Ahh, the early '70's. My college years as I recall. Vaguely...
My drugs of choice were pot, any and all hallucinogens (I loved acid until I discovered psilocybin. Things changed wonderfully weirdly after that...) and Quaaludes. Oh lord, did I love Quaaludes!!! They were initially billed as a safe, non addictive alternative to barbiturates and narcotics (Safe and non addictive??? Are you out of your bloody mind???) They were good for insomnia and a muscle relaxant. NO FUCKING SHIT??? You lost feeling in your extremities (as well as your frontal lobes) on these things and were prone to regain consciousness in a foreign country. Sometimes still wearing your own clothes. If any clothes at all... I kind of remember (not really) a vacation in Jamaica, a public fountain, me covered in vomit and the locals throwing spoiled food at me but that's a whole other post...
I sort of remember the weekend in the dorms when I was foolish enough (lucky enough???) to mix some 'Ludes with some 'Shrooms just to see what would happen. Lord, I was so much younger and braver back then. I can't recall what happened. I'm sure I would have kicked both Marlin Perkins' ass as well as Mutual of Omaha's (maybe even that damned rhino he kept relentlessly darting) if I could only have found my extremities. Or my frontal lobes.... The colors were lovely. I think I named one of them "Susan". Or was it "Donovan"?
Yes, I have treated my body like an amusement park ride. I'm just not the type to treat it like a temple. Hand me a ticket for the Tilt-A-Whirl or the Octopus and my skinny little white ass is out looking for some of the brown acid, just letting it kick in while I'm waiting in line. Yeah, I was the one starting to giggle behind you in line. Hell, I was once up to my tits on peyote on the Tea Cups at Disney World. That was a fun 3 minutes. Right up until I blew lunch all over that nice young family sharing the cup with me. However, a couple of minutes later things did start to get WAY more colorful. At least for me. I came to later the next morning in a shatteringly tacky Disney World hotel room with my Mouseketeer hat missing an ear, the honor bar totally drained and me sporting a black eye. Oh, well, I guess a good time was had by all... Sure wish I could remember it though.
My motto has always been "We're not here for a long time, just a good time". It has served me well over the years, sometimes even served me too well as I can almost remember. Sort of... Give me a handful of nickels and I'm buying candy. Give me a fist full of singles and I'm stuffing those suckers in somebody's g-string. Give me a timer that counts down my lifetime in less fingers than I have on both hands and I'm setting the cruise control to 110. Maybe even 130 if I have enough cylinders at my disposal!!!
Life is too short for coach class, too long for youth and WAY too important to ever be taken seriously. Learn to ride a unicycle. In a dress. Dressed as a penguin. Show the person next to you on the bus the toothbrush you found in the gutter. And tell them how lucky you feel. Repeatedly. Pick up that single shoe you found on the side of road. And wear it. As a hat. Give that awful street musician a penny. And then ask for change. Kick the bloody hell out of any one under the age of 45 wearing a tie dyed anything. You're supposed to make those damned things, you idiot, NOT buy them at ShopKo!!! And for god's sake, let me know if you have any Ludes!!!
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
Monday, September 27, 2010
I've known more drag queens that you can shake a tiara at!!!
Oh yeah, this goes back for decades. Actually, for the better part of my life. All the way back to the '70's on Castro Street in San Francisco. Remember Sylvester? I do. She was at least 6 foot tall without hair and heels and just ruled the Elephant Walk bar. She went on to several top ten singles as I recall. She sang in her own voice, had hair the size of the Atstodome and could dance her fake tits off. Holy shit, that was theater if I ever saw it!!!
Minneapolis gave me the Waters' sisters, Misty, Stormy and Skybloo. Swear to god, Skybloo. And I can't forget the truly scary Miss Chi Chi Larue. Big as a barn and could have probably taken Divine in a fight. She's now an incredibly successful gay porn producer in L.A. with her own studio. And the unforgettable Trinket, the coat check girl at the Gay 90's. Think Ving Rhames in a 1970's prom dress and you get the picture...
Then there was Portland, Oregon. First there was Candi Jarr. Then there was Belle Jarr. Then there was Cookie Jarr. We all hoped it was it was over after that but then along came Dora Jarr. I have to admit, I was truly impressed with that name. Hell, what other option did she have left, Specimen Jarr??? Oops, can't forget the lovely Miss Lady Elaine Peacock. Talented as hell, size zero and had more sequins that Carol Channing's burial shroud. And enough mousse in her wig to build a Bullwinkle!!!
Australia introduced me to Cinderella Rockafella and the ever present Dame Edna Leverage. Oh my god, those two were insane!!! They hosted an annual competition between Sydney and Melbourne called "Search For A Tragedy" that was a hunt for the worst drag queens on the continent. And they found them too. By the fucking boat load. I witnessed some of the most frightening displays imaginable. My favorite was Missy Thing. Yep, Missy Thing. Think Onslo from "Keeping Up Appearances". In green spandex. Doing "Crocodile Rock". Oh my god, I need to go put my brain in the dishwasher again!!!
Madison. Hmmm, Madison... This place has the most sorry assed herd of drag queens I've ever seen. Girls, are there no mirrors in any of your single wides??? Trust me, you aren't fooling any one!!! The real high point was Tina. Ahh, Tina... We all called her "Tina From the Country". She was so sad you just wanted to pick her up and pet her like a lost puppy. And then dump her off at the Humane Society for euthanasia. Tina was a very closeted married man in his late 30's who was the assistant manager at a McDonald's. Like I said, sad... I swear she bought her wigs at Dollar Tree and got most of her "gowns" off of the side of the road somewhere near Boscobel. I hear she was abducted by aliens who for some reason decided to keep her. They must have very strange zoos on Mars...
But Mexico is a different story. I gotta tell you, those girls just rock down there. Ida Slaptor, Mama Dolores, Miss Jalapena, Windy Mills, Candi Dahhhling, Velveeta Cheeze and a group of nameless individuals known collectively as "The Dirty Bitches". A few years back I gave one of the "Bitches" a black leather mini-skirt I no longer had use for (don't even ask) and I got a proposal of marriage!!! I was tempted at first but later decided to decline her gracious offer when I found out that it would entail moving in with her parents in El Pitillal and sleeping over the chicken coop with her aunt and uncle. Don't get me wrong, her aunt and uncle were very nice people, as were the chickens but it just didn't seem right for me.
I love a man in a dress. I love a man out of a dress. Hell, I love a man when I'M in a dress!!! But when you put a man in hair and heels and put him on stage I'm right there in the front row with a fist full of singles and a smile on my face. Spectacle, theater of the absurd, illusion and Cirque on the brown acid fuel my fire. BIG TIME!!! Especially when I get my thigh personally autographed and a group picture that I can put on the Christmas cards to scare the bloody shit out of the relatives!!!
Minneapolis gave me the Waters' sisters, Misty, Stormy and Skybloo. Swear to god, Skybloo. And I can't forget the truly scary Miss Chi Chi Larue. Big as a barn and could have probably taken Divine in a fight. She's now an incredibly successful gay porn producer in L.A. with her own studio. And the unforgettable Trinket, the coat check girl at the Gay 90's. Think Ving Rhames in a 1970's prom dress and you get the picture...
Then there was Portland, Oregon. First there was Candi Jarr. Then there was Belle Jarr. Then there was Cookie Jarr. We all hoped it was it was over after that but then along came Dora Jarr. I have to admit, I was truly impressed with that name. Hell, what other option did she have left, Specimen Jarr??? Oops, can't forget the lovely Miss Lady Elaine Peacock. Talented as hell, size zero and had more sequins that Carol Channing's burial shroud. And enough mousse in her wig to build a Bullwinkle!!!
Australia introduced me to Cinderella Rockafella and the ever present Dame Edna Leverage. Oh my god, those two were insane!!! They hosted an annual competition between Sydney and Melbourne called "Search For A Tragedy" that was a hunt for the worst drag queens on the continent. And they found them too. By the fucking boat load. I witnessed some of the most frightening displays imaginable. My favorite was Missy Thing. Yep, Missy Thing. Think Onslo from "Keeping Up Appearances". In green spandex. Doing "Crocodile Rock". Oh my god, I need to go put my brain in the dishwasher again!!!
Madison. Hmmm, Madison... This place has the most sorry assed herd of drag queens I've ever seen. Girls, are there no mirrors in any of your single wides??? Trust me, you aren't fooling any one!!! The real high point was Tina. Ahh, Tina... We all called her "Tina From the Country". She was so sad you just wanted to pick her up and pet her like a lost puppy. And then dump her off at the Humane Society for euthanasia. Tina was a very closeted married man in his late 30's who was the assistant manager at a McDonald's. Like I said, sad... I swear she bought her wigs at Dollar Tree and got most of her "gowns" off of the side of the road somewhere near Boscobel. I hear she was abducted by aliens who for some reason decided to keep her. They must have very strange zoos on Mars...
But Mexico is a different story. I gotta tell you, those girls just rock down there. Ida Slaptor, Mama Dolores, Miss Jalapena, Windy Mills, Candi Dahhhling, Velveeta Cheeze and a group of nameless individuals known collectively as "The Dirty Bitches". A few years back I gave one of the "Bitches" a black leather mini-skirt I no longer had use for (don't even ask) and I got a proposal of marriage!!! I was tempted at first but later decided to decline her gracious offer when I found out that it would entail moving in with her parents in El Pitillal and sleeping over the chicken coop with her aunt and uncle. Don't get me wrong, her aunt and uncle were very nice people, as were the chickens but it just didn't seem right for me.
I love a man in a dress. I love a man out of a dress. Hell, I love a man when I'M in a dress!!! But when you put a man in hair and heels and put him on stage I'm right there in the front row with a fist full of singles and a smile on my face. Spectacle, theater of the absurd, illusion and Cirque on the brown acid fuel my fire. BIG TIME!!! Especially when I get my thigh personally autographed and a group picture that I can put on the Christmas cards to scare the bloody shit out of the relatives!!!
Sunday, September 26, 2010
My kitchen is the Eighth Gate of Hell!!!
OK, by now you must realize that I'm a cook. I grew up in my parents restaurants and my grandma's kitchen. I've been doing this since I was in third grade. It's my nature, my calling.... oh hell, it's my sole legal addiction when I think about it.
I am a self admitted slave to single use kitchen appliances. The more the merrier. I have three different sized citrus squeezers (limes, lemons and oranges), two different food processors (three if you count the broken one I haven't thrown away yet but just keep around for interchangeable parts), a Rubbermaid storage container with so many "formal" sets of chopsticks I could host a diplomatic summit in Beijing, three woks (one meat, one veggie and one just to cook rice in) and a really spendy asparagus steamer I use about three times a year. Don't even ask me about the cutting boards... I could do a parquet floor that would rival the Grand Ballroom at Versailles (some for "face", some for "non-face". Meat vs veggies). Yeah, I really am that anal!
I am surprised that my cabinets have not literally ripped loose from the walls. At last count I had a collection of more that 197 pieces of Fiesta Ware (place setting for 8 and WAY too many damned completer pieces), a set of cookware that is now up to more than 40 pieces (not counting the Corning French White that is about the same number), flatware for 12 (again, way too many completer pieces to count), enough Mexican linens to open a cocina that could cater a wedding and a funeral at the same time and enough spices to weigh down a Manila Galleon!!! Would you believe that only two of us live in this apartment??? And that this kitchen is about the size of a phone booth??? In my time I have had kitchens that were bigger than my living room is now. Kitchens you could hold parties in. Kitchens so big you could have a crowd in it, everyone cooking their asses off and no one getting accidently stabbed, scalded or set on fire. Hell, kitchens so big you could hold keggers in and invite the entire building!!! Ahh, I remember those days...
If I can't hold a 10 inch French knife in each hand, stretch out my arms, whirl like a drunken Dirvish and not slice someones ear off it just ain't a kitchen to me. I want cabinet space large enough to hold the treasures of pharaoh, enough counter space to do multiple autopsy's on and enough gas burners to get me accused of worshipping false idols with. If I can't wrap a whole pig in banana leaves and toss it onto flames inside my house then I am being cheated out of my destiny. If four burners is normal, then six is even better but eight is right up my alley. Can you really have too many ovens at your disposal??? Hell NO!!!
I would truly sell what's left of my soul for an acre or two of Viking, Wolfe and Sub-Zero toys. I want warming ovens, holding ovens, under counter prep refrigerators and a freezer the size of Texas!!! Is it an obsession? Yes. Is it a disease? HELL, YES!!! I prefer disease.... You know why? Obsession just gets you arrested but disease get you medicated. I've always liked medicated better....
I am a self admitted slave to single use kitchen appliances. The more the merrier. I have three different sized citrus squeezers (limes, lemons and oranges), two different food processors (three if you count the broken one I haven't thrown away yet but just keep around for interchangeable parts), a Rubbermaid storage container with so many "formal" sets of chopsticks I could host a diplomatic summit in Beijing, three woks (one meat, one veggie and one just to cook rice in) and a really spendy asparagus steamer I use about three times a year. Don't even ask me about the cutting boards... I could do a parquet floor that would rival the Grand Ballroom at Versailles (some for "face", some for "non-face". Meat vs veggies). Yeah, I really am that anal!
I am surprised that my cabinets have not literally ripped loose from the walls. At last count I had a collection of more that 197 pieces of Fiesta Ware (place setting for 8 and WAY too many damned completer pieces), a set of cookware that is now up to more than 40 pieces (not counting the Corning French White that is about the same number), flatware for 12 (again, way too many completer pieces to count), enough Mexican linens to open a cocina that could cater a wedding and a funeral at the same time and enough spices to weigh down a Manila Galleon!!! Would you believe that only two of us live in this apartment??? And that this kitchen is about the size of a phone booth??? In my time I have had kitchens that were bigger than my living room is now. Kitchens you could hold parties in. Kitchens so big you could have a crowd in it, everyone cooking their asses off and no one getting accidently stabbed, scalded or set on fire. Hell, kitchens so big you could hold keggers in and invite the entire building!!! Ahh, I remember those days...
If I can't hold a 10 inch French knife in each hand, stretch out my arms, whirl like a drunken Dirvish and not slice someones ear off it just ain't a kitchen to me. I want cabinet space large enough to hold the treasures of pharaoh, enough counter space to do multiple autopsy's on and enough gas burners to get me accused of worshipping false idols with. If I can't wrap a whole pig in banana leaves and toss it onto flames inside my house then I am being cheated out of my destiny. If four burners is normal, then six is even better but eight is right up my alley. Can you really have too many ovens at your disposal??? Hell NO!!!
I would truly sell what's left of my soul for an acre or two of Viking, Wolfe and Sub-Zero toys. I want warming ovens, holding ovens, under counter prep refrigerators and a freezer the size of Texas!!! Is it an obsession? Yes. Is it a disease? HELL, YES!!! I prefer disease.... You know why? Obsession just gets you arrested but disease get you medicated. I've always liked medicated better....
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Karaoke Night at the nursing home...
OK, here's a scary thought that is just starting to piss the bloody hell out of me. Over the next decade nursing homes are going to start filling up with worn out, tattered Baby Boomers. That would be me. Stop your damned laughing, that clock is ticking WAY to fast for my taste!!! Even imagining that scenario chills me all the way down to my new hip.
Can you see me in a nursing home? I just know it's going to be some hell hole called "Shitty Pines" that smells like patchouli and has a staff that carries rhino dart guns just to keep up in line. Which when I think about it, that may not be so bad. After all as Boomer I've always enjoyed a good buzz...
I picture the gowns being tie-dyed (I'll be wearing mine backwards just for effect), being herded down to the therapy room for Arts & Crap sessions (I'll be making a paper mache bong), Jazzersize physical therapy sessions (I've always preferred Sleepersize sessions myself) and then those heinous Friday night karaoke things they love to subject you to. If I have to do karaoke I swear to god I'm gonna snap!!! Just like my hip did. I'm turning "I'm Your Boogie Man" into "Here's My Booger, Man", "Hot Stuff" into "Hot Soup" and "Get Up And Boogie" into "Come Here And Wipe Me"!!! I'm gonna get darted, I just know it...
I'll orchestrate break-outs (OK, more like shuffle-outs probably) and I'll organize acts of civil disobedience (I'm thinking of everyone filling their Depends simultaneously). Hell, better yet, I'll start a mass movement even bigger than the Depends thing! I'm gonna call it "Geezer Power". And anyone who can get around in a wheelchair under their own power and still swallow at the same time is qualified to join. We'll gather down in the lunch room and then wheel ourselves up to the nurses station, all chanting in unison: "WE'RE OLD!!! WE'RE CRANKY!!! WHERE'S OUR FUCKING OATMEAL!!! WE'RE OLD!!! WE'RE CRANKY!!! WHERE'S OUR FUCKING OATMEAL!!!" And if our demands are not met THEN we do the Depends thing!!! I'm sure Ghandi would approve.
As god is my witness, I will not take this sitting down!!! Unless, of course, my other hip decides to take a shit on me...
Can you see me in a nursing home? I just know it's going to be some hell hole called "Shitty Pines" that smells like patchouli and has a staff that carries rhino dart guns just to keep up in line. Which when I think about it, that may not be so bad. After all as Boomer I've always enjoyed a good buzz...
I picture the gowns being tie-dyed (I'll be wearing mine backwards just for effect), being herded down to the therapy room for Arts & Crap sessions (I'll be making a paper mache bong), Jazzersize physical therapy sessions (I've always preferred Sleepersize sessions myself) and then those heinous Friday night karaoke things they love to subject you to. If I have to do karaoke I swear to god I'm gonna snap!!! Just like my hip did. I'm turning "I'm Your Boogie Man" into "Here's My Booger, Man", "Hot Stuff" into "Hot Soup" and "Get Up And Boogie" into "Come Here And Wipe Me"!!! I'm gonna get darted, I just know it...
I'll orchestrate break-outs (OK, more like shuffle-outs probably) and I'll organize acts of civil disobedience (I'm thinking of everyone filling their Depends simultaneously). Hell, better yet, I'll start a mass movement even bigger than the Depends thing! I'm gonna call it "Geezer Power". And anyone who can get around in a wheelchair under their own power and still swallow at the same time is qualified to join. We'll gather down in the lunch room and then wheel ourselves up to the nurses station, all chanting in unison: "WE'RE OLD!!! WE'RE CRANKY!!! WHERE'S OUR FUCKING OATMEAL!!! WE'RE OLD!!! WE'RE CRANKY!!! WHERE'S OUR FUCKING OATMEAL!!!" And if our demands are not met THEN we do the Depends thing!!! I'm sure Ghandi would approve.
As god is my witness, I will not take this sitting down!!! Unless, of course, my other hip decides to take a shit on me...
Friday, September 24, 2010
I have a "Play-Doh" date!!!
How cool is that, I ask you? A Play-Doh date!!! Remember that stuff? That semi-gelatinous paste that used to pass as a clay like substance? In colors NOT found in nature? You could use it forever, I swear. You could bake it and make it "solid". Of sorts. You could paint it. You could eat it. Yes, I ate it as a child. Could have used a bit more salt and some garlic for my tastes though.
Anyway, my faux-niece (all of six years old now and quite worldly) has graciously invited me to a tea party tomorrow so we can break out all of her Play-Doh and ravage the dinning room table once again. The last time we did this I spent the better part of two hours digging Play-Doh flotsam out of her parents carpet so they wouldn't know we had a Play-Doh fight. Yeah, I'm a totally cool aunt!!! Who in there right mind would willingly hand their child over to me??? Yet, I seem to be the babysitter of choice for this little wonder and light of my life. And yes, I am officially known as "Auntie Donn". She is my partner in crime. We have trashed a few Olive Garden's in our time together. Can you say wearing whole black olives on our fingers? All of our fingers!!! And possibly a couple of toes as well. Culver's is our place of worship. She lives for those Team Scoopie points and I have been known to mainline the Caramel Cashew Nut Sundaes. About the only thing I haven't managed to teach her is to introduce herself as Baby Jesus to strangers. Sadly, her mother refuses to let me do that. I've been slapped up against the back of my head so many times by her mother I've lost count. Could be some brain damage by now...
Anyway, the date... This one is gonna rock big time! She has gallons of Play-Doh and a Play-Doh factory that makes the one I had as kid pale by comparison. Hers is digital for christ's sake. And about the size of a Chevy Malibu. And I've been told to bring some "tools" along that we can use to make even cooler Play-Doh things with. What can I say, she has me wrapped around her finger. I have a pile of stuff on the kitchen counter about a foot high to take out there. Everything from jar lids to pot scrapers to crinkle-cut vegetable cutters to popsicle makers to Kool-Aid from Chile to apple scented bubbles to a nose and glasses disguise kit. Did I mention the lime squeezer from Mexico? Great for making hair or worms. Oh yeah, this one truly owns me outright! My god, she's only six and she already has her very own personal bitch!!! Lord, girl, I have raised you well!!! I figure that for her 7th birthday I start teaching her how to drive a manual transmission. On the interstate. At night. In reverse. While smoking. With an open container in the car. Hey, you're never too young to learn a valuable skill or two. Look for our pictures on a wanted poster coming soon to a post office near you!!!
Anyway, my faux-niece (all of six years old now and quite worldly) has graciously invited me to a tea party tomorrow so we can break out all of her Play-Doh and ravage the dinning room table once again. The last time we did this I spent the better part of two hours digging Play-Doh flotsam out of her parents carpet so they wouldn't know we had a Play-Doh fight. Yeah, I'm a totally cool aunt!!! Who in there right mind would willingly hand their child over to me??? Yet, I seem to be the babysitter of choice for this little wonder and light of my life. And yes, I am officially known as "Auntie Donn". She is my partner in crime. We have trashed a few Olive Garden's in our time together. Can you say wearing whole black olives on our fingers? All of our fingers!!! And possibly a couple of toes as well. Culver's is our place of worship. She lives for those Team Scoopie points and I have been known to mainline the Caramel Cashew Nut Sundaes. About the only thing I haven't managed to teach her is to introduce herself as Baby Jesus to strangers. Sadly, her mother refuses to let me do that. I've been slapped up against the back of my head so many times by her mother I've lost count. Could be some brain damage by now...
Anyway, the date... This one is gonna rock big time! She has gallons of Play-Doh and a Play-Doh factory that makes the one I had as kid pale by comparison. Hers is digital for christ's sake. And about the size of a Chevy Malibu. And I've been told to bring some "tools" along that we can use to make even cooler Play-Doh things with. What can I say, she has me wrapped around her finger. I have a pile of stuff on the kitchen counter about a foot high to take out there. Everything from jar lids to pot scrapers to crinkle-cut vegetable cutters to popsicle makers to Kool-Aid from Chile to apple scented bubbles to a nose and glasses disguise kit. Did I mention the lime squeezer from Mexico? Great for making hair or worms. Oh yeah, this one truly owns me outright! My god, she's only six and she already has her very own personal bitch!!! Lord, girl, I have raised you well!!! I figure that for her 7th birthday I start teaching her how to drive a manual transmission. On the interstate. At night. In reverse. While smoking. With an open container in the car. Hey, you're never too young to learn a valuable skill or two. Look for our pictures on a wanted poster coming soon to a post office near you!!!
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
Life is much too short to even consider doing a bad BBQ!!!
Trust me on this one, I know what I'm talking about. Grilling out is an art. A way of life. An homage to fire, if you will. Hell, to me it's almost Zen... with a hearty dry rub and a dipping sauce on the side. All of it caramelized, slightly blackened and bubbly. Give me 45 minutes of open flames I will feed you like you have never been fed before! What I can do with fire is just amazing (refer to a former post. Only with less of a blast wave and a lot more windows left intact).
The weather is changing and the season is waining (FMTT!!!) but I am still out in the back yard grilling my tits off. Why? I have some hearty man-tits and the mosquitoes are FINALLY gone. No more DEET! Life is good in my corner of Paradise! And my freezer is so freaking full of stuff that just begs to be put to the stake it just hurts in my opinion. Get those damned sausages on the grill! And the Hebrew Nationals! And those brat buns from LAST August. The Solstice is here and it is time to purge. Oh, hell, give me a couple of last years steaks and I'll toss those on as well. Lord, I just love left overs! Any one for some baby backs? Hot wings?
Food? My life! Grilling? Mother's milk! My new Weber Q-200? My mistress!!! She calls to me like the Siren's did to Odysseus.. OMG, you sweet thing, come to Daddy!!! I've bought her more accessories than a $1000 an hour hooker could ever hope to have. My other half keeps finding this stuff and he's just panicked... it's like my new drug of choice in a weird way. What can I say? I want fire! LOTS of carne! Hell, I've even come close to picking up road kill and tossing it on the grill. I figure once it's been run over a couple of times it's already tenderized. All I have to do is season it properly, torch it, slap it on a plate, light a few candles and we're ready to go, right? A bit of fresh cilantro, a sprig of basil and some legumes from the farmers market and we have a feast in my world. You bring a box of crisp Chardonnay and we're set to go in my mind. Doesn't that go well with raccoon, opossum or what's left of a Canada Goose over on the shoulder of the road???
Let's get grillin', OK???
The weather is changing and the season is waining (FMTT!!!) but I am still out in the back yard grilling my tits off. Why? I have some hearty man-tits and the mosquitoes are FINALLY gone. No more DEET! Life is good in my corner of Paradise! And my freezer is so freaking full of stuff that just begs to be put to the stake it just hurts in my opinion. Get those damned sausages on the grill! And the Hebrew Nationals! And those brat buns from LAST August. The Solstice is here and it is time to purge. Oh, hell, give me a couple of last years steaks and I'll toss those on as well. Lord, I just love left overs! Any one for some baby backs? Hot wings?
Food? My life! Grilling? Mother's milk! My new Weber Q-200? My mistress!!! She calls to me like the Siren's did to Odysseus.. OMG, you sweet thing, come to Daddy!!! I've bought her more accessories than a $1000 an hour hooker could ever hope to have. My other half keeps finding this stuff and he's just panicked... it's like my new drug of choice in a weird way. What can I say? I want fire! LOTS of carne! Hell, I've even come close to picking up road kill and tossing it on the grill. I figure once it's been run over a couple of times it's already tenderized. All I have to do is season it properly, torch it, slap it on a plate, light a few candles and we're ready to go, right? A bit of fresh cilantro, a sprig of basil and some legumes from the farmers market and we have a feast in my world. You bring a box of crisp Chardonnay and we're set to go in my mind. Doesn't that go well with raccoon, opossum or what's left of a Canada Goose over on the shoulder of the road???
Let's get grillin', OK???
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
I've done things to cars that are unforgiveable...
OK, I love cars. Anyone that knows me can attest to that. I just want to get in them and go somewhere. Zoom-Zoom! But in my almost 6 decades I have managed to do some truly horrid things to them. I've trashed them, I've wrecked them and yes, I have even "borrowed" them. "Borrowed" them? Well, I think that sounds SO much nicer than stolen them, don't you? Besides, I never kept them long enough for it to be considered theft in my mind. More on that one later....
I've wrecked three Fiat's ( two 148's and an X/19), two Chevy's (both Monte Carlo's), a Chrysler (dad's Town & Country wagon), a Ford (a Falcon that encountered an apple tree), a Buick (a Skylark that encountered a deer), an Oldsmobile (a Delta 88 that met a similar fate) and my latest sacrifices, a Dodge and another Chevy (my Neon and a Trailblazer) that I t-boned at an intersection here in Madison after running a red light. My Neon had $2300 worth of damage and the Trailblazer was totaled. That alone should make you reconsider ever buying a Trailblazer. Those things are obviously crap! Zoom-Zoom!
As for that "borrowing" thing... I didn't set out to have a life of grand theft auto. It just sort of happened. Never turn down an opportunity I always say. My cars of choice? 1961 and 1962 Chevy's and 1968 Dodge Coronets and Plymouth Belvedere's. Why? It was easy as hell to boost those things. With the Chevy's you didn't even need the keys! You could actually turn the ignition over just by turning the raised sleeve that the key would fit into. If you had one. Which you didn't really need anyway. What was GM thinking? Because of them I "borrowed" my first joy-ride when I was 13. As for the Dodge and Plymouth rides, again, it's their fault. In an apparent attempt to cut production costs Chrysler decided it made sense to only put 5 different ignition locks in the entire production run of those two cars. If you had the keys to one of them you actually had the keys to 20 percent of all of the ones on the road. That served me very well in college if I needed to go do some shopping or was just too lazy to walk home after class. And yes, mom had a 1968 Dodge Coronet for awhile, so I was set.
My crowning achievement though, has got to be the time I helped blow up a 1966 Chevy. In the owners garage. What can I say, I was young. And impressionable. And I just happened to have some underwater dynamite fuse in my possession at the time. It was Orv Kraatz's car and he was a total dink. An insurance salesman to be exact. He owned his own company. He called it Kraatz's Insurance Company. The man had no inventiveness whatsoever! He was the kind of guy that buttoned his shirt all the way up to the top. Even the pull over kind. It was the summer of 1968, I was still 15 and we were at our cabin up north. I was loosely associated with a group of delinquents that called themselves the "UVA". That stood for the "United Vandals of Antigo". It was a bunch of juvenile idiots with spray cans of paint and too much time on their hands over summer vacation. I was only along for the ride. I did have underwater dynamite fuse, after all and that intrigued the hell out of them.
So, one day I share my recipe for some highly flammable and possibly quite explosive goodies with them. If you cook a mixture of half salt peter and half sugar down VERY slowly in a double boiler it turns into a liquid goo that is actually pourable while still warm. My thinking was to cook up a batch of this stuff in mom's kitchen, pour it into one of the old copper compressed air tanks from an air rifle my father was stupid enough to buy for me. Yeah, I was dangerous even back then.
Long story short. We do that. Almost set the kitchen on fire in the process too. Liquid goo, underwater dynamite fuse, teenage males and a small kitchen fire. What could possibly go wrong, right? OK, it was late August, one of those days that was hot with a night that was cool. LOTS of condensation that teenage boys don't notice. We had no idea that the duct tape we used to attach the "device" to the back window of Orv's Chevy Biscayne would come loose, roll down the trunk and get entangled in the license plate. Which, BTW, was exactly where the gas tank filler cap was located. Can you say HUGE explosion? Not just the car, but the garage as well. And windows for almost two blocks! Holy shit! It was bloody amazing! The cedar tree I was "hiding" behind hit me in the face so hard it knocked me on my ass in in the Garibaldi's front yard and damn near took off one of their window planters full of geraniums. Which as I recall, hurt like hell when they fell on me.
The last image I have of this, as we all scattered like cockroaches, was lights going on in all of the houses around me and Orv and his wife running out of their house. Her with her hair-don't wrapped in toilet paper in a flannel house coat and Orv in perfectly ironed and creased cotton pajamas with the top buttoned completely up. To the top button, for christ's sake How the bloody hell did he sleep like that??? His beloved Chevy in ruins, the garage roof half way out to the street and his side entrance roof blown half way through the side of his house. The siding on the west end of his house was totally fucked as I remember. He was running for the hose and I was running for my life!!! Hell, we all were!!!
Yes, I have blown up vehicles. Yes, I have terrorized insurance salesmen. Yes, I have set fire to stuff. Yes, I have been a terrorist LONG before it was popular. And YES I am proud of my accomplishments!!! Ahh, the UVA, long may you wave!!! Anyone have a bitch with a bowling alley? I'm there for ya, baby!!!
I've wrecked three Fiat's ( two 148's and an X/19), two Chevy's (both Monte Carlo's), a Chrysler (dad's Town & Country wagon), a Ford (a Falcon that encountered an apple tree), a Buick (a Skylark that encountered a deer), an Oldsmobile (a Delta 88 that met a similar fate) and my latest sacrifices, a Dodge and another Chevy (my Neon and a Trailblazer) that I t-boned at an intersection here in Madison after running a red light. My Neon had $2300 worth of damage and the Trailblazer was totaled. That alone should make you reconsider ever buying a Trailblazer. Those things are obviously crap! Zoom-Zoom!
As for that "borrowing" thing... I didn't set out to have a life of grand theft auto. It just sort of happened. Never turn down an opportunity I always say. My cars of choice? 1961 and 1962 Chevy's and 1968 Dodge Coronets and Plymouth Belvedere's. Why? It was easy as hell to boost those things. With the Chevy's you didn't even need the keys! You could actually turn the ignition over just by turning the raised sleeve that the key would fit into. If you had one. Which you didn't really need anyway. What was GM thinking? Because of them I "borrowed" my first joy-ride when I was 13. As for the Dodge and Plymouth rides, again, it's their fault. In an apparent attempt to cut production costs Chrysler decided it made sense to only put 5 different ignition locks in the entire production run of those two cars. If you had the keys to one of them you actually had the keys to 20 percent of all of the ones on the road. That served me very well in college if I needed to go do some shopping or was just too lazy to walk home after class. And yes, mom had a 1968 Dodge Coronet for awhile, so I was set.
My crowning achievement though, has got to be the time I helped blow up a 1966 Chevy. In the owners garage. What can I say, I was young. And impressionable. And I just happened to have some underwater dynamite fuse in my possession at the time. It was Orv Kraatz's car and he was a total dink. An insurance salesman to be exact. He owned his own company. He called it Kraatz's Insurance Company. The man had no inventiveness whatsoever! He was the kind of guy that buttoned his shirt all the way up to the top. Even the pull over kind. It was the summer of 1968, I was still 15 and we were at our cabin up north. I was loosely associated with a group of delinquents that called themselves the "UVA". That stood for the "United Vandals of Antigo". It was a bunch of juvenile idiots with spray cans of paint and too much time on their hands over summer vacation. I was only along for the ride. I did have underwater dynamite fuse, after all and that intrigued the hell out of them.
So, one day I share my recipe for some highly flammable and possibly quite explosive goodies with them. If you cook a mixture of half salt peter and half sugar down VERY slowly in a double boiler it turns into a liquid goo that is actually pourable while still warm. My thinking was to cook up a batch of this stuff in mom's kitchen, pour it into one of the old copper compressed air tanks from an air rifle my father was stupid enough to buy for me. Yeah, I was dangerous even back then.
Long story short. We do that. Almost set the kitchen on fire in the process too. Liquid goo, underwater dynamite fuse, teenage males and a small kitchen fire. What could possibly go wrong, right? OK, it was late August, one of those days that was hot with a night that was cool. LOTS of condensation that teenage boys don't notice. We had no idea that the duct tape we used to attach the "device" to the back window of Orv's Chevy Biscayne would come loose, roll down the trunk and get entangled in the license plate. Which, BTW, was exactly where the gas tank filler cap was located. Can you say HUGE explosion? Not just the car, but the garage as well. And windows for almost two blocks! Holy shit! It was bloody amazing! The cedar tree I was "hiding" behind hit me in the face so hard it knocked me on my ass in in the Garibaldi's front yard and damn near took off one of their window planters full of geraniums. Which as I recall, hurt like hell when they fell on me.
The last image I have of this, as we all scattered like cockroaches, was lights going on in all of the houses around me and Orv and his wife running out of their house. Her with her hair-don't wrapped in toilet paper in a flannel house coat and Orv in perfectly ironed and creased cotton pajamas with the top buttoned completely up. To the top button, for christ's sake How the bloody hell did he sleep like that??? His beloved Chevy in ruins, the garage roof half way out to the street and his side entrance roof blown half way through the side of his house. The siding on the west end of his house was totally fucked as I remember. He was running for the hose and I was running for my life!!! Hell, we all were!!!
Yes, I have blown up vehicles. Yes, I have terrorized insurance salesmen. Yes, I have set fire to stuff. Yes, I have been a terrorist LONG before it was popular. And YES I am proud of my accomplishments!!! Ahh, the UVA, long may you wave!!! Anyone have a bitch with a bowling alley? I'm there for ya, baby!!!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)