the water slide to 60 they're sort of a shock. Especially when they're on YOUR face. DIMPLES??? Seasquirt happily told me "Honey, you're old. Those aren't dimples, they're wrinkles. Truth be told, your face is starting to look like a morel." I beat him savagely about the head and shoulders with what was left of his shoulder once I had chewed his arm off...
They're dimples. And oddly, I have three of them. Two on the left side and one on the right side. Which, in an odd way sort of counter balances the discrepancy of me having two nipples on my right side and one of my left. (Patty, Maxine and Laverne.) I am now centered. OMG!!! I can start to play the violin again!!!
Anyway. I was shaving. Actually, I was done shaving. I was trimming my mustache. For those of you not in the know, the mustache is sort of, well... large now. And the goatee is back as well. They are both completely gray. I want to die. If any of you happen to see a sale on wooden boat oars with the bronze edges, let me know. I'll drive. Just use them on me. Trust me, it's a family tradition...
Again, back to the dimples. So, as I trim off all of the stranglers on my mustache and even off the bottom of the thing I decide to start giving myself a few expressions in the mirror just to see how the mustache "moves". Suddenly, I see dimples staring back at me. Dimples. Yes, dimples. I have never had dimples in my life. Why is Sam Elliott staring back at me in my bathroom mirror??? Dimples. Dimples??? Their they were. Big as life. I freaked out. Dimples??? Where the hell did these things come from??? Yeah, they're cute when you're in high school but on a man on the downhill part of the water slide to 60 they're sort of a shock. Especially when they're on YOUR face. DIMPLES??? Seasquirt happily told me "Honey, you're old. Those aren't dimples, they're wrinkles. Truth be told, your face is starting to look like a morel." I beat him savagely about the head and shoulders with what was left of his shoulder once I had chewed his arm off...
They're dimples. And oddly, I have three of them. Two on the left side and one on the right side. Which, in an odd way sort of counter balances the discrepancy of me having two nipples on my right side and one of my left. (Patty, Maxine and Laverne.) I am now centered. OMG!!! I can start to play the violin again!!!
Saturday, March 23, 2013
PECKER...
What can I say, I love that word. English. Yeah, English. Thank god I speak it as my primary language or I would never be able to learn it otherwise. It's the only language in the world that can change a noun into a verb. And vice versa. Do not get me started on verbs. I flunked Latin in high school. Big time. All I can remember is "villa es villa Romana", "face amour non bellum" and "omnia vincit amor". (BTW, that's "the house is a Roman house, make love not war and love conquers all." How the hell do I remember this shit???). I can't get my head around a Romance language to save my life. My Spanish is so freaking bad it hurts. Hell, for two years I was wishing passer-by's in Mexico a "Happy New Butt-hole" when I thought I was wishing them a "Happy New Year". Anos is a VERY tricking word. I got slapped, punched and spit on so many times. Verbs. I hate them.
OK, back to peckers...
John Waters, bless his soul, brought the word pecker into the social consciousness with his movie "Pecker". It's not what you think it's about. Which is unusual considering it was made by John Waters. I love him. I think of him as the John Huston of my generation. Magnificent movie maker. Twisted but magnificent. I mean, c'mon, how can you not love that scene where Divine is taken advantage of by the giant lobster? Or the scene with the skid marks? How about "Odorama"? Or "Babs, when's the egg man coming?". I loved it when he filmed Cotton's ass hole singing a song. I loved it when Edie got smacked by a salmon from the third story window. I fell out of my seat and collapsed on the floor in tears. John Waters. He's just brilliance. With a pencil thin mustache. Which, apparently, is pretty easy to carry off in Baltimore. But I digress...
OK, once again, back to peckers...
The world is full of peckers. Lord knows, I've met most of them. Or at least been trapped in check out lines behind them. Or been forced to follow behind them on a highway. At 52 miles an hour... I have been up to my nipples (all three of them) in peckers since I can remember. Holy shit. Peckers. They're everywhere. You'd think there would be a hunting season on them just so we can cull the herd a bit. But no, we just encourage their growth. I personally have been facilitating peckers to grow for decades. I don't know why. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. It's a hard habit to break.
I have met some of the biggest peckers that you can possibly imagine. REALLY big peckers. Several of them have been my boss. This is where I learned how to be bossed around by a REALLY big pecker. I was hesitant at first but eventually I let the pecker do what it wanted to me. It was just easier that way. Trust me, give a pecker what it wants and you can get back to what you were doing a helluva lot faster than if you try to wrestle with the pecker and get mouthy with it. And yes, I have gotten mouthy with quite a number of peckers in my life. I have just learned how to choose my battles. A small pecker is not worth getting mouthy with. It's better if you just grab it with both hands and choke it. Maybe a couple of times. If the pecker is up to it...
In 1992 I was subjected to the biggest pecker I have ever encountered. I'm talking HUGE pecker!!! We got into it on the sales floor one afternoon. Yeah, me and a giant pecker in between jewelry and shoes. Just going at it. I was ready to shake that pecker for all it was worth. I was gonna beat that pecker like it owed me money!!! I could see the security cameras start to aim in on us. Yes, he was the store manager. But I was corporate. CORPORATE!!! I was head office. With a secretary. Corporate peckers DON'T wear name tags!!! I didn't care if he was 15 years older than me, I out-ranked him. I am a bigger pecker than you are, you bitch!!! Five minutes later we have managed to draw a crowd from as faraway as the toy department. You would have thought no one had ever seen two peckers go at it orally. I cursed that pecker. I berated that pecker. I told that pecker it was totally incapable of any growth and wasn't going anywhere.. I told that pecker it was in the wrong place. "Pecker," I said, "Get out of my face!!!" Finally, the assistant manager from electronics came over and separated us. Have you ever tried to get two peckers apart when they're really going at it? It's not easy...
Peckers. I will admit, I have been a pecker most of my almost 60 years. Oh, lord... a 60 year old pecker. Experienced? Yes. Pretty? No. As peckers age they wrinkle. And shrink. And lose their hair. Nothing is more sad than a wrinkled, shrunken and balding pecker. I have covered all of the mirrors in the house in heavy shrouds so I don't have to see it anymore. In my mind I am a young lion looking for a harem to shag. In reality I am a lame lemming with a limp. I'm missing a paw, don't y'know...
OK, back to peckers...
John Waters, bless his soul, brought the word pecker into the social consciousness with his movie "Pecker". It's not what you think it's about. Which is unusual considering it was made by John Waters. I love him. I think of him as the John Huston of my generation. Magnificent movie maker. Twisted but magnificent. I mean, c'mon, how can you not love that scene where Divine is taken advantage of by the giant lobster? Or the scene with the skid marks? How about "Odorama"? Or "Babs, when's the egg man coming?". I loved it when he filmed Cotton's ass hole singing a song. I loved it when Edie got smacked by a salmon from the third story window. I fell out of my seat and collapsed on the floor in tears. John Waters. He's just brilliance. With a pencil thin mustache. Which, apparently, is pretty easy to carry off in Baltimore. But I digress...
OK, once again, back to peckers...
The world is full of peckers. Lord knows, I've met most of them. Or at least been trapped in check out lines behind them. Or been forced to follow behind them on a highway. At 52 miles an hour... I have been up to my nipples (all three of them) in peckers since I can remember. Holy shit. Peckers. They're everywhere. You'd think there would be a hunting season on them just so we can cull the herd a bit. But no, we just encourage their growth. I personally have been facilitating peckers to grow for decades. I don't know why. It just seemed like a good idea at the time. It's a hard habit to break.
I have met some of the biggest peckers that you can possibly imagine. REALLY big peckers. Several of them have been my boss. This is where I learned how to be bossed around by a REALLY big pecker. I was hesitant at first but eventually I let the pecker do what it wanted to me. It was just easier that way. Trust me, give a pecker what it wants and you can get back to what you were doing a helluva lot faster than if you try to wrestle with the pecker and get mouthy with it. And yes, I have gotten mouthy with quite a number of peckers in my life. I have just learned how to choose my battles. A small pecker is not worth getting mouthy with. It's better if you just grab it with both hands and choke it. Maybe a couple of times. If the pecker is up to it...
In 1992 I was subjected to the biggest pecker I have ever encountered. I'm talking HUGE pecker!!! We got into it on the sales floor one afternoon. Yeah, me and a giant pecker in between jewelry and shoes. Just going at it. I was ready to shake that pecker for all it was worth. I was gonna beat that pecker like it owed me money!!! I could see the security cameras start to aim in on us. Yes, he was the store manager. But I was corporate. CORPORATE!!! I was head office. With a secretary. Corporate peckers DON'T wear name tags!!! I didn't care if he was 15 years older than me, I out-ranked him. I am a bigger pecker than you are, you bitch!!! Five minutes later we have managed to draw a crowd from as faraway as the toy department. You would have thought no one had ever seen two peckers go at it orally. I cursed that pecker. I berated that pecker. I told that pecker it was totally incapable of any growth and wasn't going anywhere.. I told that pecker it was in the wrong place. "Pecker," I said, "Get out of my face!!!" Finally, the assistant manager from electronics came over and separated us. Have you ever tried to get two peckers apart when they're really going at it? It's not easy...
Peckers. I will admit, I have been a pecker most of my almost 60 years. Oh, lord... a 60 year old pecker. Experienced? Yes. Pretty? No. As peckers age they wrinkle. And shrink. And lose their hair. Nothing is more sad than a wrinkled, shrunken and balding pecker. I have covered all of the mirrors in the house in heavy shrouds so I don't have to see it anymore. In my mind I am a young lion looking for a harem to shag. In reality I am a lame lemming with a limp. I'm missing a paw, don't y'know...
Thursday, March 21, 2013
IT'S FLOUR, FOR CHRIST'S SAKE, IT'S NOT FUCKING ROCKET SCIENCE!!!
The other day I had a rare opportunity. The better part of a day home alone. By myself. I cranked the tunes. I danced naked. I drank from the bottle. I wiped a booger on my bath robe. I rolled a dube. I smoked it. All by myself. I downloaded some more porn and saved it to flash disk. Then I hit the pantry. I had the munchies. A bag of honey bbq potato chips, some nachos, an apple, half of a tuna fish sandwich and some semi-sweet chocolate chips later I'm ready to get down to some serious eating. Oh, wait, I forgot the two cookies and the handful of ranch flavored crackers...
Anyway, the next thing you know I'm back at the computer and I'm Google-ing my ass off. I needed a recipe for "something". I didn't care what it was. I just had the need to open the spice cabinet, heat up some olive oil in the biggest skillet that I have, boil some pasta, dice up about a half a bushel of veggies, grab the largest mixing bowl I have, dig out the measuring spoons, shred a pound or two of Velveeta, make a pie crust and go down into the storage unit and bring up my turkey roaster and just see what happened. So, I find the recipe online. I had all of the ingredients. I had the pan. I had the oven. I was all set to go. I'm half way thru this recipe before I actually look at it closely. It got sort of complicated. No, actually, it got VERY complicated.
First, the flour. OMg!!! The "flour" in the ingredient list turns out to be rice flour once you get into the recipe. Rice flour??? Yeah, right... And it needs to be sifted before you add it in. SIFTED??? LMAO!!! OK, I actually do have a flour sifter. It's a fridge magnet. Holds about a teaspoon. Yeah, not happening anytime soon... Rice flour. I just put about three cups of uncooked rice into the blender and turned it on for about half an hour.
The vinegar. Again, hidden in the recipe. I has to be rice vinegar. I lucked out, I had some. Great in potato salad. Had it not been in the cabinet I would have used apple cider or balsamic vinegar instead. It's vinegar. Either ramp it up or water it down. Get over it...
The butter. Oh, yeah, the butter... Of course, it has to clarified. Clarified butter is perhaps the dumbest damned thing I have ever heard of. Only the French could up with something that stupid. Yes, I know how to clarify butter. I think the last time I did it was about 1981. What can I say, I had a craving for some Coquille St. Jacques from scratch. As god is my witness, I will NEVER clarify butter again!!! It's just one of those ditzty-ass kitchen tricks that is even too gay for me. Yeah...
Then there was the sugar. Turbanado sugar. Really??? The dark brown kind. Really??? Organic. Just a fucking minute here!!! Dark brown organic turbanado sugar??? Do I look like I fucking live in Hawaii??? Yeah, trust me, brown sugar went in that mixing bowl.
The parsley had to be fresh. Fresh Italian parsley. The asiago had to be from some cheese factory in New Hampshire. Where the cows were fed a strict diet of Cheerio's, mini-marshmallows and Evian. The raisins were "recommended" to be from some place deep in the Hindu-Kush of Pakistan. The diced green onions didn't seem too hard. Until I saw that I should have started to brine them last night. The basil had to be some strange variety. Mountain grown as I recall. Bolivia, I think. It just went down hill from the basil. Damned near every ingredient in this recipe was special. And not in that short bus kind of way.
WTF wrote this nightmare??? This recipe would have scared Wolfgang Puck out of the kitchen!!! Even my recipes aren't this nuts!!! For those of you that I have shared my recipes with, you now have a learning curve of what I am talking about. I went back to Google and brought the recipe up again. I discovered links. To more of this loon's recipes. OMg, they're all this nuts. If not more so. One called for unbleached salt. WTF is unbleached salt??? Another one called for saffron. Fresh saffron. When was the last time you saw fresh fucking saffron??? It's from India for fucks sake!!! It takes awhile to get to Madison. One recipe called for home-dried cranberries. You gotta be kidding me. Home-dried cranberries??? Lady, I live in Wisconsin. We're literally up to our tits in those here!!! We buy them at stores. Then there was the onion chives. Onion chives??? Hmmm... onion... chives... Onion chives??? Excuse me but the last time I looked chives WERE onions!!! Trust me, I've grown them. They're supposed to taste like that. THEY'RE ONIONS!!!
In quiet resignation I admitted defeat. I had been bested in my own kitchen by a stranger that was sorely under or over medicated with access to a keyboard. In the middle of the night. With a cocktail and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. And a rolled up dollar bill with a rubber band around it.
I grabbed the cell phone, speed-dialed Domino's and said extra large Special. With extra cheese. Can you put some jalapenos on that for me? Half an hour later, instant gratification...
Anyway, the next thing you know I'm back at the computer and I'm Google-ing my ass off. I needed a recipe for "something". I didn't care what it was. I just had the need to open the spice cabinet, heat up some olive oil in the biggest skillet that I have, boil some pasta, dice up about a half a bushel of veggies, grab the largest mixing bowl I have, dig out the measuring spoons, shred a pound or two of Velveeta, make a pie crust and go down into the storage unit and bring up my turkey roaster and just see what happened. So, I find the recipe online. I had all of the ingredients. I had the pan. I had the oven. I was all set to go. I'm half way thru this recipe before I actually look at it closely. It got sort of complicated. No, actually, it got VERY complicated.
First, the flour. OMg!!! The "flour" in the ingredient list turns out to be rice flour once you get into the recipe. Rice flour??? Yeah, right... And it needs to be sifted before you add it in. SIFTED??? LMAO!!! OK, I actually do have a flour sifter. It's a fridge magnet. Holds about a teaspoon. Yeah, not happening anytime soon... Rice flour. I just put about three cups of uncooked rice into the blender and turned it on for about half an hour.
The vinegar. Again, hidden in the recipe. I has to be rice vinegar. I lucked out, I had some. Great in potato salad. Had it not been in the cabinet I would have used apple cider or balsamic vinegar instead. It's vinegar. Either ramp it up or water it down. Get over it...
The butter. Oh, yeah, the butter... Of course, it has to clarified. Clarified butter is perhaps the dumbest damned thing I have ever heard of. Only the French could up with something that stupid. Yes, I know how to clarify butter. I think the last time I did it was about 1981. What can I say, I had a craving for some Coquille St. Jacques from scratch. As god is my witness, I will NEVER clarify butter again!!! It's just one of those ditzty-ass kitchen tricks that is even too gay for me. Yeah...
Then there was the sugar. Turbanado sugar. Really??? The dark brown kind. Really??? Organic. Just a fucking minute here!!! Dark brown organic turbanado sugar??? Do I look like I fucking live in Hawaii??? Yeah, trust me, brown sugar went in that mixing bowl.
The parsley had to be fresh. Fresh Italian parsley. The asiago had to be from some cheese factory in New Hampshire. Where the cows were fed a strict diet of Cheerio's, mini-marshmallows and Evian. The raisins were "recommended" to be from some place deep in the Hindu-Kush of Pakistan. The diced green onions didn't seem too hard. Until I saw that I should have started to brine them last night. The basil had to be some strange variety. Mountain grown as I recall. Bolivia, I think. It just went down hill from the basil. Damned near every ingredient in this recipe was special. And not in that short bus kind of way.
WTF wrote this nightmare??? This recipe would have scared Wolfgang Puck out of the kitchen!!! Even my recipes aren't this nuts!!! For those of you that I have shared my recipes with, you now have a learning curve of what I am talking about. I went back to Google and brought the recipe up again. I discovered links. To more of this loon's recipes. OMg, they're all this nuts. If not more so. One called for unbleached salt. WTF is unbleached salt??? Another one called for saffron. Fresh saffron. When was the last time you saw fresh fucking saffron??? It's from India for fucks sake!!! It takes awhile to get to Madison. One recipe called for home-dried cranberries. You gotta be kidding me. Home-dried cranberries??? Lady, I live in Wisconsin. We're literally up to our tits in those here!!! We buy them at stores. Then there was the onion chives. Onion chives??? Hmmm... onion... chives... Onion chives??? Excuse me but the last time I looked chives WERE onions!!! Trust me, I've grown them. They're supposed to taste like that. THEY'RE ONIONS!!!
In quiet resignation I admitted defeat. I had been bested in my own kitchen by a stranger that was sorely under or over medicated with access to a keyboard. In the middle of the night. With a cocktail and a pack of unfiltered cigarettes. And a rolled up dollar bill with a rubber band around it.
I grabbed the cell phone, speed-dialed Domino's and said extra large Special. With extra cheese. Can you put some jalapenos on that for me? Half an hour later, instant gratification...
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
HERBERT STREICHER HAS LEFT THE BUILDING...
Oh, my. This one shocked me. Yesterday, an icon died. Someone who pushed the envelope in the 1970's. Someone that helped define the 1970's. Someone who's name was on everyone's lips in the 1970's. The first performer in history to be taken to court by the Feds. Convicted and facing at least 5 years in prison Hollywood rallied around him, supported him and helped him hire Alan Dershowitz for his appeal. It worked. Aah, yes, Herbert Streicher.
You may recall him better as Harry Reems. Can you say "Deep Throat"??? Think the movie, not the informant. Yes, porn. Oh my word, did that movie cause a stink!!! I saw it three times. Just to see Harry. I was in college. He was smoking hot and I was on the cusp of going gay. It was a match made in heaven.
He was buffed, furry, funny, hung and had a mustache that just screamed stud.. OK, it was 1972. What can I say, he just rang my bell back then. It was a simpler time...
"Deep Throat" cost him dearly. Prior to that he had actually acted in legitimate theater. He worked in the porn industry on the side to pay the bills. He was originally hired as the lighting director on that film and then got cast as the "doctor" at the last minute. He was paid $250 for a day's work in the filming. The rest is history. The film became a hit. It made over $600 million. Hell, Jackie O even went to see it. His career in the adult industry took off. He was the first male porn superstar. He was such a little stud-puppy.
Two years later he was behind bars. On Federal charges involving 3 states for distribution of obscene materials. Kentucky, Tennessee and New York went ape shit!!! Harry and 7 big time mobsters went down on multiple charges. Was Linda Lovelace indicted? No. Was the studio that did the film indicted? No. Just Harry and 7 crime bosses. His legal bills were fucking astronomical!!! Six months after his conviction of interstate transportation of obscene materials (huh???) his conviction was overturned and he got a new trial. Charges were dropped. Free man!!! But he was still toast.
Remember the movie "Grease"? Harry was originally cast as the coach. Two weeks before filming started he was replaced with Syd Ceasar. Seems the studio thought that his "notoriety" could be a bit more than they wanted to bite off. He was sacked.
He spent the next 15 years drinking himself into oblivion. Can you say half a gallon of vodka a day??? Not pretty. Amazingly, of all places, he finds himself in Park City, Utah. He goes through spin dry and cleans up his act. He gets a real estate license. He gets married. He turns his life around. And he still keeps the name Harry Reems. Head back, shoulders high he flips the world the bird, says yes, I was the guy who throat fucked Linda Lovelace in "Deep Throat" and then, looking you directly in the eye asks you if you would like to buy a house. I LOVE THAT!!!! Cupcake, you had some stones...
Late last night he left us. At the age of 65. Pancreatic cancer. I honestly can't think of a worse cancer. But at least it's quick. Hell, most of the time you don't even know that you have it until you're already half dead. Enough on that...
Harry. Oh, god,,, Harry... You were cute as hell. And furry. And Jewish. You were my own personal PowerBall!!! You helped open my eyes. You helped change the world. You took on the Federal Government and WON!!! You made the Supreme Court redefine "obscenity".
I salute you. I mourn your passing. I remember you young, hung and studly. Of course, I remember myself the same way. But it's been so long ago I'm sure I've forgotten. Who are you??? Pickle??? Anyway...
Harry, travel safe. And tap dance on the stars...
You may recall him better as Harry Reems. Can you say "Deep Throat"??? Think the movie, not the informant. Yes, porn. Oh my word, did that movie cause a stink!!! I saw it three times. Just to see Harry. I was in college. He was smoking hot and I was on the cusp of going gay. It was a match made in heaven.
He was buffed, furry, funny, hung and had a mustache that just screamed stud.. OK, it was 1972. What can I say, he just rang my bell back then. It was a simpler time...
"Deep Throat" cost him dearly. Prior to that he had actually acted in legitimate theater. He worked in the porn industry on the side to pay the bills. He was originally hired as the lighting director on that film and then got cast as the "doctor" at the last minute. He was paid $250 for a day's work in the filming. The rest is history. The film became a hit. It made over $600 million. Hell, Jackie O even went to see it. His career in the adult industry took off. He was the first male porn superstar. He was such a little stud-puppy.
Two years later he was behind bars. On Federal charges involving 3 states for distribution of obscene materials. Kentucky, Tennessee and New York went ape shit!!! Harry and 7 big time mobsters went down on multiple charges. Was Linda Lovelace indicted? No. Was the studio that did the film indicted? No. Just Harry and 7 crime bosses. His legal bills were fucking astronomical!!! Six months after his conviction of interstate transportation of obscene materials (huh???) his conviction was overturned and he got a new trial. Charges were dropped. Free man!!! But he was still toast.
Remember the movie "Grease"? Harry was originally cast as the coach. Two weeks before filming started he was replaced with Syd Ceasar. Seems the studio thought that his "notoriety" could be a bit more than they wanted to bite off. He was sacked.
He spent the next 15 years drinking himself into oblivion. Can you say half a gallon of vodka a day??? Not pretty. Amazingly, of all places, he finds himself in Park City, Utah. He goes through spin dry and cleans up his act. He gets a real estate license. He gets married. He turns his life around. And he still keeps the name Harry Reems. Head back, shoulders high he flips the world the bird, says yes, I was the guy who throat fucked Linda Lovelace in "Deep Throat" and then, looking you directly in the eye asks you if you would like to buy a house. I LOVE THAT!!!! Cupcake, you had some stones...
Late last night he left us. At the age of 65. Pancreatic cancer. I honestly can't think of a worse cancer. But at least it's quick. Hell, most of the time you don't even know that you have it until you're already half dead. Enough on that...
Harry. Oh, god,,, Harry... You were cute as hell. And furry. And Jewish. You were my own personal PowerBall!!! You helped open my eyes. You helped change the world. You took on the Federal Government and WON!!! You made the Supreme Court redefine "obscenity".
I salute you. I mourn your passing. I remember you young, hung and studly. Of course, I remember myself the same way. But it's been so long ago I'm sure I've forgotten. Who are you??? Pickle??? Anyway...
Harry, travel safe. And tap dance on the stars...
Tuesday, March 19, 2013
TITS!!! OH, WONDERFUL TITS!!!
Aah, yes. Tits. Oh, wonderful tits!!! Yes, tits. TITS!!!
Boobs. Nay-nays. Jugs. Funbags. Hell, call them what you will... Grab them! Slap them! Juggle them like tennis balls! Toss them around! Swing them,.. Bounce them... Get them going in opposite directions! Hell, shake them like they owe you money!!!
Yes, tits. I have three of them. OK, so my third one is sort of hidden under my right on. But it's there. Yes, I have three of them. I am old and I have three tits. Boobies!!!
Oh lord, I am an old man with three nipples... I have named them. Patty, Maxine and Laverne, to be exact. Laverne is the "hidden" one. She's not shy, she's just sort of hidden under Maxine. At least while I am vertical. When I am horizontal she sort of peaks her head out. If I roll to one side. Just right. At least on one side...
Tits. hmmmm.... tits. Actually, I like to spell that with a "z". As in titz.... "Tits" is plural. "Titz" is more than two. I have three... Tits. Oh, wonderful tits. TITS!!!
Yes, I have three nipples. OK, I have two nipples. And a "nubbins" as I like to call it. Her. Laverne, don't y'know... On the surface, I appear normal. (OK, just stop laughing!!! I can hear you!!!) But beneath my polo shirt I outnumber you by 50 percent!!! Hell, with the right hormones I could effectively dock conjoined triplets if the need should arise. Yeah, can't you just imagine me breast feeding anything??? Sort of makes "The Exorcist" look warm and fuzzy, doesn't it???
Tits. Titz. I guess it doesn't matter how you spell it. Them? Tits... Fun bags... Jugs...
Why the hell do men have nipples??? OK, I know why gay men have nipples but why do straight men have nipples??? Hell, they don't even know they have an asshole!!! Trust me on this one, touch a straight mans sphincter and it slams shut like the gates at Fort Knox. Touch a gay mans sphincter and you've got the keys to the kingdom. And a couple of free cocktails... And a couple of hours of a good time...
Nipples. Hmmmm.... nipples. I've managed to learn how to do some stuff with nipples in the last 6 decades. I will not go into detail. But, trust me, I know how to make those little puppies happy. Be they mine, yours or theirs. I think I need a third hand... Laverne is starting to feel left out, if you know what I mean.
Shoulders back, head high and Laverne snoozing comfortably under my right one I cruise through life.. Brazenly proud of my extra 50 percent. Awash in my extra tittie I march down State Street. with a smile on my face. And an extra tit in my shirt. Bow to me you bitches!!! I have 50 percent more mammalia than any of your girlfriends ever had!!! Yeah, I could have been really fun on Prom night!!! I could have made that backseat rock!!! Oh, wait.... I did.
Tits are power. Just ask any woman with good ones. In ten minutes she can OWN you!!! And you will let her do it willingly. What is it with you straight guys and tits??? OK, I'm gay and I do appreciate a good set of tits. But not for the same reasons. Show me a nice set of knockers and I can say "Hey, nice tits!". Yeah, you try that and see what happens. Women show gay men their tits at the drop of a hat. I've seen more tits than I know what to do with. Hell, I've seen your wife's tits!!! A couple of times. Don't even get me started on how many lesbian tits I've seen... "So, are my tits even?" Well, yeah, I guess so. Isn't 2 an even number??? Don't forget, I have 3. I feel ashamed. But grateful. THREE!!! I am a weird orgy just waiting to happen....
Titties. Lord, I love that word. Titties. Titties. Titties. There, I've said it again... and again.
Why do women feel compelled to show their tits to gay guys??? Yes, their nice. Now, put them away. I'm eating. OMg, boobs, What can I say, I'm gay. Really gay. BIG TIME GAY!!! Put your boobies away!!!
I am a man with three tits. Irag. Iran. I roll. Yes, three tits. Lick me if you dare...
Boobs. Nay-nays. Jugs. Funbags. Hell, call them what you will... Grab them! Slap them! Juggle them like tennis balls! Toss them around! Swing them,.. Bounce them... Get them going in opposite directions! Hell, shake them like they owe you money!!!
Yes, tits. I have three of them. OK, so my third one is sort of hidden under my right on. But it's there. Yes, I have three of them. I am old and I have three tits. Boobies!!!
Oh lord, I am an old man with three nipples... I have named them. Patty, Maxine and Laverne, to be exact. Laverne is the "hidden" one. She's not shy, she's just sort of hidden under Maxine. At least while I am vertical. When I am horizontal she sort of peaks her head out. If I roll to one side. Just right. At least on one side...
Tits. hmmmm.... tits. Actually, I like to spell that with a "z". As in titz.... "Tits" is plural. "Titz" is more than two. I have three... Tits. Oh, wonderful tits. TITS!!!
Yes, I have three nipples. OK, I have two nipples. And a "nubbins" as I like to call it. Her. Laverne, don't y'know... On the surface, I appear normal. (OK, just stop laughing!!! I can hear you!!!) But beneath my polo shirt I outnumber you by 50 percent!!! Hell, with the right hormones I could effectively dock conjoined triplets if the need should arise. Yeah, can't you just imagine me breast feeding anything??? Sort of makes "The Exorcist" look warm and fuzzy, doesn't it???
Tits. Titz. I guess it doesn't matter how you spell it. Them? Tits... Fun bags... Jugs...
Why the hell do men have nipples??? OK, I know why gay men have nipples but why do straight men have nipples??? Hell, they don't even know they have an asshole!!! Trust me on this one, touch a straight mans sphincter and it slams shut like the gates at Fort Knox. Touch a gay mans sphincter and you've got the keys to the kingdom. And a couple of free cocktails... And a couple of hours of a good time...
Nipples. Hmmmm.... nipples. I've managed to learn how to do some stuff with nipples in the last 6 decades. I will not go into detail. But, trust me, I know how to make those little puppies happy. Be they mine, yours or theirs. I think I need a third hand... Laverne is starting to feel left out, if you know what I mean.
Shoulders back, head high and Laverne snoozing comfortably under my right one I cruise through life.. Brazenly proud of my extra 50 percent. Awash in my extra tittie I march down State Street. with a smile on my face. And an extra tit in my shirt. Bow to me you bitches!!! I have 50 percent more mammalia than any of your girlfriends ever had!!! Yeah, I could have been really fun on Prom night!!! I could have made that backseat rock!!! Oh, wait.... I did.
Tits are power. Just ask any woman with good ones. In ten minutes she can OWN you!!! And you will let her do it willingly. What is it with you straight guys and tits??? OK, I'm gay and I do appreciate a good set of tits. But not for the same reasons. Show me a nice set of knockers and I can say "Hey, nice tits!". Yeah, you try that and see what happens. Women show gay men their tits at the drop of a hat. I've seen more tits than I know what to do with. Hell, I've seen your wife's tits!!! A couple of times. Don't even get me started on how many lesbian tits I've seen... "So, are my tits even?" Well, yeah, I guess so. Isn't 2 an even number??? Don't forget, I have 3. I feel ashamed. But grateful. THREE!!! I am a weird orgy just waiting to happen....
Titties. Lord, I love that word. Titties. Titties. Titties. There, I've said it again... and again.
Why do women feel compelled to show their tits to gay guys??? Yes, their nice. Now, put them away. I'm eating. OMg, boobs, What can I say, I'm gay. Really gay. BIG TIME GAY!!! Put your boobies away!!!
I am a man with three tits. Irag. Iran. I roll. Yes, three tits. Lick me if you dare...
I EMBRACE INSANITY...
Yes. It's true. I love weirdness. Craziness of any shade. Madness in any form. Full blown bat shit crazy is mother's milk to me. Give me a big old bowl of delicious delirium and I am delighted beyond words. I have sought out the insane lunatic fringe since I was a sprout. Trust me, that crowd is a lot more fun to hang out with... The stuff they do is wonderfully entertaining and a joy to watch. I usually join in.
All of my life I have been up to my uni-brow in crazies. Hell, at times I have been forced to keep them circling in a holding pattern because I didn't have anywhere to put them. A few of them ran out of fuel. That wasn't pretty. First, there was my family. OK, enough said about that exit... Then there were the ones that I actively invited in. Willingly. Oh, my... Most of them have been fun. Some of them have been certifiable. That being said, they have all been sorely under or over medicated. Not unlike myself...
I once knew a "woman" named Marge. "She" was born Micheal. Micheal was a woman trapped in man's body. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal starts going through the change. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal gets the full monty and becomes Marge. OK, I can deal with that one too. Then the other high-heel hits the floor. Marge discovers that she is a lesbian... WTF??? huh??? I would later learn that she was deported from Australia after being busted for smuggling heroin while working as a flight attendant for Qantas. What can I say?
I once found a dead body in a basement at 2 AM. Most of you know this story so I won't go into details. Let's just say, 3-day old dead body, basement, middle of the night and an overflowing litter box. That only means one thing: TOTAL HOMO HANDS!!! For about half an hour, until the scotch kicked in. By the time I finally got around to calling 911 (after sanitizing the house) I was so fucking blind drunk it hurt. I spent the next week being torn apart as the prime murder suspect. Oh, just fuck me... So much for living my life like water.
While living in Minneapolis I knew someone that collected bear traps. Antique bear traps. Do you know what those things are? They're horrid. They're like a cross between a guillotine, a trebuchet and Dame Edna. He had damned near a hundred of these things. Antique bear traps??? I remember reading the newspaper article about him describing how he had been bludgeoned to death in his apartment. Hmmm... Lloyd, you should have picked up a better one night stand...
I once dropped kicked a roommate of mine through a plate glass window. He was drunk. I was drunk. I just picked him up and tossed him into a store front on a street in Minneapolis after the bars closed. I watched 100 square feet of glass shatter. I saw mannequins turned upside down. I saw blood. I heard sirens go off. I ran. OMg, did I run. Oh, lord... why is it the better part of my weirdness always happens in the middle of the night???
I know more than my fair share of 300 lb PLUS drag queens. OK, enough said on that matter... What can I say? Amusing? Yes. Pretty? No. But, still, through them I learned how to make balloons and dry oatmeal into tits. Hey, it's a learning curve.
In Portland, OR I met some of the most twisted, strange people I have ever known. Yes, Republicans. Gay ones. WTHIWWTP??? And they were into leather. Again, WTHIWWTP??? OK, so I hit on some them. What can I say? Beer, it's the great equalizer... Out there we had something called a "pounder and a shot". It's a sixteen ounce glass of beer and a double shot of schnapps. Trust me, a couple of rounds of those and you're fucked up enough to kiss a gay Republican in a harness and ass-chaps. The down side of that is that they always wanted you to spank them and call them Peggy... hmmmm...
Some of my best pieces of psychological unhingedment have been during happy hours. Surprised??? Especially if I happen to be on the other side of the world at time. Lord only knows what you're going to find setting next to you in a bar at 4 in the afternoon in Sydney. Or Hong Kong. Or London. Or in the transit lounge of Aeropuerto Internacional de Cuidad de Mexico. Shots. Trust me. LOTS of shots!!!
Then there were the prostitutes. OK, a caveat... It was 1978. San Francisco. 18th and Mission St. Rough neighborhood to say the least. The "girls" would walk 50 feet up 18th Street and keep under cover from the rain in my doorway. Or course, I got to know them. Two were college students, one was a divorced nurse and the other one was just, well... strange. I offered them coffee. And towels. Then we started having lunch. Soon, at least two of them had keys to the place. As long as they didn't "use" it. If you know what I mean. Aah, yes... a simpler time...
I am a magnet for strangeness. I draw it into me like a large gaseous planet. It goes into orbit around me. I am like the fly strip from "The Voyage Of The Damned". Don't get me wrong, I love it. But sometimes... sometimes... I just gotta sit back and wonder how the bloody hell did we manage to t-bone each other??? I looked like a good landing spot??? Why would we trust each other with our keys??? Wanna know my PIN numbers??? Hey, you got any gum??? Wanna pickle???
All of my life I have been up to my uni-brow in crazies. Hell, at times I have been forced to keep them circling in a holding pattern because I didn't have anywhere to put them. A few of them ran out of fuel. That wasn't pretty. First, there was my family. OK, enough said about that exit... Then there were the ones that I actively invited in. Willingly. Oh, my... Most of them have been fun. Some of them have been certifiable. That being said, they have all been sorely under or over medicated. Not unlike myself...
I once knew a "woman" named Marge. "She" was born Micheal. Micheal was a woman trapped in man's body. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal starts going through the change. OK, I can deal with that one. Micheal gets the full monty and becomes Marge. OK, I can deal with that one too. Then the other high-heel hits the floor. Marge discovers that she is a lesbian... WTF??? huh??? I would later learn that she was deported from Australia after being busted for smuggling heroin while working as a flight attendant for Qantas. What can I say?
I once found a dead body in a basement at 2 AM. Most of you know this story so I won't go into details. Let's just say, 3-day old dead body, basement, middle of the night and an overflowing litter box. That only means one thing: TOTAL HOMO HANDS!!! For about half an hour, until the scotch kicked in. By the time I finally got around to calling 911 (after sanitizing the house) I was so fucking blind drunk it hurt. I spent the next week being torn apart as the prime murder suspect. Oh, just fuck me... So much for living my life like water.
While living in Minneapolis I knew someone that collected bear traps. Antique bear traps. Do you know what those things are? They're horrid. They're like a cross between a guillotine, a trebuchet and Dame Edna. He had damned near a hundred of these things. Antique bear traps??? I remember reading the newspaper article about him describing how he had been bludgeoned to death in his apartment. Hmmm... Lloyd, you should have picked up a better one night stand...
I once dropped kicked a roommate of mine through a plate glass window. He was drunk. I was drunk. I just picked him up and tossed him into a store front on a street in Minneapolis after the bars closed. I watched 100 square feet of glass shatter. I saw mannequins turned upside down. I saw blood. I heard sirens go off. I ran. OMg, did I run. Oh, lord... why is it the better part of my weirdness always happens in the middle of the night???
I know more than my fair share of 300 lb PLUS drag queens. OK, enough said on that matter... What can I say? Amusing? Yes. Pretty? No. But, still, through them I learned how to make balloons and dry oatmeal into tits. Hey, it's a learning curve.
In Portland, OR I met some of the most twisted, strange people I have ever known. Yes, Republicans. Gay ones. WTHIWWTP??? And they were into leather. Again, WTHIWWTP??? OK, so I hit on some them. What can I say? Beer, it's the great equalizer... Out there we had something called a "pounder and a shot". It's a sixteen ounce glass of beer and a double shot of schnapps. Trust me, a couple of rounds of those and you're fucked up enough to kiss a gay Republican in a harness and ass-chaps. The down side of that is that they always wanted you to spank them and call them Peggy... hmmmm...
Some of my best pieces of psychological unhingedment have been during happy hours. Surprised??? Especially if I happen to be on the other side of the world at time. Lord only knows what you're going to find setting next to you in a bar at 4 in the afternoon in Sydney. Or Hong Kong. Or London. Or in the transit lounge of Aeropuerto Internacional de Cuidad de Mexico. Shots. Trust me. LOTS of shots!!!
Then there were the prostitutes. OK, a caveat... It was 1978. San Francisco. 18th and Mission St. Rough neighborhood to say the least. The "girls" would walk 50 feet up 18th Street and keep under cover from the rain in my doorway. Or course, I got to know them. Two were college students, one was a divorced nurse and the other one was just, well... strange. I offered them coffee. And towels. Then we started having lunch. Soon, at least two of them had keys to the place. As long as they didn't "use" it. If you know what I mean. Aah, yes... a simpler time...
I am a magnet for strangeness. I draw it into me like a large gaseous planet. It goes into orbit around me. I am like the fly strip from "The Voyage Of The Damned". Don't get me wrong, I love it. But sometimes... sometimes... I just gotta sit back and wonder how the bloody hell did we manage to t-bone each other??? I looked like a good landing spot??? Why would we trust each other with our keys??? Wanna know my PIN numbers??? Hey, you got any gum??? Wanna pickle???
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