My life has been taken over by bloodsuckers. I'm not speaking of the figurative leech, like relatives staying passed their welcome or Republicans. I mean actual fanged teethed, Transylvanian bred Nosferatu. Vampires. How did this happen to me? My P's where being minded, my Q's not in the least bit in disarray. Yet my world has lately been overrun by the undead and I'm at a lose for how it came to be.
First there is this project that Atomic and I are working on writing. I say working on because this epic masterpiece has so many layers to it that I'm still a bit confused if we are actually going to pull it off. And I say masterpiece because it certainly will be just that. I don't want to get too into explaining it for several reasons, mostly because I don't know that I could do it justice. But I will go out on the proverbial limb, cause I'll be damned if my big ass is gonna climb a real tree, and say that once "87" is ready you are all in for a treat of colossal magnitude. It's a 7.3 on the Richter scale. It may not knock down any buildings, but it's gonna shake the shit out of you.
Then, like a silent fart in an elevator I got caught by surprise by HBO. I don't know why I was shocked, they have great shows, we must all agree with that. And Alan Ball is the creator of Six Feet Under and writer of American Beauty is at it again. Wasn't planning on watching, but it has Anna Paquin, how could I resist True Blood. More God damned Vampires. Like I said, taking over my life. Loved the first episode. Thought it was fantastic. Can't wait for more. Maybe HBO is back on track and ready to retake Sunday night. Showtime is still kicking their ass with Weeds and the upcoming premiere of season two of Californication, which if you haven't checked out, you must. But HBO is making a run, let's see if Alan Ball can deliver on True Blood like he did with Six Feet Under.
On a non-bloodsucker note, I watched the first episode of the FX series "Sons of Anarchy". Biker drama. Ron Pearlman alone makes it worth a gander, but I'm not totally sold. The lead character is already on my nerve and that's a bad thing. Katie Segal, better known as Peg Bundy, is playing way too over the top with the tough mom thing. If they can reel it in, it's got some good elements, just not sure if it's gonna be my thing.
Otherwise, the vampires have me by the throat and I'm dealing with them as best I can. More "87" news will be available soon. As well as something else that I have kindling. I'm not sure what it is yet, it's an idea without form, a thought without structure, a wave that isn't quite ready to break. I might even debut some of it here in the Asylum, fiction. That would be a first.
Anyway, really just wanted to check in and say howdy. My coffin is waiting and the sun will be up soon, so I must away, but fear not, I shall return when the moon rests high in the sky and the star spangled blanket covers my world. Until I must feed.
Stay True.
Big Mike
Dixie Cup of Love: Keifer, greatest movie Vampire ever.
Monday, September 8, 2008
Monday, August 18, 2008
"I met a man. He was a good man, sailing and shoring, dancing the beta can-can, making me foreign. Oh yeah. I want to live in Los Angeles. Not the one in Los Angeles, no not the one in South California, they got one in South Patagonia." Frank Black from "Los Angeles"
The nurse got me out of the Asylum for a while and packed by hulking frame on to a plane that was only slightly larger than the aircraft that took Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper from the world. Size mattering, I still question how a large hunk of metal stays in the air, especially with me on the port side, but it did, and after a mad dash through the Houston airport, something that you will come to find I am slightly proficient at, I landed in the state of my birth on a euphoria inducing summer evening.
My bestest compadre, the Atomic one, picked me up from the airport like Hoak driving Mrs. Daisy, except he didn't wear the hat and I had to carry my own luggage. Come to think of it, he isn't even black, he's not like Hoak at all. He's more like Han Solo. Yeah. So, me being Chewbacca like in size, I sidekicked it into the passengers seat and we made off to Pink's. For those of you not in the know. Pink's is to hot dogs what Heaven is to Christians. It's the ultimate destination. Mark Adams joined us to wait in line, yeah, you gotta wait in line for about an hour at Pink's, but it is so worth it. Whilst waiting, not to let time go by without results, we put in a call to Graham to inform him that the secret to Mark's "I Have a Secret" Party was that I was in attendance. He was less than thrilled, and I think a bit jealous that he wasn't there for the festivities. He was surely missed, but there will be other gatherings, one's in his honor, I'm sure. After waking Graham up, we got our chow. Double Pastrami Burrito Dog. That's 2 Hot Dogs, Pastrami, and chili all wrapped in a tortilla. FANTASTIC. Only three veins remain unclogged.
Thursday found me going to see my brother, driving around town, giving Colleen a photo tour of the Southland. She got pictures of my elementary school, high school, my first home, Hollywood Blvd, Sunset Blvd, Rodeo Drive, and general photos of traffic and what not. After that splendid day, Atomic Steve and I joined his parents at Lowry's for prime rib. I took on their largest cut, the Beef Bowl. 2 inches thick, wide as a plate. It was a friggin roast people. Two veins remain unclogged. We went back to Steve's and wagered on gymnastics, winning me a free lunch on Saturday, thank you Nastia, thank you.
Friday was partytime. I was secluded in Mark's room for the duration of a Fight Club viewing. First rule of Surprise Party's is you don't talk about... nevermind. Anyway, finally I made my entrance and the crowd was grateful that Mark wasn't coming out of the closet. Though Lindsey and Carissa were not in attendance, it was still an amazing party. I owe Mark a huge one for all the shit he took.
Saturday was chill. We went and peeped the Dark Knight on IMAX with Adam, Val and Amanda, after we stopped at the Hat for Pastrami and Chili and Wet Fries. Heart Attack Imminent. The movie rocked like a Scorpions concert in Berlin with Hasslehoff opening. After being blown away by Heath Ledger, still not believing it's the same dude from 10 Things I Hate About You, we ponied back to Atomic's for spa night. With a small crowd of friendlies we sat in the spa until our hands and feet resembled that of Jessica Tandy. I was surprised by a visit from Lindsey, yet another cherry on the sundae that was my weekend.
Sunday I my plane out of LAX was late. When I arrived in Houston I had 14 minutes to make my connection. It was mad. Regardless, I got home. Seeing my friends reminded me that I miss them, but it also made me realize that I am now a visitor in their world. I love them all, can't wait to see them again, but am glad that I am home. While there I came to grips with the Asylum, had a lot of my confidence restored, and found a smile that had been alluding me. Turns out I left it on Hollywood Blvd. Go figure.
Dixie Cup of Love: All the Cherries that made the weekend fabulous.
The nurse got me out of the Asylum for a while and packed by hulking frame on to a plane that was only slightly larger than the aircraft that took Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper from the world. Size mattering, I still question how a large hunk of metal stays in the air, especially with me on the port side, but it did, and after a mad dash through the Houston airport, something that you will come to find I am slightly proficient at, I landed in the state of my birth on a euphoria inducing summer evening.
My bestest compadre, the Atomic one, picked me up from the airport like Hoak driving Mrs. Daisy, except he didn't wear the hat and I had to carry my own luggage. Come to think of it, he isn't even black, he's not like Hoak at all. He's more like Han Solo. Yeah. So, me being Chewbacca like in size, I sidekicked it into the passengers seat and we made off to Pink's. For those of you not in the know. Pink's is to hot dogs what Heaven is to Christians. It's the ultimate destination. Mark Adams joined us to wait in line, yeah, you gotta wait in line for about an hour at Pink's, but it is so worth it. Whilst waiting, not to let time go by without results, we put in a call to Graham to inform him that the secret to Mark's "I Have a Secret" Party was that I was in attendance. He was less than thrilled, and I think a bit jealous that he wasn't there for the festivities. He was surely missed, but there will be other gatherings, one's in his honor, I'm sure. After waking Graham up, we got our chow. Double Pastrami Burrito Dog. That's 2 Hot Dogs, Pastrami, and chili all wrapped in a tortilla. FANTASTIC. Only three veins remain unclogged.
Thursday found me going to see my brother, driving around town, giving Colleen a photo tour of the Southland. She got pictures of my elementary school, high school, my first home, Hollywood Blvd, Sunset Blvd, Rodeo Drive, and general photos of traffic and what not. After that splendid day, Atomic Steve and I joined his parents at Lowry's for prime rib. I took on their largest cut, the Beef Bowl. 2 inches thick, wide as a plate. It was a friggin roast people. Two veins remain unclogged. We went back to Steve's and wagered on gymnastics, winning me a free lunch on Saturday, thank you Nastia, thank you.
Friday was partytime. I was secluded in Mark's room for the duration of a Fight Club viewing. First rule of Surprise Party's is you don't talk about... nevermind. Anyway, finally I made my entrance and the crowd was grateful that Mark wasn't coming out of the closet. Though Lindsey and Carissa were not in attendance, it was still an amazing party. I owe Mark a huge one for all the shit he took.
Saturday was chill. We went and peeped the Dark Knight on IMAX with Adam, Val and Amanda, after we stopped at the Hat for Pastrami and Chili and Wet Fries. Heart Attack Imminent. The movie rocked like a Scorpions concert in Berlin with Hasslehoff opening. After being blown away by Heath Ledger, still not believing it's the same dude from 10 Things I Hate About You, we ponied back to Atomic's for spa night. With a small crowd of friendlies we sat in the spa until our hands and feet resembled that of Jessica Tandy. I was surprised by a visit from Lindsey, yet another cherry on the sundae that was my weekend.
Sunday I my plane out of LAX was late. When I arrived in Houston I had 14 minutes to make my connection. It was mad. Regardless, I got home. Seeing my friends reminded me that I miss them, but it also made me realize that I am now a visitor in their world. I love them all, can't wait to see them again, but am glad that I am home. While there I came to grips with the Asylum, had a lot of my confidence restored, and found a smile that had been alluding me. Turns out I left it on Hollywood Blvd. Go figure.
Dixie Cup of Love: All the Cherries that made the weekend fabulous.
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Liberal Crybabyism
"Johnny's in the basement, Mixing up the medicine. I'm on the pavement thinking about the government. The man in the trench coat, badge out, laid off. Says he's got a bad cough. Wants to get it paid off" Bob Dylan from "Subterranean Homesick Blues"
The fever of the rings is upon the nurse as was apparent by her never ending viewing of the games from China. She is apologizing in advance as the next 16 days may feature more than a few blogs about the Olympic games. You know how crazy women are about their sports. But not all of these blogs will be directed at, but inspired by the festival. For instance, today's weirdo topic has nothing to with May and Treanor, Natalie Coughlin, or the Volleyball coach that had his father-in-law murdered. Though I must explain where the idea comes from and that does lead directly to Michael Phelps.
After the medal ceremony Phelps tossed his roses into the stands to a "fan" that threw him an article of clothing back. It did appear to have printing on it and I thought for a moment that he was about to don a protest tog. He didn't. But I started thinking about where I would choose to launch a protest for my most heartfelt belief, the freedom of speech.
So, for the fantasy propaganda moment I have to assume that I would be in any of the situations noted here, and presumably I won.
Fantasy #1: The Academy Awards. Upon winning the little bald bastard I saunter to the podium, stopping to shake hands with Jack Nicholson and getting a quick kiss on the cheek from Diablo Cody. This would seem like the perfect place to voice my concerns about what the Patriot Act means to my freedom of speech, but those type of shenanigans are for the likes of Susan Surandon and Tim Robbins. I'd save it for the press room and let the writers go wild. It could be legendary if done correctly. But I do have some sanctity for the Oscars so maybe this isn't my ideal place for civil disobedience.
Fantasy #2: Being the MVP of the Super Bowl is an awesome feeling, plus I get a really sweet ride. Perhaps now is the time to remove my pads to reveal a T-shirt reading "Get You Damned Microphone Out Of My Freedom Of Speech." The media would go ape-shit. You can almost hear Bill O'Reilly calling it liberal crybabyism. But would the majority of the knucklehead jocks watching understand or would they think it was a joke to the reporters? Not the place for political protest me thinks.
Fantasy #3: Medal platform, Gold Medal for Hot Dog Eating, of course the most watched event of the Olympiad, I stand stone faced staring at the flag and sing a new set of lyrics to the National Anthem. To make a statement about free speech while not making a sound would indeed speak pretty loudly. To make it more intriguing I would post the lyrics on a website, music by Francis Scott Key, lyrics by Eddie Vedder. A new song for a new revolution. I'm gonna go with this one, though I would do any or all of the three if it meant keeping my freedom of speech intact.
Where would you protest? What would your cause be? Who is your favorite Cosby? It's a joke, get it?
Dixie Cup of Love: Michael Phelps.
The fever of the rings is upon the nurse as was apparent by her never ending viewing of the games from China. She is apologizing in advance as the next 16 days may feature more than a few blogs about the Olympic games. You know how crazy women are about their sports. But not all of these blogs will be directed at, but inspired by the festival. For instance, today's weirdo topic has nothing to with May and Treanor, Natalie Coughlin, or the Volleyball coach that had his father-in-law murdered. Though I must explain where the idea comes from and that does lead directly to Michael Phelps.
After the medal ceremony Phelps tossed his roses into the stands to a "fan" that threw him an article of clothing back. It did appear to have printing on it and I thought for a moment that he was about to don a protest tog. He didn't. But I started thinking about where I would choose to launch a protest for my most heartfelt belief, the freedom of speech.
So, for the fantasy propaganda moment I have to assume that I would be in any of the situations noted here, and presumably I won.
Fantasy #1: The Academy Awards. Upon winning the little bald bastard I saunter to the podium, stopping to shake hands with Jack Nicholson and getting a quick kiss on the cheek from Diablo Cody. This would seem like the perfect place to voice my concerns about what the Patriot Act means to my freedom of speech, but those type of shenanigans are for the likes of Susan Surandon and Tim Robbins. I'd save it for the press room and let the writers go wild. It could be legendary if done correctly. But I do have some sanctity for the Oscars so maybe this isn't my ideal place for civil disobedience.
Fantasy #2: Being the MVP of the Super Bowl is an awesome feeling, plus I get a really sweet ride. Perhaps now is the time to remove my pads to reveal a T-shirt reading "Get You Damned Microphone Out Of My Freedom Of Speech." The media would go ape-shit. You can almost hear Bill O'Reilly calling it liberal crybabyism. But would the majority of the knucklehead jocks watching understand or would they think it was a joke to the reporters? Not the place for political protest me thinks.
Fantasy #3: Medal platform, Gold Medal for Hot Dog Eating, of course the most watched event of the Olympiad, I stand stone faced staring at the flag and sing a new set of lyrics to the National Anthem. To make a statement about free speech while not making a sound would indeed speak pretty loudly. To make it more intriguing I would post the lyrics on a website, music by Francis Scott Key, lyrics by Eddie Vedder. A new song for a new revolution. I'm gonna go with this one, though I would do any or all of the three if it meant keeping my freedom of speech intact.
Where would you protest? What would your cause be? Who is your favorite Cosby? It's a joke, get it?
Dixie Cup of Love: Michael Phelps.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Opening Night
"A plain with no herd. Not even a bird. When one side is hot, the other side of the moon is not. It's just like a ride, maybe some time they'll make it a ride..." The Pixies from "All Over the World"
The nurse and I hunkered down last night with a big bowl of popcorn, two Dixie Cups of color enhancers, and watched the opening ceremonies to the Olympics. We found the show, at least the first part, extraordinary. And it got us talking about some of the weirdness.
Saudia Arabias team is made up entirely of men, women are not allowed to drive and must obtain permission of a male guardian to work or travel. Meanwhile the United Arab Emirates had women on the team for the first time, though they were the daughters of the countries prime minister. What a world, huh?
The entire population of the country of Andorra would fit inside the beautiful stadium the ceremonies were held in, named the Birds Nest. With the entire Andorran population seated, there would still be 18,000 empty seats. Rhode Island would beat the crap out of them in Risk.
The team from Jordan had more women then men, 4-3. And the girls were really hot. I guess they are in the bikini competition, wait, what do you mean it's called Women's Beach Volleyball, I just want to watch them tan. Damn it. Stupid competition rules.
Guam had the largest competitor at 6'0", 399. One of the largest Olympians to compete ever, and the dude does Judo. I gotta see that.
If the teams from Oman and Aruba fought it would be a tag team event. 2 athletes each. Let's get that tag team match underway.
The Jamaican team should not be tested for weed as pot is not a performance enhancing drug, that is unless Hot Dog eating is now an Olympic event, in which case, I have been training for years, watch out London 2012.
The Latverians were not lead in by Dr. Doom as was expected, what, oh Latvia, never mind.
Great Britain brought a delegation of 324 athletes and not a straight tooth amongst the group.
How many Polish athletes does it take to carry a flag? You write the punchline.
The Puerto Ricans showed up in one car. It broke down twice.
The United States had more athletes competing than some island nations had citizens. If we could just export some of our less attractive athletes to those sunny climate zones, they would fair far better in the games, and we would be rid of the WNBA, but on second thought, no, let's just kick some ass.
Honduras has 7 and a half million people and has never won an Olympic medal. Don't they got one guy that can throw a discuss? Or a pole vaulter? If I was ruler of Honduras I would start a national Archery program until that 0 became a 1.
After the Americans entered W. looked like a bored kid wondering where the ice cream sandwich vendor was.
The Irish showed up drunk off their asses, go figure.
Swaziland is known as the Switzerland of Africa, who would have figured that out?
It was hard for the Mongolian team to get together since they are mostly a nomadic people, but damn is their barbecue tasty.
The Italians showed up, being that it is a large public event, any number of vendettas were taken care of back in the homeland during the parade. They too had some scorching hot women, go figure.
The Mexico delegation was 85 strong dispelling the myth that anyone that could run, jump, or swim was already in California.
Really, I'm almost done.
The Germans showed up. And have switched to an Eastern German approach too, ow, Jenny Finch is so hot, I'm sorry where was I, the Germans, yeah, the medal count has been slipping since the wall came down so it's back to the Gulag for the participants.
Speaking of hot women, hello Australia. Even Kevin Rudd, the PM of Australia couldn't help but get a boner.
The last team in, China. I know I have said it before, Asian girls are hot, we all know this, but seriously, how scary is it to watch Yao Ming carry the flag. The dude is a giant.
Anyway, 17 days of games and no Wheel of Fortune. I love the Olympics, it's weird for me. Anyway, thanks for letting me take you on this silly odyssey.
Dixie Cup of Love: The Participants.
The nurse and I hunkered down last night with a big bowl of popcorn, two Dixie Cups of color enhancers, and watched the opening ceremonies to the Olympics. We found the show, at least the first part, extraordinary. And it got us talking about some of the weirdness.
Saudia Arabias team is made up entirely of men, women are not allowed to drive and must obtain permission of a male guardian to work or travel. Meanwhile the United Arab Emirates had women on the team for the first time, though they were the daughters of the countries prime minister. What a world, huh?
The entire population of the country of Andorra would fit inside the beautiful stadium the ceremonies were held in, named the Birds Nest. With the entire Andorran population seated, there would still be 18,000 empty seats. Rhode Island would beat the crap out of them in Risk.
The team from Jordan had more women then men, 4-3. And the girls were really hot. I guess they are in the bikini competition, wait, what do you mean it's called Women's Beach Volleyball, I just want to watch them tan. Damn it. Stupid competition rules.
Guam had the largest competitor at 6'0", 399. One of the largest Olympians to compete ever, and the dude does Judo. I gotta see that.
If the teams from Oman and Aruba fought it would be a tag team event. 2 athletes each. Let's get that tag team match underway.
The Jamaican team should not be tested for weed as pot is not a performance enhancing drug, that is unless Hot Dog eating is now an Olympic event, in which case, I have been training for years, watch out London 2012.
The Latverians were not lead in by Dr. Doom as was expected, what, oh Latvia, never mind.
Great Britain brought a delegation of 324 athletes and not a straight tooth amongst the group.
How many Polish athletes does it take to carry a flag? You write the punchline.
The Puerto Ricans showed up in one car. It broke down twice.
The United States had more athletes competing than some island nations had citizens. If we could just export some of our less attractive athletes to those sunny climate zones, they would fair far better in the games, and we would be rid of the WNBA, but on second thought, no, let's just kick some ass.
Honduras has 7 and a half million people and has never won an Olympic medal. Don't they got one guy that can throw a discuss? Or a pole vaulter? If I was ruler of Honduras I would start a national Archery program until that 0 became a 1.
After the Americans entered W. looked like a bored kid wondering where the ice cream sandwich vendor was.
The Irish showed up drunk off their asses, go figure.
Swaziland is known as the Switzerland of Africa, who would have figured that out?
It was hard for the Mongolian team to get together since they are mostly a nomadic people, but damn is their barbecue tasty.
The Italians showed up, being that it is a large public event, any number of vendettas were taken care of back in the homeland during the parade. They too had some scorching hot women, go figure.
The Mexico delegation was 85 strong dispelling the myth that anyone that could run, jump, or swim was already in California.
Really, I'm almost done.
The Germans showed up. And have switched to an Eastern German approach too, ow, Jenny Finch is so hot, I'm sorry where was I, the Germans, yeah, the medal count has been slipping since the wall came down so it's back to the Gulag for the participants.
Speaking of hot women, hello Australia. Even Kevin Rudd, the PM of Australia couldn't help but get a boner.
The last team in, China. I know I have said it before, Asian girls are hot, we all know this, but seriously, how scary is it to watch Yao Ming carry the flag. The dude is a giant.
Anyway, 17 days of games and no Wheel of Fortune. I love the Olympics, it's weird for me. Anyway, thanks for letting me take you on this silly odyssey.
Dixie Cup of Love: The Participants.
Friday, August 8, 2008
How I Roll
"If you believe in me. like I believe in you. You wouldn't be tellin' me things that weren't exactly true. Now everythin' changes ain't nothin' the same, I'm gettin' the strangest feelin' baby I can't remember my name" Aerosmith from "Round and Round"
For a moment when the nurse brought me my dose of Quicker Picker Uppers I thought that I had stumbled into a P.T. Anderson movie. No she didn't drink my milkshake, for that I'd have shaken the Skittles out of her, as I don't hit women. No, frogs did not start falling from the sky, that, I was told, was just a hallucination. But she was on skates. Was my Rollergirl fantasy about to come true? Of course not, couldn't be that lucky, but her skates did get me thinking.
Back in the day, which according to Dane Cook was a Wednesday, back before there was Reagonomics, when there was a huge wall that divided Germany between east and west, back when people like John Denver and Dan Fogelberg could be rock stars I spend many a day just cruising around in an oval. No, I wasn't a NASCAR driver, though I'm sure to the observer it was just as exciting and mind numbing. Millions of people may watch the Daytona 500, but the fifty or so people that populated Skateland on any given day were far more judgemental. Their eyes always seemed to be following my graceful hulking mass, waiting for the right moment, when I would fall, and the pointing and laughter would begin. And of course, it would happen.
The thing about it was that the constant disco audio assault on my rock-n-roll lobes threw my balance off. It's true. When the music in your head is "The Ocean" by Led Zeppelin and the disc jockey is spinning "Disco Inferno" by the Tramps the war that will break out in ones head is enough to cause even the primo ballerina to suffer through a dizzy tizzy. So there I was, wobbly in the knees, pre-pubescent but certainly aware that those bumps under her, and by her I am speaking of the generic she, peasant blouse were something that I definitely wanted to get my hands on. Skating skills would have certainly helped, but alas I am left handed and therefore unable to skate backwards, or so I have been told. No skills, thus no girls would ask me to skate during "Ladies Choice". Those spats of rejection at Skateland haunted my self esteem for years to come.
Now, during "All Skate" or "Reverse" I was Jimmie Walker dyn-0-mite. As long as I was facing forward and tuning out the so called music, I was a gladiator on eight plastic wheels. Once I got my momentum going there was no stopping me, like the Juggernaut. I would, however, take the occasional break to fee the furnace at the snack bar. Two slices of pepperoni and a soda for one dollar twenty five cents. Those other three quarters were a pivotal part of any session at the rink, for the arcade was chock full of pinball machines, a lifelong vice.
I suppose the other thing I remember about skating round the hardwood would be the fashion show that was on display each and every day. At Skateland clothes made the man and the ladies dressed to impress. Countless hours must have been spent working that Farrah hair to look just right. The jeans were tight, the legs flared, the accessories of the sea shell variety, at least they were in California. For us boys it was Ocean Pacific or Lightning Bolt, no other brand would do. The colors were like a rainbow, the collars wide enough to land a small aircraft on, and our hair was just as Leif Garrett feathered as the girls. It was a great time to be a skater, even one that still, to this day, can't skate backwards.
Got skating stories? Where were you spending time in your youth?
Dixie Cup of Love: Sam Andeasdale, proprietor, Skateland, circa 1977.
For a moment when the nurse brought me my dose of Quicker Picker Uppers I thought that I had stumbled into a P.T. Anderson movie. No she didn't drink my milkshake, for that I'd have shaken the Skittles out of her, as I don't hit women. No, frogs did not start falling from the sky, that, I was told, was just a hallucination. But she was on skates. Was my Rollergirl fantasy about to come true? Of course not, couldn't be that lucky, but her skates did get me thinking.
Back in the day, which according to Dane Cook was a Wednesday, back before there was Reagonomics, when there was a huge wall that divided Germany between east and west, back when people like John Denver and Dan Fogelberg could be rock stars I spend many a day just cruising around in an oval. No, I wasn't a NASCAR driver, though I'm sure to the observer it was just as exciting and mind numbing. Millions of people may watch the Daytona 500, but the fifty or so people that populated Skateland on any given day were far more judgemental. Their eyes always seemed to be following my graceful hulking mass, waiting for the right moment, when I would fall, and the pointing and laughter would begin. And of course, it would happen.
The thing about it was that the constant disco audio assault on my rock-n-roll lobes threw my balance off. It's true. When the music in your head is "The Ocean" by Led Zeppelin and the disc jockey is spinning "Disco Inferno" by the Tramps the war that will break out in ones head is enough to cause even the primo ballerina to suffer through a dizzy tizzy. So there I was, wobbly in the knees, pre-pubescent but certainly aware that those bumps under her, and by her I am speaking of the generic she, peasant blouse were something that I definitely wanted to get my hands on. Skating skills would have certainly helped, but alas I am left handed and therefore unable to skate backwards, or so I have been told. No skills, thus no girls would ask me to skate during "Ladies Choice". Those spats of rejection at Skateland haunted my self esteem for years to come.
Now, during "All Skate" or "Reverse" I was Jimmie Walker dyn-0-mite. As long as I was facing forward and tuning out the so called music, I was a gladiator on eight plastic wheels. Once I got my momentum going there was no stopping me, like the Juggernaut. I would, however, take the occasional break to fee the furnace at the snack bar. Two slices of pepperoni and a soda for one dollar twenty five cents. Those other three quarters were a pivotal part of any session at the rink, for the arcade was chock full of pinball machines, a lifelong vice.
I suppose the other thing I remember about skating round the hardwood would be the fashion show that was on display each and every day. At Skateland clothes made the man and the ladies dressed to impress. Countless hours must have been spent working that Farrah hair to look just right. The jeans were tight, the legs flared, the accessories of the sea shell variety, at least they were in California. For us boys it was Ocean Pacific or Lightning Bolt, no other brand would do. The colors were like a rainbow, the collars wide enough to land a small aircraft on, and our hair was just as Leif Garrett feathered as the girls. It was a great time to be a skater, even one that still, to this day, can't skate backwards.
Got skating stories? Where were you spending time in your youth?
Dixie Cup of Love: Sam Andeasdale, proprietor, Skateland, circa 1977.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Paying For Pixels
"I can't distil you from my blood, you're a hungry germ inside of me, you're my lover, you're my heroine, my conscience and my voice, and I know that I have learned to let you in I will lever have to be alone" Bad Religion from "Television"
The nurse and I were having a discussion about our favorite television programs, and the rise and fall of networks over time, it seemed like a topic more suited for my Geek Squad friends than the nurse, but I humored her as she brought up lame show after horrible show. She has taste, it's just all in her mouth. But the thing is the nurse just isn't a thinker when it come to the boob tube, she wants escape, not a cranial workout. That's where we differ, well, there and the fact that I don't have huge sacks of silicone stuffed in my tits. But the conversation got me thinking.
Remember when HBO original programming was a powerhouse and Showtime was like it's retarded cousin? It wasn't that long ago, certainly no more than 10 years, but a lot has changed in a decade. Showtime has stepped it up with a few of the bravest shows on television, while HBO is on the brink of losing all it's respectability. From once a juggernaut of a channel that one must have, to an "I only keep it for the boxing" stance that I have now. Can HBO rebound? Let's look at the past, and the present.
For it's part, HBO brought us a few amazing shows. The Sopranos, Rome, Deadwood, Carnivale, Six Feet Under, Oz, The Wire, Mr. Show with Bob and David, and a few more. My favorite being the Sopranos, even though the ending of the series has left a permanent black spot on my heart, I still love the show, miss the characters coming into my living room each Sunday, and I still want to hang at the Bada Bing. Deadwood was an achievement that I thought saw it's end far too soon. Amazing characters set in a muddy, broken down camp of a town. There was nothing in the world better than a Sopranos-Deadwood double bill.
Now, Showtime, well, the shows are now starting to garner my interest. Weeds is simply the greatest half hour of the week for me. I love me my Nancy Botwin. If you haven't peeked at this show about a single mom trying desperately to support her family you really should. Then there is Dexter. What a brilliant idea for a serial killer. I'm just now getting into it and it's fantastic.
Coming soon are two premieres, one on each channel that I am looking forward to. First, Entourage will be returning to HBO and that's a very good thing as I have enjoyed that show from the very beginning. And Showtime is gonna pony up Californication season 2, which, if you haven't seen season 1, is one of the most well written shows on the tube.
So, I ask you, has HBO lost it's hold on pay-per-view TV? What shows, network or otherwise, would you actually pay to see week in and week out?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hank Moody.
The nurse and I were having a discussion about our favorite television programs, and the rise and fall of networks over time, it seemed like a topic more suited for my Geek Squad friends than the nurse, but I humored her as she brought up lame show after horrible show. She has taste, it's just all in her mouth. But the thing is the nurse just isn't a thinker when it come to the boob tube, she wants escape, not a cranial workout. That's where we differ, well, there and the fact that I don't have huge sacks of silicone stuffed in my tits. But the conversation got me thinking.
Remember when HBO original programming was a powerhouse and Showtime was like it's retarded cousin? It wasn't that long ago, certainly no more than 10 years, but a lot has changed in a decade. Showtime has stepped it up with a few of the bravest shows on television, while HBO is on the brink of losing all it's respectability. From once a juggernaut of a channel that one must have, to an "I only keep it for the boxing" stance that I have now. Can HBO rebound? Let's look at the past, and the present.
For it's part, HBO brought us a few amazing shows. The Sopranos, Rome, Deadwood, Carnivale, Six Feet Under, Oz, The Wire, Mr. Show with Bob and David, and a few more. My favorite being the Sopranos, even though the ending of the series has left a permanent black spot on my heart, I still love the show, miss the characters coming into my living room each Sunday, and I still want to hang at the Bada Bing. Deadwood was an achievement that I thought saw it's end far too soon. Amazing characters set in a muddy, broken down camp of a town. There was nothing in the world better than a Sopranos-Deadwood double bill.
Now, Showtime, well, the shows are now starting to garner my interest. Weeds is simply the greatest half hour of the week for me. I love me my Nancy Botwin. If you haven't peeked at this show about a single mom trying desperately to support her family you really should. Then there is Dexter. What a brilliant idea for a serial killer. I'm just now getting into it and it's fantastic.
Coming soon are two premieres, one on each channel that I am looking forward to. First, Entourage will be returning to HBO and that's a very good thing as I have enjoyed that show from the very beginning. And Showtime is gonna pony up Californication season 2, which, if you haven't seen season 1, is one of the most well written shows on the tube.
So, I ask you, has HBO lost it's hold on pay-per-view TV? What shows, network or otherwise, would you actually pay to see week in and week out?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hank Moody.
Tuesday, August 5, 2008
CSI: Rock Hill
"You tried to tell me it’s his fault because he’s down, And letting loose this Homicide all over the town. I’ll take your number I’ll write it down. What’s your address I’ll write it down. I’ll be in touch so don’t leave town in a big black car" 999 from "Homicide"
Do to the true nature of the this tale the nurse will be back tomorrow.
Yet another day at HellJob yesterday that had me face to face with the grim reality that the world we live in is full of low life scum. As the day started out my partner in crime and I headed out to deliver a TV, then repossess a couch, never a fun thing to do, but if people would pay their bills we wouldn't have to do it. Anyway, the TV delivery goes off without a hitch, day starting out smooth. When we arrive at the couch, the customer who we will call "Penny Lane" wasn't home. However there was a car with the radio still playing parked in her driveway. Odd, but who are we to investigate? We went back to the truck and called her. She said she would be there in a few minutes.
When Penny arrived, she a rotund white woman, had a black fellow we will call "JoJo" in the car with her. As she got out she started talking about how her house had been broken into the night before, and that neighbor is saying that some guy just walked away from their trailer looking suspicious. We didn't care. We just wanted to get the couch so that we could get on with our day. JoJo opened the door and we retrieved our parcel and left. Simple.
About two hours later our boss calls and tells us that the Sheriff's department called and wants to talk to us. Apparently, shortly, and we mean very shortly, after we left Penny Lane's someone got shot. Holy Conspiracy Theory, Batman. As we waited to hear from the cops our minds raced with what might have gone down. If the gunman was in a closet he could have burst out and clipped Kyle and I. And I'm not prepared to get shot over a couch.
So, around 4pm a detective calls and asks us to come back to the scene of the crime. We head over there directly to find the whole place taped off with yellow crime scene tape. The detective walks us over to a shady spot, one where we could get a glimpse of the corpse sitting on the back patio, and we told him exactly what happened. He took the information down and thanked us. As we headed back to the truck Penny Lane comes over and asks what we told the cop. Not that it was any of her business, but the truth as we saw it. Then she asked if we mentioned that JoJo was in the car with her when they arrived. We nodded and she said good. Weird, right?
On the way back to the store Kyle and I got more concerned that we might have left out a key bit of information. Earlier that morning Penny Lane called the store asking when we where going to get to her house. When given a three hour window, and asked if she was going to be home, she stammered and said, she guessed she would. But she wasn't. And why the question about JoJo. Then it dawned on us that the detective said that the guy was probably dead when we got there, which led us to believe she was trying to use us as her alibi.
My neighbor across the street is a sheriff so when I got home I went and talked to him. Within minutes I was on the line with the detective and he agreed that it was kind of fishy.
Don't know what's gonna happen from here, but I'm sure of one thing. I need a new job.
Dixie Cup of Love: My neighbor.
Do to the true nature of the this tale the nurse will be back tomorrow.
Yet another day at HellJob yesterday that had me face to face with the grim reality that the world we live in is full of low life scum. As the day started out my partner in crime and I headed out to deliver a TV, then repossess a couch, never a fun thing to do, but if people would pay their bills we wouldn't have to do it. Anyway, the TV delivery goes off without a hitch, day starting out smooth. When we arrive at the couch, the customer who we will call "Penny Lane" wasn't home. However there was a car with the radio still playing parked in her driveway. Odd, but who are we to investigate? We went back to the truck and called her. She said she would be there in a few minutes.
When Penny arrived, she a rotund white woman, had a black fellow we will call "JoJo" in the car with her. As she got out she started talking about how her house had been broken into the night before, and that neighbor is saying that some guy just walked away from their trailer looking suspicious. We didn't care. We just wanted to get the couch so that we could get on with our day. JoJo opened the door and we retrieved our parcel and left. Simple.
About two hours later our boss calls and tells us that the Sheriff's department called and wants to talk to us. Apparently, shortly, and we mean very shortly, after we left Penny Lane's someone got shot. Holy Conspiracy Theory, Batman. As we waited to hear from the cops our minds raced with what might have gone down. If the gunman was in a closet he could have burst out and clipped Kyle and I. And I'm not prepared to get shot over a couch.
So, around 4pm a detective calls and asks us to come back to the scene of the crime. We head over there directly to find the whole place taped off with yellow crime scene tape. The detective walks us over to a shady spot, one where we could get a glimpse of the corpse sitting on the back patio, and we told him exactly what happened. He took the information down and thanked us. As we headed back to the truck Penny Lane comes over and asks what we told the cop. Not that it was any of her business, but the truth as we saw it. Then she asked if we mentioned that JoJo was in the car with her when they arrived. We nodded and she said good. Weird, right?
On the way back to the store Kyle and I got more concerned that we might have left out a key bit of information. Earlier that morning Penny Lane called the store asking when we where going to get to her house. When given a three hour window, and asked if she was going to be home, she stammered and said, she guessed she would. But she wasn't. And why the question about JoJo. Then it dawned on us that the detective said that the guy was probably dead when we got there, which led us to believe she was trying to use us as her alibi.
My neighbor across the street is a sheriff so when I got home I went and talked to him. Within minutes I was on the line with the detective and he agreed that it was kind of fishy.
Don't know what's gonna happen from here, but I'm sure of one thing. I need a new job.
Dixie Cup of Love: My neighbor.
Monday, August 4, 2008
Mecca of Mega
"Hey don't you wanna run and call her name. If I buy her candy, will she know who I am? She's famous. She's the best. cannot lay my heart to rest." Sleater-Kinney from "Buy Her Candy"
As the nurse came in with today's Dixie Cup of utter happiness I caught a whiff of something foreign under her normal blanket of Channel No. 5, which happens to be my favorite scent. What my nostrils detected was a fragrance that tickled my palette. It had high notes of worldly spice, perhaps jalapeno. Yes, I was sure upon further sniffing that what she smelled of was indeed microwave burrito, bulk microwave burrito to be precise. And that got me thinking.
Yesterday SuperMom, my sister, and I made one of the great consumer pilgrimages of our time. We took two chairs out of the back of the Tahoe and headed up highway 77 towards Pineville, North Carolina, home of the nearest Sam's Club. A fine place to shop if one has self control and a plan. Otherwise, it's mayhem.
There is something about a huge warehouse filled with row and row of overly processed foods that will do nothing but increase ones risk of heart disease and poverty, that makes my heart go pitter patter. It may be the cholesterol choking my arteries to the size of Nicole Richie's waist, but I prefer to think it's the adventure causing my cardiac arrest. What strange food like product will I spy in a vat large enough for one of those two headed embryos that adorn the walls of Science classrooms nationwide? What will it be? Onions in sauce? No clue as to what that sauce might actually be. Vienna sausage by the pallet? Who needs that many pickled sausages? The imagination boggles at the mere thought of what is waiting down each aisle.
If the wonder of discovery doesn't do it for you then I know you're there for the free samples. Each weekend an army of hair net clad geriatrics are posted like cholesterol causing Sentries, lobbing deep fried pizza roll bombs at you as if it were the Tet offensive. One will be doling out the appetizers, another a freezer burned fruit substance, one aisle over you can feast on the remains of a convenience dinner, and then you wrap it all off in the bakery section for cookies or cake. It's a four course meal. Go hungry, leave happy. And perhaps you have never tasted an Aussie Pie in your life, after being assaulted by the sample gals sales pitch you are now the proud owner of two boxes of freezer stuffing goodness.
Shelf after shelf of canned this and bottled that, surrounding what can only be described as a fashion center worthy of yard sale greatness. These togs shouldn't be worn by anyone, not the humblest fruit picker. There is far better clothing available at the nearest thrift store. With this fashion disaster is a promenade of "How To" books with enough titles to fill, well, a warehouse. You can learn everything from Butchery to Douchebaggery from these tombs, all for 45% off retail pricing. And isn't knowledge power. The best book I saw there was one on the mortal sins, and that made me laugh. Here is a store that prey's on our gluttony, feeds into our lust, and shatters a few of those coveting sins as well, and they sell a book that tells you how bad you are for making that place your temple. Because it is a religion all to itself, with exclusive members only access. It must be a religion, how else do you explain the never ending lines at the check out counter every Sunday?
For my part, I stuck to my plan of stocking the freezer with steroid and hormone injected meats and poultry. My only splurge item, a huge can of chili to help feed my Jones for chili fries. Hey, you gotta sin a little.
Do you do the warehouse experience? What's the strangest item you've ever bought? Or the greatest splurge purchase?
Dixie Cup of Love: Sam.
As the nurse came in with today's Dixie Cup of utter happiness I caught a whiff of something foreign under her normal blanket of Channel No. 5, which happens to be my favorite scent. What my nostrils detected was a fragrance that tickled my palette. It had high notes of worldly spice, perhaps jalapeno. Yes, I was sure upon further sniffing that what she smelled of was indeed microwave burrito, bulk microwave burrito to be precise. And that got me thinking.
Yesterday SuperMom, my sister, and I made one of the great consumer pilgrimages of our time. We took two chairs out of the back of the Tahoe and headed up highway 77 towards Pineville, North Carolina, home of the nearest Sam's Club. A fine place to shop if one has self control and a plan. Otherwise, it's mayhem.
There is something about a huge warehouse filled with row and row of overly processed foods that will do nothing but increase ones risk of heart disease and poverty, that makes my heart go pitter patter. It may be the cholesterol choking my arteries to the size of Nicole Richie's waist, but I prefer to think it's the adventure causing my cardiac arrest. What strange food like product will I spy in a vat large enough for one of those two headed embryos that adorn the walls of Science classrooms nationwide? What will it be? Onions in sauce? No clue as to what that sauce might actually be. Vienna sausage by the pallet? Who needs that many pickled sausages? The imagination boggles at the mere thought of what is waiting down each aisle.
If the wonder of discovery doesn't do it for you then I know you're there for the free samples. Each weekend an army of hair net clad geriatrics are posted like cholesterol causing Sentries, lobbing deep fried pizza roll bombs at you as if it were the Tet offensive. One will be doling out the appetizers, another a freezer burned fruit substance, one aisle over you can feast on the remains of a convenience dinner, and then you wrap it all off in the bakery section for cookies or cake. It's a four course meal. Go hungry, leave happy. And perhaps you have never tasted an Aussie Pie in your life, after being assaulted by the sample gals sales pitch you are now the proud owner of two boxes of freezer stuffing goodness.
Shelf after shelf of canned this and bottled that, surrounding what can only be described as a fashion center worthy of yard sale greatness. These togs shouldn't be worn by anyone, not the humblest fruit picker. There is far better clothing available at the nearest thrift store. With this fashion disaster is a promenade of "How To" books with enough titles to fill, well, a warehouse. You can learn everything from Butchery to Douchebaggery from these tombs, all for 45% off retail pricing. And isn't knowledge power. The best book I saw there was one on the mortal sins, and that made me laugh. Here is a store that prey's on our gluttony, feeds into our lust, and shatters a few of those coveting sins as well, and they sell a book that tells you how bad you are for making that place your temple. Because it is a religion all to itself, with exclusive members only access. It must be a religion, how else do you explain the never ending lines at the check out counter every Sunday?
For my part, I stuck to my plan of stocking the freezer with steroid and hormone injected meats and poultry. My only splurge item, a huge can of chili to help feed my Jones for chili fries. Hey, you gotta sin a little.
Do you do the warehouse experience? What's the strangest item you've ever bought? Or the greatest splurge purchase?
Dixie Cup of Love: Sam.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
"My hair is a fright. I'm hairy high and low. Don't ask me why coz he don't know. It's not for lack of bread like the Grateful Dead darling" The Dickies from "Hair"
Now, I would be remiss if I didn't notice that when the nurse came in to give me my morning meds her hair was drastically different than it was yesterday. Her standard mop of dirty blond bed head was restyled in a Betty Page bob, with streaks of shocking pink. A gargantuan change to say the least. As a rule, since I do tend to notice the drastic, I would compliment her on the switch, but being that it is the nurse, I thought it best to hold my tongue. Not that I didn't think she deserved a compliment, she looked like a pin-up girl, devastatingly sexy, but I didn't think I should be the one to tell her so. I'll leave that to her victim.
People tend to think that because I have Marilyn Monroe tattooed on my arm that I am a gentlemen that prefers blonds. First of all, gentleman? Sometimes, but other times, if properly motivated I can be down right porcine. As for the blond, look, I'll admit that when it comes to fantasy girls like Pam Anderson, Jenny McCarthy, The Girls Next Door, or Scarlett Johannson blond rocks. But when I think of settling down I think of dark, long hair. It's this continuous mind tug of war between whorish fantasy and matronly conservation that has always pushed and pulled me between sanity and unbalance.
Red head. Guy, I know that we are generally the silent minority here in the Asylum, but can I get a big "Hell Yeah" for the fire maned? If there is one weakness that we men all share, aside from a kick to the canoles, it's redheads. Don't think that I'm talking about freckle faced, pig tailed, Pippy Longstockings here, no I mean voluptuous, shimmering, Laura Prepon, Donna from "That 70's Show" hotness. We all secretly and not so secretly wish that she was the girl next door that wanted nothing more than to play spin the bottle with us in our basements. It's a rarity thing. Hot blonds are about as rare as Chinese people, smoldering brunettes are as common as unfriendly Wal-Mart employees, but the crimson hottie is as elusive as the sexually active Trekkie.
Then there are the Ravens. Mostly these are exotic beauties that have straight hair framing their unfamiliar features. They intrigue the mind and ignite the loins. No, not Lions, setting them on fire is probably illegal, well if it isn't it should be, I mean, seriously, lighting the King of the Jungle aflame, bad idea. Sorry, lost my mind there for a second, where was I, oh yeah, raven. The black haired beauty is the most prolific in the world. Asians, African Americans, Hispanics, most are known for their dark locks and I can't help but love them all.
Lastly I want to spend some time today talking about the alternative. Some gals out there have taken it to task to test the boundaries of what society deems normal. They go for blue, green, purple, pink, fire engine red, and any other color in the Crayola box. Burnt Sienna aside, most of these colors are worn to shock or display ones sense of individuality. I'm not a prude, I say go for it. Go polka dot if you feel the need, doesn't matter to me. It's all good. Just don't tease it up too high and we'll be fine.
Men, it's hair, chances are you're gonna lose it anyway.
What's your feeling about facial hair? Gray, distinguished or should I "Just for Men"? What about you? How many colors have you tried? Any styles you regret?
Dixie Cup of Love: The cutter who thought I would rock with a mullet.
Now, I would be remiss if I didn't notice that when the nurse came in to give me my morning meds her hair was drastically different than it was yesterday. Her standard mop of dirty blond bed head was restyled in a Betty Page bob, with streaks of shocking pink. A gargantuan change to say the least. As a rule, since I do tend to notice the drastic, I would compliment her on the switch, but being that it is the nurse, I thought it best to hold my tongue. Not that I didn't think she deserved a compliment, she looked like a pin-up girl, devastatingly sexy, but I didn't think I should be the one to tell her so. I'll leave that to her victim.
People tend to think that because I have Marilyn Monroe tattooed on my arm that I am a gentlemen that prefers blonds. First of all, gentleman? Sometimes, but other times, if properly motivated I can be down right porcine. As for the blond, look, I'll admit that when it comes to fantasy girls like Pam Anderson, Jenny McCarthy, The Girls Next Door, or Scarlett Johannson blond rocks. But when I think of settling down I think of dark, long hair. It's this continuous mind tug of war between whorish fantasy and matronly conservation that has always pushed and pulled me between sanity and unbalance.
Red head. Guy, I know that we are generally the silent minority here in the Asylum, but can I get a big "Hell Yeah" for the fire maned? If there is one weakness that we men all share, aside from a kick to the canoles, it's redheads. Don't think that I'm talking about freckle faced, pig tailed, Pippy Longstockings here, no I mean voluptuous, shimmering, Laura Prepon, Donna from "That 70's Show" hotness. We all secretly and not so secretly wish that she was the girl next door that wanted nothing more than to play spin the bottle with us in our basements. It's a rarity thing. Hot blonds are about as rare as Chinese people, smoldering brunettes are as common as unfriendly Wal-Mart employees, but the crimson hottie is as elusive as the sexually active Trekkie.
Then there are the Ravens. Mostly these are exotic beauties that have straight hair framing their unfamiliar features. They intrigue the mind and ignite the loins. No, not Lions, setting them on fire is probably illegal, well if it isn't it should be, I mean, seriously, lighting the King of the Jungle aflame, bad idea. Sorry, lost my mind there for a second, where was I, oh yeah, raven. The black haired beauty is the most prolific in the world. Asians, African Americans, Hispanics, most are known for their dark locks and I can't help but love them all.
Lastly I want to spend some time today talking about the alternative. Some gals out there have taken it to task to test the boundaries of what society deems normal. They go for blue, green, purple, pink, fire engine red, and any other color in the Crayola box. Burnt Sienna aside, most of these colors are worn to shock or display ones sense of individuality. I'm not a prude, I say go for it. Go polka dot if you feel the need, doesn't matter to me. It's all good. Just don't tease it up too high and we'll be fine.
Men, it's hair, chances are you're gonna lose it anyway.
What's your feeling about facial hair? Gray, distinguished or should I "Just for Men"? What about you? How many colors have you tried? Any styles you regret?
Dixie Cup of Love: The cutter who thought I would rock with a mullet.
Friday, August 1, 2008
The Next Banned Substance
"I'm sure you'll understand my point of view. We know each other mentally. You gotta know that you're bringin' out the animal in me. Let's get physical, physical. I wanna get physical" Olivia Newton-John from "Physical"
The nurse is as California as a girl can get without being a Mexican. She's tanned by fake sunlight in a state that has a know propensity for naturally sunny days. Her breasts have been enhanced to mimic the size of perfectly ripe cantaloupes with the exact same hardness upon feeling them. The blonde in her hair is as real as, well, her boobs. Without her Californication, a fantastic program that has it's second season debut of Showtime September 7th, the nurse would be just another flat chested brunette in Iowa. But now she's so California that she uses pills to exercise. What's next?
Ronald Evans and his colleagues at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies, SIBS for short, have developed a pill that mimics the effect of exercise. Glory hallelujah, thank Jeebus, my prayers have been answered. This is the greatest news since Bill Clinton was reelected. And it's about it. For years those of us who are motivationally challenged, lazy is such an ugly word, have longed for a way to maintain health while essentially doing nothing. All you suckers that have been living, day and night, at the gym are soon going to learn what we couch champions have figured out years ago. Effort means nothing. Soon I'm going to be able to sidle up to the pharmacy and get me a bottle of Pilate's. Ronald Evans birthday will one day be a holiday for this.
Now there may be some side effect to these pills, think that's gonna scare me? Not one bit. If I have to endure impotence and male pattern baldness to get a six pack of David Beckham abs while watching LOST, bring on the Viagra and Rogaine. If the label on the bottle said that one possible side effect was monkeys flying out of my ass, I'd stock up on monkey chow and Wet Wipes.
This is one of those things, like TMZ celebrities and drive through wedding chapels, that make America great. Evans and his team spent years in college, more doing research, all in an effort to make fat people healthier. And don't think I'm being completely tongue in cheek about this. We need to be a healthier nation. It would help cut health care costs, it would stimulate the economy because those of us who find our reflections to be the greatest form of birth control might actually start leaving the house.
This pill has thus far only been tested on mice, but it showed amazing results. Mice that took the master regulator of a gene called PPAR-delta, whatever the hell that means, ran twice as far as mice that didn't take it, without any training. Outstanding news. My life would be so much easier if I didn't have to spend all that time thinking about going to the gum. II would use that time to work on my plan for global domination, wait, did I say global domination, I meant peace, world peace.
How lazy, oops, motivationally challenged have be become? Is this more awesome than Hasslehoff?
Dixie Cup of Love: Ronal Evans.
The nurse is as California as a girl can get without being a Mexican. She's tanned by fake sunlight in a state that has a know propensity for naturally sunny days. Her breasts have been enhanced to mimic the size of perfectly ripe cantaloupes with the exact same hardness upon feeling them. The blonde in her hair is as real as, well, her boobs. Without her Californication, a fantastic program that has it's second season debut of Showtime September 7th, the nurse would be just another flat chested brunette in Iowa. But now she's so California that she uses pills to exercise. What's next?
Ronald Evans and his colleagues at the Salk Institute for Biological Studies, SIBS for short, have developed a pill that mimics the effect of exercise. Glory hallelujah, thank Jeebus, my prayers have been answered. This is the greatest news since Bill Clinton was reelected. And it's about it. For years those of us who are motivationally challenged, lazy is such an ugly word, have longed for a way to maintain health while essentially doing nothing. All you suckers that have been living, day and night, at the gym are soon going to learn what we couch champions have figured out years ago. Effort means nothing. Soon I'm going to be able to sidle up to the pharmacy and get me a bottle of Pilate's. Ronald Evans birthday will one day be a holiday for this.
Now there may be some side effect to these pills, think that's gonna scare me? Not one bit. If I have to endure impotence and male pattern baldness to get a six pack of David Beckham abs while watching LOST, bring on the Viagra and Rogaine. If the label on the bottle said that one possible side effect was monkeys flying out of my ass, I'd stock up on monkey chow and Wet Wipes.
This is one of those things, like TMZ celebrities and drive through wedding chapels, that make America great. Evans and his team spent years in college, more doing research, all in an effort to make fat people healthier. And don't think I'm being completely tongue in cheek about this. We need to be a healthier nation. It would help cut health care costs, it would stimulate the economy because those of us who find our reflections to be the greatest form of birth control might actually start leaving the house.
This pill has thus far only been tested on mice, but it showed amazing results. Mice that took the master regulator of a gene called PPAR-delta, whatever the hell that means, ran twice as far as mice that didn't take it, without any training. Outstanding news. My life would be so much easier if I didn't have to spend all that time thinking about going to the gum. II would use that time to work on my plan for global domination, wait, did I say global domination, I meant peace, world peace.
How lazy, oops, motivationally challenged have be become? Is this more awesome than Hasslehoff?
Dixie Cup of Love: Ronal Evans.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Speaking To Silent Bob
"Fame, makes a man take things over. Fame, lets him loose, hard to swallow. Fame, puts you there where things are hollow. Fame" David Bowie from "Fame"
The nurse was late getting me that dose which I loves the most. I hollered for her to stop whatever she was doing and get my Dixie cup to me, but all my screaming fell of the deaf ears of the steroid bloated orderlies and the empty walls of the Asylum. The nurse wasn't in the building. This fueled my anger as I don't think it's too much to ask that ones imaginary nurse stay within the confines of ones imagination. Why should I ever have to look for her? She should always be at my beck and call. Then, just as I was about to blow one of my Spacely Sprockets she was standing in the doorway with a Dixie Cup so full, she had to place a saucer under it to catch spillage. I asked, nay, demanded to know where she had been. As she strolled over to me, a smile came to her face. She had been standing in line to meet David Hasselhoff. Well, that was just, really, David Hasselhoff? I loved Knight Rider. My anger quelled, I mean, how often to you get to meet a celebrity hero? Hasselhoff or whomever it is.
I never really thought of myself as the star struck type. Working at the National I met so many sports stars that I think I got over it, if it ever existed. Sure there were a few that tripped my tongue. The time I met Kirby Puckett, or the first time I met Rod Carew. Those guys were heroes of mine, and legendary players for the Minnesota Twins, how could I not show them the proper respect. They were the only two sports stars that I ever met that I called "Mister". Not Gretzky, not Bonds, not Griffey Jr., not even Deacon Jones. But this isn't a sports blog, ladies, don't freak out, I know how much most of you detest those. I mention the ball players so that you can gauge that I really don't have too many star crushes.
As you all know by now, if I was to ever meet Leonardo DiCaprio, well, I'd stalk. That's all I'm saying. I don't want to be threatening, but Leo, yeah, I would probably stalk him a little bit. So what. The only other "star" that got me speechless, I stood in line to meet. And that's where this tale is headed. To the line.
For a celebrity signing of any kind, there is a line protocol. First of all, those in the front of the line are obviously the biggest fans of whoever it is that they have come to see, and therefore, from their position in the front of the line, can make fun of the rest of the line dwellers for being less fanatical. It's strange, but true. If you are in one of these lines the only subject of discussion must be the person you are there to see, their movies, their music, whatever it is they do, and why they are so much better than anyone else doing it. You are not there to show up in a costume from the film, but an interesting reference isn't a bad thing. To this particular line which I speak my two roommates and I all wore hockey jerseys. So, who was it, not to that part of the story yet.
We arrived to find the line about two hundred people deep and growing, but out status of fandom was not to be determined by our line position, because we bought a tasty bribe to get us to closer to the front of the line, Krispy Kreme Donuts. We actually had some friends that had been there a while, but the donuts seemed to soothe the anger of those around them as more of us piled in. And there we stood on Ventura Blvd with a throng of others eager with anticipation for the arrival of Kevin Smith. It was the morning that Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back was released on DVD and Kevin was signing at Dave's Video. And we were about 10th in line. Geek level - 9.5
So as the moment of my idols arrival neared, I will admit that I started getting giddy. This is the guy that I model my writing style after, so of course, I was all a twitter. We all were. The windows of the shop were being watched by all of those near the front of the line, vultures circling in the sky waiting for the last breath of life to escape our prey. Then the moment arrived. As I waited with the patience of a five year old in line to get into Disneyland, I thought about what I would say to him. Before I knew it, there I was, standing two feet from the man who penned Chasing Amy, Dogma, and of course, Mallrats. With my DVD in hand I walked as calmly as I could muster to the long table at which he was seated. I handed him my grip of items I wanted signed, my DVD of Jay and Bob which on it he wrote "Mike, you were the bomb in Phantoms", my copy of Daredevil number 1 on which he wrote "I posed for this" and a Jay and Bob poster that my roommates and I would frame and hang, which he inscribed "To the boys, from the Woman, Kevin Smith." So, here was my chance to say something to him. And what came out of my mouth, seemed to stagger him. I said "I've got about a million things that I would like to say to you, but at the moment all I can think of is thank you." He was taken aback by the comment in a good way, then looked up and said, "No, thank you." Then we posed for a picture and I walked to the back of the store for a cigarette.
It was done. I had met my idol. I had shaken his hand. Taken a photo. And I knew that memory would be with me for the rest of my life. And it will have to do until I get a chance to talk to him as a fellow film writer.
Which idol of yours would you like to meet and what would you say?
Dixie Cup of Love: Lisa, Punk Ass, Captain Jen and all the people we met in the Dave's Video line.
The nurse was late getting me that dose which I loves the most. I hollered for her to stop whatever she was doing and get my Dixie cup to me, but all my screaming fell of the deaf ears of the steroid bloated orderlies and the empty walls of the Asylum. The nurse wasn't in the building. This fueled my anger as I don't think it's too much to ask that ones imaginary nurse stay within the confines of ones imagination. Why should I ever have to look for her? She should always be at my beck and call. Then, just as I was about to blow one of my Spacely Sprockets she was standing in the doorway with a Dixie Cup so full, she had to place a saucer under it to catch spillage. I asked, nay, demanded to know where she had been. As she strolled over to me, a smile came to her face. She had been standing in line to meet David Hasselhoff. Well, that was just, really, David Hasselhoff? I loved Knight Rider. My anger quelled, I mean, how often to you get to meet a celebrity hero? Hasselhoff or whomever it is.
I never really thought of myself as the star struck type. Working at the National I met so many sports stars that I think I got over it, if it ever existed. Sure there were a few that tripped my tongue. The time I met Kirby Puckett, or the first time I met Rod Carew. Those guys were heroes of mine, and legendary players for the Minnesota Twins, how could I not show them the proper respect. They were the only two sports stars that I ever met that I called "Mister". Not Gretzky, not Bonds, not Griffey Jr., not even Deacon Jones. But this isn't a sports blog, ladies, don't freak out, I know how much most of you detest those. I mention the ball players so that you can gauge that I really don't have too many star crushes.
As you all know by now, if I was to ever meet Leonardo DiCaprio, well, I'd stalk. That's all I'm saying. I don't want to be threatening, but Leo, yeah, I would probably stalk him a little bit. So what. The only other "star" that got me speechless, I stood in line to meet. And that's where this tale is headed. To the line.
For a celebrity signing of any kind, there is a line protocol. First of all, those in the front of the line are obviously the biggest fans of whoever it is that they have come to see, and therefore, from their position in the front of the line, can make fun of the rest of the line dwellers for being less fanatical. It's strange, but true. If you are in one of these lines the only subject of discussion must be the person you are there to see, their movies, their music, whatever it is they do, and why they are so much better than anyone else doing it. You are not there to show up in a costume from the film, but an interesting reference isn't a bad thing. To this particular line which I speak my two roommates and I all wore hockey jerseys. So, who was it, not to that part of the story yet.
We arrived to find the line about two hundred people deep and growing, but out status of fandom was not to be determined by our line position, because we bought a tasty bribe to get us to closer to the front of the line, Krispy Kreme Donuts. We actually had some friends that had been there a while, but the donuts seemed to soothe the anger of those around them as more of us piled in. And there we stood on Ventura Blvd with a throng of others eager with anticipation for the arrival of Kevin Smith. It was the morning that Jay And Silent Bob Strike Back was released on DVD and Kevin was signing at Dave's Video. And we were about 10th in line. Geek level - 9.5
So as the moment of my idols arrival neared, I will admit that I started getting giddy. This is the guy that I model my writing style after, so of course, I was all a twitter. We all were. The windows of the shop were being watched by all of those near the front of the line, vultures circling in the sky waiting for the last breath of life to escape our prey. Then the moment arrived. As I waited with the patience of a five year old in line to get into Disneyland, I thought about what I would say to him. Before I knew it, there I was, standing two feet from the man who penned Chasing Amy, Dogma, and of course, Mallrats. With my DVD in hand I walked as calmly as I could muster to the long table at which he was seated. I handed him my grip of items I wanted signed, my DVD of Jay and Bob which on it he wrote "Mike, you were the bomb in Phantoms", my copy of Daredevil number 1 on which he wrote "I posed for this" and a Jay and Bob poster that my roommates and I would frame and hang, which he inscribed "To the boys, from the Woman, Kevin Smith." So, here was my chance to say something to him. And what came out of my mouth, seemed to stagger him. I said "I've got about a million things that I would like to say to you, but at the moment all I can think of is thank you." He was taken aback by the comment in a good way, then looked up and said, "No, thank you." Then we posed for a picture and I walked to the back of the store for a cigarette.
It was done. I had met my idol. I had shaken his hand. Taken a photo. And I knew that memory would be with me for the rest of my life. And it will have to do until I get a chance to talk to him as a fellow film writer.
Which idol of yours would you like to meet and what would you say?
Dixie Cup of Love: Lisa, Punk Ass, Captain Jen and all the people we met in the Dave's Video line.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Lordesses of the Rings
"Try to be best‘ Cause you’re only a man and a man’s gotta learn to take it. Try to believe though the going gets rough that you gotta hang tough to make it" Joe Esposito from "You're The Best"
You can call the nurse a lot of things. Promiscuous, sure. Brazen hussy, without question. Harbinger of mood altering capsules, everyday. Professional, never. She's never taken a dime for the services she renders, not eve a paycheck from the Asylum. Did you honestly think there was money in the budget for paying her? Hardly. However, the good news is that if there is ever an Olympic even for imaginary drug peddlers, she still has amateur status.
In 9 days the Olympic games will commence in China, and though I abhor their human rights violations and environmental rape, I am still looking forward to the games. I'm a whore for the them. Wasn't always the case, it started way back in the day with a girl named Mary Lou.
It was 1984. I was a freshman and the Olympics were in my home town. The Russians, a usual powerhouse, were paying us back for the 1980 Boycott and America proved that in the absence of another super power we will run rough shot over the competition. butt he winning wasn't everything. It's was the spectacle, the pageantry, the unity, it's all amazing to me. SuperMom was so adamant about dragging us out to see the torch as it relayed through our area, of course being teenagers we scoffed at the notion, but to this day I am glad that she made me do it.
My favorite moments of the summer Olympiad have not always featured cut little gymnast, one featured a pair of bikini clad, but the first two memories were definitely from the gymnastics competition. First was "The Vault". Mary Lou Retton nailed not one, but two perfect vaults to win the all around. And in the process took a piece of my heart with her forever. She was my first athlete crush.
The second moment was Skrug with "The Vault ver. 2.0" On a bad wheel that squeaky voiced little vixen pulled off one of the gutsiest moments in all sports, not just the Olympics. I will forever remember the sight of coach Bela Karoli carrying the damaged nymph to the podium for her medal.
However, purely as a man, the greatest gold medal moment is the celebration between Misty May and Kerri Walsh after winning the Women's Beach Volleyball gold. It's the stuff of Penthouse Forum letters. Two barely clothed women with dark tans, dripping in sweat, rolling around on top of each other in the sand. Slapping one another on the ass. Taking a moment to share a romantic tongue kiss while their eager hands explored each others bodies. Okay, so that last bit didn't really happen, but a boy can dream can't he?
What's your favorite Olympic Moment?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hello, Mary Lou, Goodbye Heart.
You can call the nurse a lot of things. Promiscuous, sure. Brazen hussy, without question. Harbinger of mood altering capsules, everyday. Professional, never. She's never taken a dime for the services she renders, not eve a paycheck from the Asylum. Did you honestly think there was money in the budget for paying her? Hardly. However, the good news is that if there is ever an Olympic even for imaginary drug peddlers, she still has amateur status.
In 9 days the Olympic games will commence in China, and though I abhor their human rights violations and environmental rape, I am still looking forward to the games. I'm a whore for the them. Wasn't always the case, it started way back in the day with a girl named Mary Lou.
It was 1984. I was a freshman and the Olympics were in my home town. The Russians, a usual powerhouse, were paying us back for the 1980 Boycott and America proved that in the absence of another super power we will run rough shot over the competition. butt he winning wasn't everything. It's was the spectacle, the pageantry, the unity, it's all amazing to me. SuperMom was so adamant about dragging us out to see the torch as it relayed through our area, of course being teenagers we scoffed at the notion, but to this day I am glad that she made me do it.
My favorite moments of the summer Olympiad have not always featured cut little gymnast, one featured a pair of bikini clad, but the first two memories were definitely from the gymnastics competition. First was "The Vault". Mary Lou Retton nailed not one, but two perfect vaults to win the all around. And in the process took a piece of my heart with her forever. She was my first athlete crush.
The second moment was Skrug with "The Vault ver. 2.0" On a bad wheel that squeaky voiced little vixen pulled off one of the gutsiest moments in all sports, not just the Olympics. I will forever remember the sight of coach Bela Karoli carrying the damaged nymph to the podium for her medal.
However, purely as a man, the greatest gold medal moment is the celebration between Misty May and Kerri Walsh after winning the Women's Beach Volleyball gold. It's the stuff of Penthouse Forum letters. Two barely clothed women with dark tans, dripping in sweat, rolling around on top of each other in the sand. Slapping one another on the ass. Taking a moment to share a romantic tongue kiss while their eager hands explored each others bodies. Okay, so that last bit didn't really happen, but a boy can dream can't he?
What's your favorite Olympic Moment?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hello, Mary Lou, Goodbye Heart.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
13 Feet of Glory
"Say goodbye, my one true lover. And we'll steal a lover's song. How it breaks my heart to leave you, now the carnival has gone." Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds from "The Carnival is Over"
The only thing more intriguing than whats on the nurses mind on any given day is how the carnival lifestyle still manages to attract employees. I understand the allure of the Tilt-a-whirl, the pull of the cotton candy machine, the sheer pleasure of the Fun house, but like all great thing too much of it would spoil it. The truly awesome part of being a carny would be the chance to master the powerful aphrodisiac that is midway games. Given a doctorate in skeeball, even the nurse would not be able to resist my magnetism.
What is it about winning you girls a stuffed animal at a carnival or a pizza parlour that gets you going faster than Josh Holloway shirtless on a rainy episode of LOST? Is it the prowess that is on display by the gathering of the tickets? Is it the knowledge that man has bested machine in a splendidly John Henry vs. the drill kind of a moment? Or it it the trinket procured with said tickets? Is that manufactured in Korea stuffed unicorn with a shock of purple rayon hair the ultimate symbol of undying devotion?
I do realize that some of you ladies out there are immune to the mysteries of skeeball. For you, I am truly saddened. Maybe no one ever racked up the big score in your honor, if not I will offer a trip to Chuck E Cheese, just so you know the feeling. Maybe you feel too adult to enjoy the frivolity that comes with a midway bender in which a man will spend four to one hundred times as much money trying to win a trinket as the bauble is actually worth. But the midway is no place for reason. It a Guatemalan Insanity pepper of a good time if you just let your hair down and remember what it was like to be the girl walking around with the huge stuffed bear, being envied by the rest, making men impotent in your wake, there is power in that fluff and asbestos filled mammal. So, we will throw darts at balloons, shoot an uncountable number of nearly impossible to make baskets, we will try to get a ping pong ball to land in a gold fish bowl causing unknown damage to the ichthyolite inside, and we will most certainly swing a huge mallet over head with great gusto in order to ring a bell all in hopes that our display of manly might will grant us a chance to ring your bell when the lights of the Merry-Go-Round go dim.
We, men, do all this in order to coerce you dames into sexing us up, but the carny folk are masters of these games, are they secretly cornering the market on the play-for-play issue? I kind of doubt it. I am basing my skepticism on the general state of carny dentistry and hygiene. If they could just manage to clean up their image these purveyors of passing fancy could be the Don Juans of the new millennium. Nah, that's about as likely as gas dipping back below the two dollar mark, or a Republican with a heart.
Maybe as part of "Act Like A Kid Week" we should all take in a carnival or maybe a trip to Dave and Busters, at least there we can get liquored up and win each other some unvaluable prizes. The true point would be an experiment, of course, I'd like to know how the skeeball effect you. Is it the sound of the ball rolling towards the ramp? The anticipation of the ball finding the big money? Is it the knowledge that he is doing it all to impress you? Could there possibly be a more powerful aphrodisiac than skeeball?
Are you turned on by carnival trinkets? Have you any special ones you treasure? When was the last time you were at a carnival?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Food on a Stick Vendor.
The only thing more intriguing than whats on the nurses mind on any given day is how the carnival lifestyle still manages to attract employees. I understand the allure of the Tilt-a-whirl, the pull of the cotton candy machine, the sheer pleasure of the Fun house, but like all great thing too much of it would spoil it. The truly awesome part of being a carny would be the chance to master the powerful aphrodisiac that is midway games. Given a doctorate in skeeball, even the nurse would not be able to resist my magnetism.
What is it about winning you girls a stuffed animal at a carnival or a pizza parlour that gets you going faster than Josh Holloway shirtless on a rainy episode of LOST? Is it the prowess that is on display by the gathering of the tickets? Is it the knowledge that man has bested machine in a splendidly John Henry vs. the drill kind of a moment? Or it it the trinket procured with said tickets? Is that manufactured in Korea stuffed unicorn with a shock of purple rayon hair the ultimate symbol of undying devotion?
I do realize that some of you ladies out there are immune to the mysteries of skeeball. For you, I am truly saddened. Maybe no one ever racked up the big score in your honor, if not I will offer a trip to Chuck E Cheese, just so you know the feeling. Maybe you feel too adult to enjoy the frivolity that comes with a midway bender in which a man will spend four to one hundred times as much money trying to win a trinket as the bauble is actually worth. But the midway is no place for reason. It a Guatemalan Insanity pepper of a good time if you just let your hair down and remember what it was like to be the girl walking around with the huge stuffed bear, being envied by the rest, making men impotent in your wake, there is power in that fluff and asbestos filled mammal. So, we will throw darts at balloons, shoot an uncountable number of nearly impossible to make baskets, we will try to get a ping pong ball to land in a gold fish bowl causing unknown damage to the ichthyolite inside, and we will most certainly swing a huge mallet over head with great gusto in order to ring a bell all in hopes that our display of manly might will grant us a chance to ring your bell when the lights of the Merry-Go-Round go dim.
We, men, do all this in order to coerce you dames into sexing us up, but the carny folk are masters of these games, are they secretly cornering the market on the play-for-play issue? I kind of doubt it. I am basing my skepticism on the general state of carny dentistry and hygiene. If they could just manage to clean up their image these purveyors of passing fancy could be the Don Juans of the new millennium. Nah, that's about as likely as gas dipping back below the two dollar mark, or a Republican with a heart.
Maybe as part of "Act Like A Kid Week" we should all take in a carnival or maybe a trip to Dave and Busters, at least there we can get liquored up and win each other some unvaluable prizes. The true point would be an experiment, of course, I'd like to know how the skeeball effect you. Is it the sound of the ball rolling towards the ramp? The anticipation of the ball finding the big money? Is it the knowledge that he is doing it all to impress you? Could there possibly be a more powerful aphrodisiac than skeeball?
Are you turned on by carnival trinkets? Have you any special ones you treasure? When was the last time you were at a carnival?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Food on a Stick Vendor.
Monday, July 28, 2008
The Fish In His Bowl
"Always in a hurry, I never stop to worry, Don't you see the time flashin' by. Honey, got no money, I'm all sixes and sevens and nines. Say now, baby, I'm the rank outsider, You can be my partner in crime." The Rolling Stones from "Tumbling Dice"
The nurse is due for a vacation, which means I have to listen to her hem and haw over a destination for weeks. I run down the list in my mind before I ask her where she is going. But to my utter bewilderment she informed me that the choice was made. She was heading off to Bugsy's oasis in the desert. The nurse in Las Vegas. Perfect fit. Like a sock in a shoe. Blinking lights, fast flowing booze, and morals looser than a down town slot machine make for absolute nirvana in Nevada. Hearing that she was going to Sin City got me thinking of my own adventures in the Jewel of the Mojave.
The best statement I ever heard in regards to myself and my relationship with Las Vegas came from my brother whilst we were there to attend our sisters nuptials. He said, as he looked disappointingly across the room at SuperMom staggering towards us with a foot long margarita in one hand and a champagne flute in the other, he said "Las Vegas changes everyones personalities except yours. Most people come here and for them it's wild abandon, but you're like a fish that's been put back in your bowl." I don't know if he meant that my normalcy is wild abandon, or that I'm just so in tune with the glitz and gleam of the town that I get it on a different level. Either way, I loved the fish in the bowl thing.
Unlike some I never went to Las Vegas as a child. It wasn't proper in my family, at that time, to take children to a place called Sin City. I had to wait until I was 21. Then circumstances being what they were I didn't get a chance to go for a while. Then it finally happened. I rounded that little hill on Interstate 15 and got my first glimpse of the city that would become an escape for me. I had no idea at the time how many stories I would tell that started with "This one time in Vegas". It was better than band camp, cause here the cocktail waitresses (as sure a weakness to me as Kryptonite is to Superman) they weren't upset if you ogle them, I'm sure it bothers them, but it's Vegas Baby. There is no last call for alcohol, you want to drink until the sun comes up, fine with them, just make sure you do some gambling while you're at it. And then there's comps. Those things are like crack. Get one, and soon you'll be jonesing for more.
One of my favorite tales from Lost Wages is that of my sisters wedding. See, there is a stigma attached to the Vegas wedding. Like it doesn't really count, it's a lark. But when it's planned out, well it can be delightfully tacky. My sister got married in the courtyard of the Bellagio in front of the water show. She was set to arrive via limousine, so my brother and I were waiting there for her arrival, the arrival of her guests, and sadly, the arrival of my sperm donor who I had not seen in nearly 15 years. It was a streak that I was none to happy to see coming to an end, but all good things must end. To soften the blow, my dear brother, bought us a round of cocktails, a martini for him, beer and a shot of Bushmills for me. Price tag $33. It took all those involved a little longer to arrive than expected so I went in and secured round 2. As we stood in front of the monstrosity of glitz checking out the bevy of ladies in "little black dresses" (yet another weakness) the sperm donor arrived. I didn't even recognize him and my brother had to point him out. He looked old, much older than I would have thought, it saddened me to think of what his lonely life must be like, but he earned it. In an effort to soothe the bitter feelings, the old man went in with my brother to procure round 3. Adding his own cocktail to the mix was certain to put the tap near 50 bucks, and that kind of made me smile. He was buying the booze that I was drinking in order to deal with his arrival.
The wedding went off fine. No problems, no bitter words, I avoided anything but the smallest of talk. Then as we headed back to my brothers suite, cause that's how he rolls, the sperm donor said he would join the reception after going back to check on wife number 6, who was ill and didn't join in for the ceremony. He never showed. Nothing but class.
Even that little torturous moment can't stop me from remembering Vegas as a great place. There are stories, many stories, and I might get to telling a few more, but as the ad says "What happens here, stays here." So, some stories are only for those that were present.
Ever been to Sin City? Got any stories to share? Favorite spots?
Dixie Cup of Love: My brother for getting round 1.
The nurse is due for a vacation, which means I have to listen to her hem and haw over a destination for weeks. I run down the list in my mind before I ask her where she is going. But to my utter bewilderment she informed me that the choice was made. She was heading off to Bugsy's oasis in the desert. The nurse in Las Vegas. Perfect fit. Like a sock in a shoe. Blinking lights, fast flowing booze, and morals looser than a down town slot machine make for absolute nirvana in Nevada. Hearing that she was going to Sin City got me thinking of my own adventures in the Jewel of the Mojave.
The best statement I ever heard in regards to myself and my relationship with Las Vegas came from my brother whilst we were there to attend our sisters nuptials. He said, as he looked disappointingly across the room at SuperMom staggering towards us with a foot long margarita in one hand and a champagne flute in the other, he said "Las Vegas changes everyones personalities except yours. Most people come here and for them it's wild abandon, but you're like a fish that's been put back in your bowl." I don't know if he meant that my normalcy is wild abandon, or that I'm just so in tune with the glitz and gleam of the town that I get it on a different level. Either way, I loved the fish in the bowl thing.
Unlike some I never went to Las Vegas as a child. It wasn't proper in my family, at that time, to take children to a place called Sin City. I had to wait until I was 21. Then circumstances being what they were I didn't get a chance to go for a while. Then it finally happened. I rounded that little hill on Interstate 15 and got my first glimpse of the city that would become an escape for me. I had no idea at the time how many stories I would tell that started with "This one time in Vegas". It was better than band camp, cause here the cocktail waitresses (as sure a weakness to me as Kryptonite is to Superman) they weren't upset if you ogle them, I'm sure it bothers them, but it's Vegas Baby. There is no last call for alcohol, you want to drink until the sun comes up, fine with them, just make sure you do some gambling while you're at it. And then there's comps. Those things are like crack. Get one, and soon you'll be jonesing for more.
One of my favorite tales from Lost Wages is that of my sisters wedding. See, there is a stigma attached to the Vegas wedding. Like it doesn't really count, it's a lark. But when it's planned out, well it can be delightfully tacky. My sister got married in the courtyard of the Bellagio in front of the water show. She was set to arrive via limousine, so my brother and I were waiting there for her arrival, the arrival of her guests, and sadly, the arrival of my sperm donor who I had not seen in nearly 15 years. It was a streak that I was none to happy to see coming to an end, but all good things must end. To soften the blow, my dear brother, bought us a round of cocktails, a martini for him, beer and a shot of Bushmills for me. Price tag $33. It took all those involved a little longer to arrive than expected so I went in and secured round 2. As we stood in front of the monstrosity of glitz checking out the bevy of ladies in "little black dresses" (yet another weakness) the sperm donor arrived. I didn't even recognize him and my brother had to point him out. He looked old, much older than I would have thought, it saddened me to think of what his lonely life must be like, but he earned it. In an effort to soothe the bitter feelings, the old man went in with my brother to procure round 3. Adding his own cocktail to the mix was certain to put the tap near 50 bucks, and that kind of made me smile. He was buying the booze that I was drinking in order to deal with his arrival.
The wedding went off fine. No problems, no bitter words, I avoided anything but the smallest of talk. Then as we headed back to my brothers suite, cause that's how he rolls, the sperm donor said he would join the reception after going back to check on wife number 6, who was ill and didn't join in for the ceremony. He never showed. Nothing but class.
Even that little torturous moment can't stop me from remembering Vegas as a great place. There are stories, many stories, and I might get to telling a few more, but as the ad says "What happens here, stays here." So, some stories are only for those that were present.
Ever been to Sin City? Got any stories to share? Favorite spots?
Dixie Cup of Love: My brother for getting round 1.
Sunday, July 27, 2008
Whistling Dixie
"Southern man better keep your head. Don't forget what your good book said. Southern change gonna come at last. Now your crosses are burning fast. Southern man" Neil Young from "Southern Man"
The nurse was in a twist as she came in with my Dixie Cup of depression solvers. Apparently some of the other inmates in the Asylum have complained that using "Dixie" cups for medication is a racist act, in that "Dixie" somehow advocates being a close minded, bible thumping, neanderthal with the common sense of a bar fly. This is just not true of the South. Dixie is a sense of pride amongst some, a heritage, a lifestyle, and to others an excuse to act like Republicans with a hard on. I told the nurse not to worry about it, that the subject would drift away as soon as Miley Cyrus started taking risque photos again, but it got me thinking.
Two articles in this mornings Herald, the local bird cage liner that these folks call a newspaper, got me kind a irked as I pounded my coffee, chain smoked some Marlboro Lights, and tried to think of something to follow yesterdays, "too dangerous to mention" blog. Then it hit me in the face like a Sturgeon being tossed at one of those outdoor fish markets. The big story on the front page was an article about the Confederate flag and how people feel that it is being flown on the grounds of the state house.
First of all, I'm not from around here, this isn't my heritage. My lineage is strictly California beach culture, I will rant and rave about sewage run off into Huntington Beach, but flags? Never paid that much attention to them. That was until I got here, and I wasn't seeing the same banners as I was in California. The Palmetto state has a navy flag with a palmetto tree and a crescent moon. It's bland, two color, but not at all intrusive. Seeing the "stars and bars" flying around my small town, I was aghast at first. Surely a symbol such as this should make people uneasy. And it does, apparently.
The NAACP has called for a African American boycott of South Carolina. Interesting that they would ask a state that is 30% black to boycott itself. With the power they wield they have managed to assure that no NCAA sporting championships can take place here, and are now trying to convince film makers not to shoot in South Carolina. All over a flag. I get it. If there was a swastika flying over the state house I would be livid too. But the locals, the Southern Men, The Sons of the Confederacy, see it as a symbol of pride and how their kin died in the "Act of Northern Aggression", yeah, some call the Civil war that. It's insanity. Surely not everyone in this state is a close minded bigot, right?
Well....
In the Viewpoint section of the fish wrap there was an editorial by the now retired former editor of the Herald. That means that at some point this guy, Terry Plumb, was in charge of the content of the paper. His editorial was entitled "S.C. beach, no not gay". Plumb, who you can send your disdain filled emails to at terry.plumb@gmail.com, sided with Gov. Mark Sanford in agreeing that South Carolina should not pay for advertising in the London Underground proclaiming S.C. to be a great vacation destination for gays. Here's the first quote that got me:
"I understand why leaders in Atlanta, Las Vegas, and New Orleans, which participated in the same campaign, might not have a problem with the message, but the notion of a gay-friendly South Carolina boggles the mind." Well, I thought as I continued reading, maybe this well educated type person might be taking a jab at the locals. Then this: "Sanford probably angered many constituents when he said South Carolina welcomes gay and lesbians to spend some of their estimated $40 billion in travel dollars here but that he was against using state money to target specific groups. What he should have said is that South Carolina won't pay for false advertising - that not only doesn't the Palmetto State have "gay beaches" but that our citizenry also doesn't like gays" Are you fucking ridding me? I had to read it twice, then once more out loud to make sure I wasn't fooling myself. But the hate mongering didn't stop there, folks.
The next paragraph he mockingly joked that the next tourism campaign should be geared towards Middle Easterners for our "burka friendly beaches". And then the capper. This is the quote that sealed the deal for today's blog.
"To be fair, South Carolina isn't obsessed with gays: we simply don't like people who aren't from around here or don't act or sound like us. In addition to not liking gays, we despise Hispanics, distrust Jews, and aren't too fond of Catholics."
This is where I live. This is my new home. If these statements would have come out in the LA Times, imagine the uproar. But here, it goes somehow unnoticed. Part of me hates my new home state.
What think you of this ignorance?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Gays and Lesbians of the World, you're welcome at my house anytime.
The nurse was in a twist as she came in with my Dixie Cup of depression solvers. Apparently some of the other inmates in the Asylum have complained that using "Dixie" cups for medication is a racist act, in that "Dixie" somehow advocates being a close minded, bible thumping, neanderthal with the common sense of a bar fly. This is just not true of the South. Dixie is a sense of pride amongst some, a heritage, a lifestyle, and to others an excuse to act like Republicans with a hard on. I told the nurse not to worry about it, that the subject would drift away as soon as Miley Cyrus started taking risque photos again, but it got me thinking.
Two articles in this mornings Herald, the local bird cage liner that these folks call a newspaper, got me kind a irked as I pounded my coffee, chain smoked some Marlboro Lights, and tried to think of something to follow yesterdays, "too dangerous to mention" blog. Then it hit me in the face like a Sturgeon being tossed at one of those outdoor fish markets. The big story on the front page was an article about the Confederate flag and how people feel that it is being flown on the grounds of the state house.
First of all, I'm not from around here, this isn't my heritage. My lineage is strictly California beach culture, I will rant and rave about sewage run off into Huntington Beach, but flags? Never paid that much attention to them. That was until I got here, and I wasn't seeing the same banners as I was in California. The Palmetto state has a navy flag with a palmetto tree and a crescent moon. It's bland, two color, but not at all intrusive. Seeing the "stars and bars" flying around my small town, I was aghast at first. Surely a symbol such as this should make people uneasy. And it does, apparently.
The NAACP has called for a African American boycott of South Carolina. Interesting that they would ask a state that is 30% black to boycott itself. With the power they wield they have managed to assure that no NCAA sporting championships can take place here, and are now trying to convince film makers not to shoot in South Carolina. All over a flag. I get it. If there was a swastika flying over the state house I would be livid too. But the locals, the Southern Men, The Sons of the Confederacy, see it as a symbol of pride and how their kin died in the "Act of Northern Aggression", yeah, some call the Civil war that. It's insanity. Surely not everyone in this state is a close minded bigot, right?
Well....
In the Viewpoint section of the fish wrap there was an editorial by the now retired former editor of the Herald. That means that at some point this guy, Terry Plumb, was in charge of the content of the paper. His editorial was entitled "S.C. beach, no not gay". Plumb, who you can send your disdain filled emails to at terry.plumb@gmail.com, sided with Gov. Mark Sanford in agreeing that South Carolina should not pay for advertising in the London Underground proclaiming S.C. to be a great vacation destination for gays. Here's the first quote that got me:
"I understand why leaders in Atlanta, Las Vegas, and New Orleans, which participated in the same campaign, might not have a problem with the message, but the notion of a gay-friendly South Carolina boggles the mind." Well, I thought as I continued reading, maybe this well educated type person might be taking a jab at the locals. Then this: "Sanford probably angered many constituents when he said South Carolina welcomes gay and lesbians to spend some of their estimated $40 billion in travel dollars here but that he was against using state money to target specific groups. What he should have said is that South Carolina won't pay for false advertising - that not only doesn't the Palmetto State have "gay beaches" but that our citizenry also doesn't like gays" Are you fucking ridding me? I had to read it twice, then once more out loud to make sure I wasn't fooling myself. But the hate mongering didn't stop there, folks.
The next paragraph he mockingly joked that the next tourism campaign should be geared towards Middle Easterners for our "burka friendly beaches". And then the capper. This is the quote that sealed the deal for today's blog.
"To be fair, South Carolina isn't obsessed with gays: we simply don't like people who aren't from around here or don't act or sound like us. In addition to not liking gays, we despise Hispanics, distrust Jews, and aren't too fond of Catholics."
This is where I live. This is my new home. If these statements would have come out in the LA Times, imagine the uproar. But here, it goes somehow unnoticed. Part of me hates my new home state.
What think you of this ignorance?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Gays and Lesbians of the World, you're welcome at my house anytime.
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Freaks vs. Geeks
"Hello, leaders of Scientology. We are Anonymous. Over the years, we have been watching you. Your campaigns of misinformation, your suppression of dissent, your litigious nature: all these things have caught our eye. With the leakage of your latest propaganda video into mainstream circulation, the extent of your malign influence over those who have come to trust you as leaders has been made clear to us. anonymous has therefore decided that your organization should be destroyed. We are anonymous. We are legion. We do not forgive. We do not forget. Expect us." A Message to Scientology January 21, 2008.
And thus war was declared.
Usually I would steer clear of a religion blog, but folks, if you haven't heard this story, open your ears and listen to the tales, as I have heard it so far. I come to this sordid opus of hatred and deviance courtesy of two sources. First, my old roommate, a card carrying Atheist, informed me of this months ago, but I was blind to the relevance, certainly to the magnitude. Second, Maxim magazine, which I hope will not mind that I have used their intriguing title. What this is about is a cult and a group of people that have come together without ever knowing each other.
According to the Maxim article, Anonymous was started on a website message board. It was in regards to a video of Tom Cruise ranting and raving like a mad man about the virtues of his so-called religion, some would call it a cult, though some would call Judism a cult. Since I adore Judi I can't see why she shouldn't have a cult, but that's a different blog. In this video, which was taken off of You Tube by the litigation team of the Scientologists, Cruise, a vocal spokesman, made statements like this: "Being a Scientologist, when you drive past an accident, it's not like anyone else. As you drive past, you know you have to do something about it because you know you're the only one that can really help." Yeah, not those police or paramedics. They don't know shit. Please, someone get me an overpaid actor. But the little thespian didn't stop there. No, he added: "We are the authorities on the mind... We are the way to happiness." Um, these people are the authorities of the mind? The folks that don't believe in doctors or therapy or pills. No pills! For the love of Jeebus, they must be stopped. Who, who will stop this hideously ignorant mob from taking over the world.
The Cyber junkies.
On 4chan.org the keyboard clickers went crazy. These people have actually done some good work in identifying pedophiles in chat rooms or when they en mass attacked the website of a white supremacist leader. That's all well intended group mentality, the problem is that the mob has no Capo di tutti Capi, no boss of bosses, no leadership. That has in turn had them bomb MySpace with gay porn spam and call in real bomb threats to the Super Bowl. That's not so good. And the Scientologists now have a leg to stand on by calling them "terrorists". It started out with a web site attack, flooding the Scientology website with phantom users and slowing it to a crawl. Black faxes, solid black sheets of paper, were faxed in large numbers to Scientology fax machines, draining them of ink. Pizzas were send by the hundreds. Pranks mostly, certainly nothing worthy of mention in the "legitimate" news.
On March 15th over 600 protesters donning black suits and Guy Fawkes, V for Vendetta style masks closed in on the Celebrity Center in Los Angeles. They held signs that read "Tax The Cult" and "Honk if you think Scientology is a Cult". Peaceful, though a gun was allegedly sighted in the hands of a Scientologist who when asked why he would brandish a gun at a peaceful demonstration, said, "I'm not here for a peaceful protest, friend". Tensions were sky rocketing. And it's not over yet, not by a long shot. Anonymous is gearing up for more demonstrations in it's bid to destroy the Scientologists. More to come...
But I have this to say. Scientology, whether I believe it to be complete crap or not, is a religion protected by the Constitution of the United States of America. We all have the right to choose which God we worship, be is Jesus, God, Allah, Ganesha, Xenu or Jeebus. The last group that got any press for trying to destroy another religion were the Nazis. I can make that comparison, because whether Scientology is a cult or not, it's labeled a religion, if people are so desperate for answers that they believe the nonsense on which Scientology was predicated, then so be it. It's their right to be suckered in. And as much as I would exhaust every breath in my lungs to call them sheep headed for the slaughter, I respect their right to be slaughtered. Anonymous doesn't. Anonymous is cowardly. Anonymous has no agenda except to destroy a group of people with different ideals. That is a hate organization.
Thoughts? Comments?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hard to think about love when dealing with this, so I give it to The Human Race.
And thus war was declared.
Usually I would steer clear of a religion blog, but folks, if you haven't heard this story, open your ears and listen to the tales, as I have heard it so far. I come to this sordid opus of hatred and deviance courtesy of two sources. First, my old roommate, a card carrying Atheist, informed me of this months ago, but I was blind to the relevance, certainly to the magnitude. Second, Maxim magazine, which I hope will not mind that I have used their intriguing title. What this is about is a cult and a group of people that have come together without ever knowing each other.
According to the Maxim article, Anonymous was started on a website message board. It was in regards to a video of Tom Cruise ranting and raving like a mad man about the virtues of his so-called religion, some would call it a cult, though some would call Judism a cult. Since I adore Judi I can't see why she shouldn't have a cult, but that's a different blog. In this video, which was taken off of You Tube by the litigation team of the Scientologists, Cruise, a vocal spokesman, made statements like this: "Being a Scientologist, when you drive past an accident, it's not like anyone else. As you drive past, you know you have to do something about it because you know you're the only one that can really help." Yeah, not those police or paramedics. They don't know shit. Please, someone get me an overpaid actor. But the little thespian didn't stop there. No, he added: "We are the authorities on the mind... We are the way to happiness." Um, these people are the authorities of the mind? The folks that don't believe in doctors or therapy or pills. No pills! For the love of Jeebus, they must be stopped. Who, who will stop this hideously ignorant mob from taking over the world.
The Cyber junkies.
On 4chan.org the keyboard clickers went crazy. These people have actually done some good work in identifying pedophiles in chat rooms or when they en mass attacked the website of a white supremacist leader. That's all well intended group mentality, the problem is that the mob has no Capo di tutti Capi, no boss of bosses, no leadership. That has in turn had them bomb MySpace with gay porn spam and call in real bomb threats to the Super Bowl. That's not so good. And the Scientologists now have a leg to stand on by calling them "terrorists". It started out with a web site attack, flooding the Scientology website with phantom users and slowing it to a crawl. Black faxes, solid black sheets of paper, were faxed in large numbers to Scientology fax machines, draining them of ink. Pizzas were send by the hundreds. Pranks mostly, certainly nothing worthy of mention in the "legitimate" news.
On March 15th over 600 protesters donning black suits and Guy Fawkes, V for Vendetta style masks closed in on the Celebrity Center in Los Angeles. They held signs that read "Tax The Cult" and "Honk if you think Scientology is a Cult". Peaceful, though a gun was allegedly sighted in the hands of a Scientologist who when asked why he would brandish a gun at a peaceful demonstration, said, "I'm not here for a peaceful protest, friend". Tensions were sky rocketing. And it's not over yet, not by a long shot. Anonymous is gearing up for more demonstrations in it's bid to destroy the Scientologists. More to come...
But I have this to say. Scientology, whether I believe it to be complete crap or not, is a religion protected by the Constitution of the United States of America. We all have the right to choose which God we worship, be is Jesus, God, Allah, Ganesha, Xenu or Jeebus. The last group that got any press for trying to destroy another religion were the Nazis. I can make that comparison, because whether Scientology is a cult or not, it's labeled a religion, if people are so desperate for answers that they believe the nonsense on which Scientology was predicated, then so be it. It's their right to be suckered in. And as much as I would exhaust every breath in my lungs to call them sheep headed for the slaughter, I respect their right to be slaughtered. Anonymous doesn't. Anonymous is cowardly. Anonymous has no agenda except to destroy a group of people with different ideals. That is a hate organization.
Thoughts? Comments?
Dixie Cup of Love: Hard to think about love when dealing with this, so I give it to The Human Race.
Friday, July 25, 2008
I am Jack's Broken Dream
"When I grow up to be a man, will I dig the same things that turn me on as a kid? Will I look back and say that I wish I hadn't done what I did? Will I joke around and still dig those sounds." The Beach Boys from "When I Grow Up"
The nurse and I were having a pow wow about her job after I gulped down the gel caps of jolliness that colored the inside of my Dixie cup like Rainbow Brite went bulimic in it. I asked the dealer of my dreams if it had been her life long goal to be a nurse at an imaginary mental institution. Of course she has hoped to be something else, but sometimes life takes an unexpected turn. She had aspired to be a Senegalese sous chef, but apparently there isn't a big job market for the preparation of cuisine from Senegal. Had I always dreamt of being an under inspired unpaid blogger, she asked. Touche, harlot.
Growing up I never wanted to be a fireman, a cop, a doctor, or a lawyer much to the chagrin of SuperMom. I'm sure she would have preferred that I had chosen a career that would have offered a little stability and income, but she is quite proud of what I have accomplished as a writer. But even that wasn't what I though life would have in store for me. See I wanted to be like Spielberg, no not Jewish, I wanted to be a director. I thought that winning the Oscar in any other category was somehow a lesser award. But when you find your talent, you go where it takes you. I would be thrilled beyond the worlds knowledge to get the bald man statue for writing, but that wasn't what I wanted as a kid.
My sister was once asked what she wanted to be when she grew up and she didn't hesitate before saying cocktail waitress. That's setting the bar to a nice attainable level, don't you think. I'm mean if you're gonna dream, make it as banal as possible. Thing is, her dream was realized, mine, not so much. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe.
I've always been a dreamer, and I'm not the only one. My brother once told me that though I was poor and he was handsome and well to do with the cash flow, that he envied the fact that for what it was worth I have chased my dream. Not always the case. I will say that for the last 6 years I have really made an effort to go after it with some gusto. This year I have taken bigger steps than I have ever taken before, and next year I will go even further. The hardest part about being a writer is finding someone to read your work, I've found that here. The next step is finding someone that can open a door to the career side of it. I will, I have drive and determination, and you have no idea how great it will feel to quit HellJob.
Today's question comes in a few parts. What did you want to be when you grew up? Are you still in pursuit of that dream? Where did it derail? What's your new dream?
Dixie Cup of Love: Christine Basch, guidance counselor who told me that writing was a stupid career choice.
The nurse and I were having a pow wow about her job after I gulped down the gel caps of jolliness that colored the inside of my Dixie cup like Rainbow Brite went bulimic in it. I asked the dealer of my dreams if it had been her life long goal to be a nurse at an imaginary mental institution. Of course she has hoped to be something else, but sometimes life takes an unexpected turn. She had aspired to be a Senegalese sous chef, but apparently there isn't a big job market for the preparation of cuisine from Senegal. Had I always dreamt of being an under inspired unpaid blogger, she asked. Touche, harlot.
Growing up I never wanted to be a fireman, a cop, a doctor, or a lawyer much to the chagrin of SuperMom. I'm sure she would have preferred that I had chosen a career that would have offered a little stability and income, but she is quite proud of what I have accomplished as a writer. But even that wasn't what I though life would have in store for me. See I wanted to be like Spielberg, no not Jewish, I wanted to be a director. I thought that winning the Oscar in any other category was somehow a lesser award. But when you find your talent, you go where it takes you. I would be thrilled beyond the worlds knowledge to get the bald man statue for writing, but that wasn't what I wanted as a kid.
My sister was once asked what she wanted to be when she grew up and she didn't hesitate before saying cocktail waitress. That's setting the bar to a nice attainable level, don't you think. I'm mean if you're gonna dream, make it as banal as possible. Thing is, her dream was realized, mine, not so much. Maybe she was onto something. Maybe.
I've always been a dreamer, and I'm not the only one. My brother once told me that though I was poor and he was handsome and well to do with the cash flow, that he envied the fact that for what it was worth I have chased my dream. Not always the case. I will say that for the last 6 years I have really made an effort to go after it with some gusto. This year I have taken bigger steps than I have ever taken before, and next year I will go even further. The hardest part about being a writer is finding someone to read your work, I've found that here. The next step is finding someone that can open a door to the career side of it. I will, I have drive and determination, and you have no idea how great it will feel to quit HellJob.
Today's question comes in a few parts. What did you want to be when you grew up? Are you still in pursuit of that dream? Where did it derail? What's your new dream?
Dixie Cup of Love: Christine Basch, guidance counselor who told me that writing was a stupid career choice.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The Heckler
"Does it hurt? Oh, it really doesn't matter, Does it burn? Oh, I don't feel a thing. Does it sting? Oh, yeah, it really doesn't matter. Does it hurt?, Oh, I don't give a damn. When I find myself falling and I hit the bottom, It only makes me laugh" Oingo Boingo from "It Only Makes Me Laugh"
I started to wonder today as the nurse came in my room looking like Russell Crowe in a bad mood if there was any joy left in her pathetic, imaginary life. Were there moments of hysterical laughter when she lets her guard down completely and just rolls on the floor (for those of you who don't understand those words it means ROFLMAO, basically, damned Internet)? Who makes the nurse pee her pants a little? And thinking of that, well, it disgusted me a bit, then I started thinking about the people that make me laugh.
There is one job that I know, aside from employee of HellJob, that I would never like to attempt, that is Stand-up Comedian. I like to think that in written form I'm a hoot, but standing in front of a room full of strangers and deciding that they are all gonna laugh, that's tough. But when someone does it well it can be a splendid sight to behold. For me, there's a few people that I can watch stand with the microphone in hand and just cackle.
Eddie Izzard. Not in everyone's taste I understand. But those that value a sense of intelligence and wit love the transvestite. I will admit that I was leery to check his show out at first. After all, what's funny about a man prancing around in woman's clothing? It was a mistake on my part to judge the product by the box it came in. My old roommate Aaron tried with the temerity of an ant moving a rubber tree plant to get me to watch it, then one day, while stoned, I caved in and am forever glad that I did. The man is just brilliant. If you haven't seen Dressed to Kill and Glorious, Netflix them now. Do not delay, you probably won't be disappointed.
Dave Chappelle. Such an influence on me was the special "Killing Them Softly" that I named one of the main characters in my first play "Chip". Some find him to be too anti-white male but get over it, as long as there are different races it will be part of stand-up. The Chappelle Show on Comedy Central did some of the funniest stuff I had ever seen on TV and it was a shame that he freaked out over getting paid and being pressured. Hopefully we have not seen the last of him. For that would be a huge loss.
I have been watching Last Comic Standing this season, as I was a huge fan of Josh Blue, and I have to say that the way they are treating women on this show is an outrage. Esther Ku was funny, I don't care how annoying her laugh was, her stand up was top notch, and she was gone in the first elimination. Eliza is an assassin. Two times she has been on the showdown, two times she has sent the other comics packing. She's funny, guys, get over it. Women are just as funny as we are, and they have boobies. I only add the boobies thing because I'm a fan and a pig. If you haven't figured that out by now you shouldn't be reading the Asylum.
Which comedians make you laugh? Who do you not like at all?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Funny Chicks.
I started to wonder today as the nurse came in my room looking like Russell Crowe in a bad mood if there was any joy left in her pathetic, imaginary life. Were there moments of hysterical laughter when she lets her guard down completely and just rolls on the floor (for those of you who don't understand those words it means ROFLMAO, basically, damned Internet)? Who makes the nurse pee her pants a little? And thinking of that, well, it disgusted me a bit, then I started thinking about the people that make me laugh.
There is one job that I know, aside from employee of HellJob, that I would never like to attempt, that is Stand-up Comedian. I like to think that in written form I'm a hoot, but standing in front of a room full of strangers and deciding that they are all gonna laugh, that's tough. But when someone does it well it can be a splendid sight to behold. For me, there's a few people that I can watch stand with the microphone in hand and just cackle.
Eddie Izzard. Not in everyone's taste I understand. But those that value a sense of intelligence and wit love the transvestite. I will admit that I was leery to check his show out at first. After all, what's funny about a man prancing around in woman's clothing? It was a mistake on my part to judge the product by the box it came in. My old roommate Aaron tried with the temerity of an ant moving a rubber tree plant to get me to watch it, then one day, while stoned, I caved in and am forever glad that I did. The man is just brilliant. If you haven't seen Dressed to Kill and Glorious, Netflix them now. Do not delay, you probably won't be disappointed.
Dave Chappelle. Such an influence on me was the special "Killing Them Softly" that I named one of the main characters in my first play "Chip". Some find him to be too anti-white male but get over it, as long as there are different races it will be part of stand-up. The Chappelle Show on Comedy Central did some of the funniest stuff I had ever seen on TV and it was a shame that he freaked out over getting paid and being pressured. Hopefully we have not seen the last of him. For that would be a huge loss.
I have been watching Last Comic Standing this season, as I was a huge fan of Josh Blue, and I have to say that the way they are treating women on this show is an outrage. Esther Ku was funny, I don't care how annoying her laugh was, her stand up was top notch, and she was gone in the first elimination. Eliza is an assassin. Two times she has been on the showdown, two times she has sent the other comics packing. She's funny, guys, get over it. Women are just as funny as we are, and they have boobies. I only add the boobies thing because I'm a fan and a pig. If you haven't figured that out by now you shouldn't be reading the Asylum.
Which comedians make you laugh? Who do you not like at all?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Funny Chicks.
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
Going Hot
"You either love or you despise. There's just no time for compromise. The days have gotta move real fast. We know that nothing's gonna last" The Stranglers from "Burning Up Time"
The nurse came in to administer my lithium luggage with a copy of one of my favorite magazines under her arm. A rag that has been around since the 60's and covers everything from music, movies, to politics and corruption. And every now and again it puts out a "Hot List". Seeing the magazine pressed between her bicep and implant got me to thinking that it's time I got some insight on you.
Sorry about this one, but it should be fun. I have had a busy couple of days at HellJob and it has left me in a mental state akin to a trash bag full of Jell-o. So, today, I'm asking for you to help. I want to know what you think is "Hot", what for you, at this very moment, is making you feel good, making you lustful, making you angry. I present the "Asylum's One and Only, Hot List"
Hot Starlet: Maggie Gylennhaal.
Hot Band: The Kills
Hot Director: Adam McKay
Hot Team: Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly
Hot Car: Ferrari California
Hot Movie: TheDark Knight
Hot Hero: Kristen Bell
Hot Food: Kickin Pig Bar-be-cue
Hot Religion: Anonymous
Hot Model: Marissa Miller
Hot Sports Star: Natalie Coughlin
Hot Buzz: State of Play
Hot Daddies Girl: tie Brooke Hogan and Miley Cyrus
Hot Online Dating Bio: 38, SWM, blogger with good vocab and strong opinions about music, seeks large breasted woman with brains.
Hot Gadget: MacBook Air
Hot Mama: Angelina Jolie
Hot City: Las Vegas
Hot Arm Candy: Reformed porn stars
Hot Dead Guy: Heath Ledger
Hot Live Guy: Seth Rogen
All right, that's kind of all I have time for, so, I want to hear your Hot List. Run down the same categories, skip the ones you don't want to answer because they make your brain hurt or what not. Just remember, there are no wrong answers and I will be judging you. Hee Hee.
Dixie Cup of Love: Jann Wenner
The nurse came in to administer my lithium luggage with a copy of one of my favorite magazines under her arm. A rag that has been around since the 60's and covers everything from music, movies, to politics and corruption. And every now and again it puts out a "Hot List". Seeing the magazine pressed between her bicep and implant got me to thinking that it's time I got some insight on you.
Sorry about this one, but it should be fun. I have had a busy couple of days at HellJob and it has left me in a mental state akin to a trash bag full of Jell-o. So, today, I'm asking for you to help. I want to know what you think is "Hot", what for you, at this very moment, is making you feel good, making you lustful, making you angry. I present the "Asylum's One and Only, Hot List"
Hot Starlet: Maggie Gylennhaal.
Hot Band: The Kills
Hot Director: Adam McKay
Hot Team: Will Ferrell and John C. Reilly
Hot Car: Ferrari California
Hot Movie: TheDark Knight
Hot Hero: Kristen Bell
Hot Food: Kickin Pig Bar-be-cue
Hot Religion: Anonymous
Hot Model: Marissa Miller
Hot Sports Star: Natalie Coughlin
Hot Buzz: State of Play
Hot Daddies Girl: tie Brooke Hogan and Miley Cyrus
Hot Online Dating Bio: 38, SWM, blogger with good vocab and strong opinions about music, seeks large breasted woman with brains.
Hot Gadget: MacBook Air
Hot Mama: Angelina Jolie
Hot City: Las Vegas
Hot Arm Candy: Reformed porn stars
Hot Dead Guy: Heath Ledger
Hot Live Guy: Seth Rogen
All right, that's kind of all I have time for, so, I want to hear your Hot List. Run down the same categories, skip the ones you don't want to answer because they make your brain hurt or what not. Just remember, there are no wrong answers and I will be judging you. Hee Hee.
Dixie Cup of Love: Jann Wenner
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Days of Day-Glo Revistied
"From what I've been and what I've seen, From top to bottom, I am obscene. It stands in my place, It spits in my face. It's shame, shame! It's shame!" Rollins Band from "Shame"
When the nurse came in to give me my pharmaceutical cocktail for the morning I couldn't help but notice that she was sporting a New Kids On The Block push up bra under her uniform. Though the site of her silicone laden chest cannons bravely trying to escape the confines of the garment was eye attracting and appealing, it was said delicate that had me questioning her very sanity. Perhaps it was time I strapped the nurse to a gurney and tortured her as she has me for all these long months. Her rock-n-roll persona was straining for credibility when compared to her choice of boy band lingerie. But seeing the shocking display of fan adoration got me thinking.
While out shopping for the necessities of life in the Slow, bug spray, ultra powerful antiperspirant, and alcohol, I spied SuperMom thumbing through a magazine whose sole purpose seemed to be to dupe addle minded, love lorn teenage girl out of their usually undeserved allowance. No it wasn't O Magazine, the O standing for Oppressor, it was some silly glossy dedicated to boy band of the minute, The Jonas Brothers. The newest is Disney's continuing juggernaut on the good and wholesome market, after all their last big star is starting to turn the way of her Mouseketeer predecessor. Miley is the new Britney. Only a mater of time before some over tattooed angst ridden pseudo pop punk knucklehead lands a sperm to her billion dollar eggs. With that inevitability looming on the horizon the Mouse needs a new way to bilk millions from the coffers of the masses. Enter Jonas-mania.
No, SuperMom is not a fan of the Jonii, but my ultra spoiled niece is in the grips of mad infatuation. The fandom that comes with being a pre-teen in the Disney Age. Matter of fact if her mother would have put all the monies she has spend on Disney related garbage during my nieces 12 years and invested it in a savings account, I'm pretty sure my niece could attend Harvard, all four years. And now SuperNana, as she would be called by my niece, is adding to the dollar total. I understand that part of childhood, even the teen years, is to attach yourself to a band of questionable credibility. We all have a shirt hanging in our proverbial closets that makes us, as adults, wonder what we were thinking.
For all my rock pedigree there are skeletons that I am only showing the light of day so that you, my dear readers and fans, may have a laugh at me while shamefully realizing that you have just as many bone daddies in your own arsenal. Sure, I had the "Frankie Says Relax" T-shirt. I'm actually not too ashamed of that one. But for a girl named Tammy Francis I became a neon wearing Wham! fan. Yeah, okay, enough with the laughter. She was short and super hot, and there was nothing I wouldn't do to play with her boobies, including selling out my own musical taste. Amazing how I let the objects of my hearts affections effect my own tastes. Even now if I was in pursuit of a wily female that liked a musical genre that normally I would abhor, I would find something redeeming in it. I am no shepherd in this regard, just a mere sheep.
Some of these emotional interludes have actually left me with great tunes that I may not have listened to without said strumpets influence. My undying love for Dayna brought me the joy of the Old 97's, Cari is so closely tied with my love of the Gear Daddies that it's impossible to separate the two, Annie is linked to the soundtrack from "Grease" like a liner not, and without Judi there would be no Jenny Lewis in my life, no Rilo Kiley in my itunes. Not all the bands have been winners, mind you. With Michelle it was, sadly, Bryan Adams. Not good at all really, but still meaningful. I guess I just wish some, not all (Australians are exempt due to swinging great taste and living on the bottom of the world), but some of the women that I adore had better taste in music.
What skeletons are you hiding in your CD collection?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tammy Francis.
When the nurse came in to give me my pharmaceutical cocktail for the morning I couldn't help but notice that she was sporting a New Kids On The Block push up bra under her uniform. Though the site of her silicone laden chest cannons bravely trying to escape the confines of the garment was eye attracting and appealing, it was said delicate that had me questioning her very sanity. Perhaps it was time I strapped the nurse to a gurney and tortured her as she has me for all these long months. Her rock-n-roll persona was straining for credibility when compared to her choice of boy band lingerie. But seeing the shocking display of fan adoration got me thinking.
While out shopping for the necessities of life in the Slow, bug spray, ultra powerful antiperspirant, and alcohol, I spied SuperMom thumbing through a magazine whose sole purpose seemed to be to dupe addle minded, love lorn teenage girl out of their usually undeserved allowance. No it wasn't O Magazine, the O standing for Oppressor, it was some silly glossy dedicated to boy band of the minute, The Jonas Brothers. The newest is Disney's continuing juggernaut on the good and wholesome market, after all their last big star is starting to turn the way of her Mouseketeer predecessor. Miley is the new Britney. Only a mater of time before some over tattooed angst ridden pseudo pop punk knucklehead lands a sperm to her billion dollar eggs. With that inevitability looming on the horizon the Mouse needs a new way to bilk millions from the coffers of the masses. Enter Jonas-mania.
No, SuperMom is not a fan of the Jonii, but my ultra spoiled niece is in the grips of mad infatuation. The fandom that comes with being a pre-teen in the Disney Age. Matter of fact if her mother would have put all the monies she has spend on Disney related garbage during my nieces 12 years and invested it in a savings account, I'm pretty sure my niece could attend Harvard, all four years. And now SuperNana, as she would be called by my niece, is adding to the dollar total. I understand that part of childhood, even the teen years, is to attach yourself to a band of questionable credibility. We all have a shirt hanging in our proverbial closets that makes us, as adults, wonder what we were thinking.
For all my rock pedigree there are skeletons that I am only showing the light of day so that you, my dear readers and fans, may have a laugh at me while shamefully realizing that you have just as many bone daddies in your own arsenal. Sure, I had the "Frankie Says Relax" T-shirt. I'm actually not too ashamed of that one. But for a girl named Tammy Francis I became a neon wearing Wham! fan. Yeah, okay, enough with the laughter. She was short and super hot, and there was nothing I wouldn't do to play with her boobies, including selling out my own musical taste. Amazing how I let the objects of my hearts affections effect my own tastes. Even now if I was in pursuit of a wily female that liked a musical genre that normally I would abhor, I would find something redeeming in it. I am no shepherd in this regard, just a mere sheep.
Some of these emotional interludes have actually left me with great tunes that I may not have listened to without said strumpets influence. My undying love for Dayna brought me the joy of the Old 97's, Cari is so closely tied with my love of the Gear Daddies that it's impossible to separate the two, Annie is linked to the soundtrack from "Grease" like a liner not, and without Judi there would be no Jenny Lewis in my life, no Rilo Kiley in my itunes. Not all the bands have been winners, mind you. With Michelle it was, sadly, Bryan Adams. Not good at all really, but still meaningful. I guess I just wish some, not all (Australians are exempt due to swinging great taste and living on the bottom of the world), but some of the women that I adore had better taste in music.
What skeletons are you hiding in your CD collection?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tammy Francis.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Dreaming
"Have you seen my garden? It is most peculiar. Have you seen my garden? Nothing there that grows looks anything at all like plants. I hear their voices. Let's take the whole day off" Oingo Boingo from "Whole Day Off"
It started out like any other day, or so I thought. I was, as per the norm in this psychedelic fun house, shackled to my bed awaiting the arrival of my antiseptically scrubbed Florence Nightingale from the depths of Hades. My body quivered in negative withdrawal from my daily Dixie cup of addiction fixers, but they didn't arrive. What the hell was going on? The damned nurse called in sick leaving me unmedicated and longing for the affections of my state appointed care taker. A dreadful feeling came over me. What if something serious happened, what if she was never to come back, what would become of me? Then I heard the steroid swollen orderly say that the nurse was out on some rich guys yacht for the day. What a bitch.
The general plan of how to spend a sick day was once laid out to near perfection in a little romp of a film called "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". It was a film that set the bar for how to play ditch at a level too astronomical for the average hooky player to achieve. I mean, seriously, how often do you just happen on a midweek parade? And on the same day as a big league matinee no less. No, that day isn't near perfect, I mean Scarlett Johannson is near perfect, that day is absolute, Stairway to Heaven, perfection.
As for my day of leisure it would begin, if we are talking a perfect day, by me waking up next to a very horny woman with perhaps an accent and an oral fixation. We would wake after an excellent night s sleep to make love as we called in to our jobs and finagled the day off. After bringing each other to the zenith of ecstasy we would adjourn the bedroom for the patio to enjoy coffee and cigarettes while I finished the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I would then leave my strumpet for a spell, hopping on the Harley and bombing down Pacific Coast Highway towards Long Beach where I would pick up comics from Atomic. Of course it would be the day that the new Garth Ennis trade comes out. We would chat comics and movies while watching a Hawaiian Tropics Bikini Contest from his balcony. Inevitably the contest would be short a couple of judges, they would spy us on the balcony, and of course we would help them out. Atomic would end up scoring a sun soaked model and I would hop on the bike and head for Pasadena.
On the way I would get a call from a literary agent telling me that my latest script was just bought for a seven figure payday. Sick day no longer, I would be quitting my job tomorrow. But, on to the City of Roses, where I would spend an hour or two hanging out with the Weezer Kid doing what we do best. We'd listen to the the Red Album as we enjoyed some of natures finest greenery.
I would grab lunch at "The Hat", for pastrami and chili fries, before heading off to see the new Scarlett Johannson/Jessica Biel lesbian love story action flick. With red vines in hand I would enjoy. The sun would be glowing amber in the late afternoon sky as I leave the theater sure that the film will win a bevy of Academy Awards.
The woman with the accent meets me for a romantic dinner of prime rib, baked potato, and Heineken before driving us back to her place where we pick up where we left off before coffee. I would fall into a deep sleep, waking to the day that I quit HellJob.
What your dream day off?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Woman with the Accent.
It started out like any other day, or so I thought. I was, as per the norm in this psychedelic fun house, shackled to my bed awaiting the arrival of my antiseptically scrubbed Florence Nightingale from the depths of Hades. My body quivered in negative withdrawal from my daily Dixie cup of addiction fixers, but they didn't arrive. What the hell was going on? The damned nurse called in sick leaving me unmedicated and longing for the affections of my state appointed care taker. A dreadful feeling came over me. What if something serious happened, what if she was never to come back, what would become of me? Then I heard the steroid swollen orderly say that the nurse was out on some rich guys yacht for the day. What a bitch.
The general plan of how to spend a sick day was once laid out to near perfection in a little romp of a film called "Ferris Bueller's Day Off". It was a film that set the bar for how to play ditch at a level too astronomical for the average hooky player to achieve. I mean, seriously, how often do you just happen on a midweek parade? And on the same day as a big league matinee no less. No, that day isn't near perfect, I mean Scarlett Johannson is near perfect, that day is absolute, Stairway to Heaven, perfection.
As for my day of leisure it would begin, if we are talking a perfect day, by me waking up next to a very horny woman with perhaps an accent and an oral fixation. We would wake after an excellent night s sleep to make love as we called in to our jobs and finagled the day off. After bringing each other to the zenith of ecstasy we would adjourn the bedroom for the patio to enjoy coffee and cigarettes while I finished the New York Times crossword puzzle.
I would then leave my strumpet for a spell, hopping on the Harley and bombing down Pacific Coast Highway towards Long Beach where I would pick up comics from Atomic. Of course it would be the day that the new Garth Ennis trade comes out. We would chat comics and movies while watching a Hawaiian Tropics Bikini Contest from his balcony. Inevitably the contest would be short a couple of judges, they would spy us on the balcony, and of course we would help them out. Atomic would end up scoring a sun soaked model and I would hop on the bike and head for Pasadena.
On the way I would get a call from a literary agent telling me that my latest script was just bought for a seven figure payday. Sick day no longer, I would be quitting my job tomorrow. But, on to the City of Roses, where I would spend an hour or two hanging out with the Weezer Kid doing what we do best. We'd listen to the the Red Album as we enjoyed some of natures finest greenery.
I would grab lunch at "The Hat", for pastrami and chili fries, before heading off to see the new Scarlett Johannson/Jessica Biel lesbian love story action flick. With red vines in hand I would enjoy. The sun would be glowing amber in the late afternoon sky as I leave the theater sure that the film will win a bevy of Academy Awards.
The woman with the accent meets me for a romantic dinner of prime rib, baked potato, and Heineken before driving us back to her place where we pick up where we left off before coffee. I would fall into a deep sleep, waking to the day that I quit HellJob.
What your dream day off?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Woman with the Accent.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Pools of Sorrow, Waves of Joy
"Say the word and you'll be free, say the word and be like me, say the word I'm thinking of, have you heard the word is love? It's so fine, It's sunshine, It's the word, love." The Beatles from "The Word"
In a strange twist of conformity, the nurse burst into my room with the manic cackle of a hyena with an Angel Dust habit. Twirling like a dervish, shiny colorful pills splaying around the room in a rainbow of hallucinogenic medication. Just as she was surely about to slit my throat with the heel of one of her razor sharp stilettos, one of the steroid downing orderlies tackled her with the exuberance of a juiced up linebacker. That mad man with the grape nuts sized sack saved my bacon. As I thanked him, he informed me that it was no problem, he was warned that earlier in the day the nurse had gotten into the medication prior to her shift after listening to The Beatles "Rubber Soul" for an entire week. Hearing that got me to thinking.
This week the wisdom and power of the Beatles has hit me on a few different fronts. First, while SuperMom humored me by sitting through another viewing of "Across The Universe" we got to chat-chitting about how I have to, sometimes, introduce her to songs from her own generation. It doesn't bother her, because she was basically as square as June Cleaver growing up. She graduated in 1966, prime time to be a peace loving, pot smoking, dancing to the music, hippy, but alas it was not meant to be. She wasn't down with the counter culture, not a motivator, innovator, aviator or eating taters. She was all about West Coast surf music, which is a huge influence on me, but that's for another blog. During this Beatles flavored conversation she informed me that "Hey Jude" was her favorite tune from the Fab Four. A later song? I was floored. I figured, if any song, it would be a Meet The Beatles era tune like "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" or "Love Me Do." Never would I have guessed that she would be a fan of a song with the complexities of "Hey Jude".
Those that know me well can tell you that my favorite Beatles symphony is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", but the reason may elude even the Atomic One. I was thinking about this earlier this week. When I was a wee Cub Scout of a lad I had a friend named Eric Wood. His pop was our scout master, yes I was a Cub Scout so what, and also his dad was the local fire chief. It was at the Wood house that I first remember hearing the Beatles and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" was the song. Now whenever I hear it, I am instantly transported Jason Statham style, back tot he simple carefree times of my adolescents.
As I have gotten older my appreciation for the wisdom of the Beatles lyrics has become a major influence on me as a writer. Not only do I quote them at random, but there are certain lines that seem to speak directly to me. "If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true, and help me understand". I get that on a very non-trusting, I have no clue about women level that has plagued me my entire life. "And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world on your shoulders". Sometimes I feel that I am Charles Atlas and the globe is resting in my not so gym chiseled arms. Though I tend to roll with the flow on most things, I sometimes need to remind myself that I am not everything to everyone. And this last one is just now starting to hit me like a baseball bat to the kidneys. "All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends and I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life, I've loved them all." I miss my California friends deeply, I miss those familiar places, and I have often fell for the right girl at the wrong time, but my love for them was never in doubt. It was true, pure, and painful. Even the ones that blew it off as a simple crush or something else entirely.
The best thing about a song, especially a great song, is that the lyrics and melody combine to illicit different emotions from each and every one of us. The Beatles have an entire catalog of tunes that will makes us laugh, cry, think, love, and want to die. That's the magic of those four lads from Liverpool.
Songs by them that affect you and why?
Dixie Cup of Love: Them All.
In a strange twist of conformity, the nurse burst into my room with the manic cackle of a hyena with an Angel Dust habit. Twirling like a dervish, shiny colorful pills splaying around the room in a rainbow of hallucinogenic medication. Just as she was surely about to slit my throat with the heel of one of her razor sharp stilettos, one of the steroid downing orderlies tackled her with the exuberance of a juiced up linebacker. That mad man with the grape nuts sized sack saved my bacon. As I thanked him, he informed me that it was no problem, he was warned that earlier in the day the nurse had gotten into the medication prior to her shift after listening to The Beatles "Rubber Soul" for an entire week. Hearing that got me to thinking.
This week the wisdom and power of the Beatles has hit me on a few different fronts. First, while SuperMom humored me by sitting through another viewing of "Across The Universe" we got to chat-chitting about how I have to, sometimes, introduce her to songs from her own generation. It doesn't bother her, because she was basically as square as June Cleaver growing up. She graduated in 1966, prime time to be a peace loving, pot smoking, dancing to the music, hippy, but alas it was not meant to be. She wasn't down with the counter culture, not a motivator, innovator, aviator or eating taters. She was all about West Coast surf music, which is a huge influence on me, but that's for another blog. During this Beatles flavored conversation she informed me that "Hey Jude" was her favorite tune from the Fab Four. A later song? I was floored. I figured, if any song, it would be a Meet The Beatles era tune like "I Wanna Hold Your Hand" or "Love Me Do." Never would I have guessed that she would be a fan of a song with the complexities of "Hey Jude".
Those that know me well can tell you that my favorite Beatles symphony is "While My Guitar Gently Weeps", but the reason may elude even the Atomic One. I was thinking about this earlier this week. When I was a wee Cub Scout of a lad I had a friend named Eric Wood. His pop was our scout master, yes I was a Cub Scout so what, and also his dad was the local fire chief. It was at the Wood house that I first remember hearing the Beatles and "While My Guitar Gently Weeps" was the song. Now whenever I hear it, I am instantly transported Jason Statham style, back tot he simple carefree times of my adolescents.
As I have gotten older my appreciation for the wisdom of the Beatles lyrics has become a major influence on me as a writer. Not only do I quote them at random, but there are certain lines that seem to speak directly to me. "If I fell in love with you, would you promise to be true, and help me understand". I get that on a very non-trusting, I have no clue about women level that has plagued me my entire life. "And anytime you feel the pain, hey Jude, refrain, don't carry the world on your shoulders". Sometimes I feel that I am Charles Atlas and the globe is resting in my not so gym chiseled arms. Though I tend to roll with the flow on most things, I sometimes need to remind myself that I am not everything to everyone. And this last one is just now starting to hit me like a baseball bat to the kidneys. "All these places have their moments, with lovers and friends and I still can recall. Some are dead and some are living, in my life, I've loved them all." I miss my California friends deeply, I miss those familiar places, and I have often fell for the right girl at the wrong time, but my love for them was never in doubt. It was true, pure, and painful. Even the ones that blew it off as a simple crush or something else entirely.
The best thing about a song, especially a great song, is that the lyrics and melody combine to illicit different emotions from each and every one of us. The Beatles have an entire catalog of tunes that will makes us laugh, cry, think, love, and want to die. That's the magic of those four lads from Liverpool.
Songs by them that affect you and why?
Dixie Cup of Love: Them All.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Shopping At Leftorium
"Now, there's a certain thing, that I learned from my friend, Mouse. A fella who always blushes and that is that ev'ryone must always flush out his house. If he don't expect to be goin' 'round housing flushes. Open the door, Homer." Bob Dylan from "Open the Door, Homer"
When the nurse came in with my morning melancholy makers she was looking a little jaundiced, yellow to be more precise. It wasn't a good color on her. she wore her tight white uniform nicely, bursting out of it in all the appropriate areas, and I'd seen her looking her devilish best after a long day in the sun, burned red as an apple,. But this new color, this discoloration caused by God know what, vitamin deficiency, bad Ted Turner style colorization, or a bad tanning session, it didn't matter, but it looked bad. Yellow, after all, is not the new black.
For the better part of 19 years a family of yellow people have come into our living rooms, never showing the slightest signs of ageing. Kids who have just graduated high school have never known a world without them. They have introduced words into our lexicon, have shaped the way we view nuclear energy, and gave us enough jabs at organized religion that a book was written on their religious philosophies. They are the Simpsons.
It's hard to imagine the world without Homer and Bart. Sure Marge, Lisa, and Maggie mean something to us as well, but it's the males of Springfield that we idolize like rock stars. In the beginning the show focused on Bart. His trails and tribulations with Principal Skinner, Mrs Krabappel, and Krusty the Clown sucked us into the eye of the hurricane. Once we were hooked, fish caught in the net, they turned our attention to Homer. We started hanging out with Barney, Moe, Lenny and Carl. we got to know about Wayland Smithers alternative lifestyle and that more rock bands play Springfield than Cleveland.
My favorite episode of the Simpsons is the one in which Bart becomes a daredevil and announces for the town to hear that is going to jump Springfield Gorge on his skateboard. There's a line from Ott, who as the only adult present thinks that he should say something. His word of advice: "Coooool". But in the end it is Homer who nearly pulls off the impossible. The reason it reigns supreme for me is simple. Truck-a-Saurus.
There are over 300, closing in on 400 episodes to choose from and for some it will be a nearly impossible task to choose a favorite,. Be it a Sideshow Bob episode, Or Bleeding Gums Murphy, or Pattie and Selma, Apu, Dr. Marvin Monroe, Reverend Lovejoy, or everyones favorite neighbor, Ned Flanders the choice is tough. So hard that some won't even attempt to name one, but no matter what, I doubt any of us could imagine a world without what my nephew calls "The Yellow People".
What's your favorite episode? Or Character?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tracey Ullman
When the nurse came in with my morning melancholy makers she was looking a little jaundiced, yellow to be more precise. It wasn't a good color on her. she wore her tight white uniform nicely, bursting out of it in all the appropriate areas, and I'd seen her looking her devilish best after a long day in the sun, burned red as an apple,. But this new color, this discoloration caused by God know what, vitamin deficiency, bad Ted Turner style colorization, or a bad tanning session, it didn't matter, but it looked bad. Yellow, after all, is not the new black.
For the better part of 19 years a family of yellow people have come into our living rooms, never showing the slightest signs of ageing. Kids who have just graduated high school have never known a world without them. They have introduced words into our lexicon, have shaped the way we view nuclear energy, and gave us enough jabs at organized religion that a book was written on their religious philosophies. They are the Simpsons.
It's hard to imagine the world without Homer and Bart. Sure Marge, Lisa, and Maggie mean something to us as well, but it's the males of Springfield that we idolize like rock stars. In the beginning the show focused on Bart. His trails and tribulations with Principal Skinner, Mrs Krabappel, and Krusty the Clown sucked us into the eye of the hurricane. Once we were hooked, fish caught in the net, they turned our attention to Homer. We started hanging out with Barney, Moe, Lenny and Carl. we got to know about Wayland Smithers alternative lifestyle and that more rock bands play Springfield than Cleveland.
My favorite episode of the Simpsons is the one in which Bart becomes a daredevil and announces for the town to hear that is going to jump Springfield Gorge on his skateboard. There's a line from Ott, who as the only adult present thinks that he should say something. His word of advice: "Coooool". But in the end it is Homer who nearly pulls off the impossible. The reason it reigns supreme for me is simple. Truck-a-Saurus.
There are over 300, closing in on 400 episodes to choose from and for some it will be a nearly impossible task to choose a favorite,. Be it a Sideshow Bob episode, Or Bleeding Gums Murphy, or Pattie and Selma, Apu, Dr. Marvin Monroe, Reverend Lovejoy, or everyones favorite neighbor, Ned Flanders the choice is tough. So hard that some won't even attempt to name one, but no matter what, I doubt any of us could imagine a world without what my nephew calls "The Yellow People".
What's your favorite episode? Or Character?
Dixie Cup of Love: Tracey Ullman
Friday, July 18, 2008
Two Isn't Always Better Than One
"So much for a movie ending romance, Revise and rewrite. I'm uninspired, the script is tired, The cast is looking at me with murderous minds." Math and Physics Club from "Movie Ending Romance"
Debating in the Asylum is a lot like talking to yourself. Sure you can make some stunningly astute observations, but no one is even pretending to listen. Such was the case last night as the nurse and I got into a heated argument about sequels. Her contention was that no sequel has ever surpassed the oringinal in entertainment value. Though for the most point I agree with the little tramp, there are a few spectacular exceptions to the rule.
In general I will admit that when I see a number two or the word "again" after a movie title my first reaction is disgust. Sitting through "Big Momma's House" once was brutal, even with Paul Giamatti trying his darnedest to save it. The thought of subjecting my precious buttocks to another hour and half of Martin Lawrence in a fat suit and dress would border on sado-masochism. As much as I love hammering my own ego into dust, that's the most self induced punishment that i will tolerate.
However there are those sqeuels that match, if not exceed, their primordial ancestors. Officially, if this is what you rank things by, the Godfather Part 2 has been the only sequel to win the Oscar for Best Picture, though Return of the King is, I guess, a sequel of sorts. The reason I discount Return of the King on a sequel level is that it's the end of the trilogy, and the Oscar may have been awarded for the entire effort, not the singular film. It was the end of the Lord of the Rings story, where as The Godfather Part 2 was an excellent companion to the first. Equal in quality of story, originality in story telling, casting and tone. The third Godfather film, though somehow nominated for the most prized of awards, is a huge blunder and stain on the Godfather name. It turned Michael into a pussy, crying in the kitchen for his trecherous dead brother. Then, as if that wasn't enough, the horrible nepotistic casting of Sophia Coppola as Mary, well, it was the cement shoes that sunk the flick like a mob snitch in the Hudson.
When it comes to being better, the only one I can think of at the moment is X-Men II. Better characters, tighter story, more action, far superior to the O.G. Then X-Men III, you lose the director, you lose the cohesive vision. Bryan Singer should have left Superman for Tim Burton and Kevin Smith to fight over,. X-Men franchise killer, Brett Ratner. Some will say Spiderman II and I will have a hard time disagreeing, in the first one it was a huge mistake to hide Willem DaFoe behind an immovable mask, what a waste of an actor.
There are two possible contenders in theaters now that may change my mind. The Dark Knight might just be better than Batman Begins, certainly looks that way on the commercials, and then there is Hellboy II which would have to be spectacular to get my vote, but it's possible.
Got a favortie sequel? Or ones that you hate?
Dixie Cup of Love: Francis Ford Coppola
Debating in the Asylum is a lot like talking to yourself. Sure you can make some stunningly astute observations, but no one is even pretending to listen. Such was the case last night as the nurse and I got into a heated argument about sequels. Her contention was that no sequel has ever surpassed the oringinal in entertainment value. Though for the most point I agree with the little tramp, there are a few spectacular exceptions to the rule.
In general I will admit that when I see a number two or the word "again" after a movie title my first reaction is disgust. Sitting through "Big Momma's House" once was brutal, even with Paul Giamatti trying his darnedest to save it. The thought of subjecting my precious buttocks to another hour and half of Martin Lawrence in a fat suit and dress would border on sado-masochism. As much as I love hammering my own ego into dust, that's the most self induced punishment that i will tolerate.
However there are those sqeuels that match, if not exceed, their primordial ancestors. Officially, if this is what you rank things by, the Godfather Part 2 has been the only sequel to win the Oscar for Best Picture, though Return of the King is, I guess, a sequel of sorts. The reason I discount Return of the King on a sequel level is that it's the end of the trilogy, and the Oscar may have been awarded for the entire effort, not the singular film. It was the end of the Lord of the Rings story, where as The Godfather Part 2 was an excellent companion to the first. Equal in quality of story, originality in story telling, casting and tone. The third Godfather film, though somehow nominated for the most prized of awards, is a huge blunder and stain on the Godfather name. It turned Michael into a pussy, crying in the kitchen for his trecherous dead brother. Then, as if that wasn't enough, the horrible nepotistic casting of Sophia Coppola as Mary, well, it was the cement shoes that sunk the flick like a mob snitch in the Hudson.
When it comes to being better, the only one I can think of at the moment is X-Men II. Better characters, tighter story, more action, far superior to the O.G. Then X-Men III, you lose the director, you lose the cohesive vision. Bryan Singer should have left Superman for Tim Burton and Kevin Smith to fight over,. X-Men franchise killer, Brett Ratner. Some will say Spiderman II and I will have a hard time disagreeing, in the first one it was a huge mistake to hide Willem DaFoe behind an immovable mask, what a waste of an actor.
There are two possible contenders in theaters now that may change my mind. The Dark Knight might just be better than Batman Begins, certainly looks that way on the commercials, and then there is Hellboy II which would have to be spectacular to get my vote, but it's possible.
Got a favortie sequel? Or ones that you hate?
Dixie Cup of Love: Francis Ford Coppola
Thursday, July 17, 2008
"Sometimes it's fine, Sometimes I know just what it's all worth. Sometimes it's fine, Sometimes it feels like heaven on earth." Stiff Little Fingers from "Cold"
The nurse brought me with a sandwich with my Dixie cup of Dopamine doublers. I don't know what caused this ingestible gesture but after dealing with the cafeteria food for so long I was grateful for the outside edible. As I unwrapped the hoagie I noticed that it was half eaten. What the hell? That's when the nurse smiled like a ghoul and told me that it was her leftover lunch. Worse than that it was a hot sandwich which was now cold. Fantastic, she's so good to me.
When it comes to the kitchen, I can get around with the dexterity of a cat with attention deficit disorder. Not just a heat and eat guy, I can make a batch of cookies, cheesecakes from scratch, and plenty more. But I also know when to save the microwave and enjoy my left overs cold.
Some foods, not all mind you, but some taste wonderful when served straight from the ice box.
Chief among them greatest cold left overs is SuperMom's meatloaf. A sandwich, mayo, ketchup, a slice of cheese and a healthy, or completely unhealthy, slab of cold meatloaf can be a meal all in itself.
Now, any college student or poor person worth their salt knows that while pizza straight from the Queen of Coins delivery service is awesome, it can be even better the next day, cold. Not all ingredients make for a good cold slice. Pepperoni isn't my favorite, ham and pineapple, though, that's the stuff of dreams. Supreme pizza, the veggies tend to loose their snap in the fridge so I would pass on that as well. I'm sure the Queen will have some excellent advice for you on this.
Spaghetti. Mixed with a nice marinara meat sauce, is delectable when frigid. I have been known at times to place cold spaghetti between two slices of Wonder bread and wallowed in the carb load sandwich. It's decadent and bad for you, but isn't the best stuff always bad for you?
What's your favorite cold leftover?
Dixie Cup of Love: MeatLoaf, cause naming yourself after a glob a meat is tough.
The nurse brought me with a sandwich with my Dixie cup of Dopamine doublers. I don't know what caused this ingestible gesture but after dealing with the cafeteria food for so long I was grateful for the outside edible. As I unwrapped the hoagie I noticed that it was half eaten. What the hell? That's when the nurse smiled like a ghoul and told me that it was her leftover lunch. Worse than that it was a hot sandwich which was now cold. Fantastic, she's so good to me.
When it comes to the kitchen, I can get around with the dexterity of a cat with attention deficit disorder. Not just a heat and eat guy, I can make a batch of cookies, cheesecakes from scratch, and plenty more. But I also know when to save the microwave and enjoy my left overs cold.
Some foods, not all mind you, but some taste wonderful when served straight from the ice box.
Chief among them greatest cold left overs is SuperMom's meatloaf. A sandwich, mayo, ketchup, a slice of cheese and a healthy, or completely unhealthy, slab of cold meatloaf can be a meal all in itself.
Now, any college student or poor person worth their salt knows that while pizza straight from the Queen of Coins delivery service is awesome, it can be even better the next day, cold. Not all ingredients make for a good cold slice. Pepperoni isn't my favorite, ham and pineapple, though, that's the stuff of dreams. Supreme pizza, the veggies tend to loose their snap in the fridge so I would pass on that as well. I'm sure the Queen will have some excellent advice for you on this.
Spaghetti. Mixed with a nice marinara meat sauce, is delectable when frigid. I have been known at times to place cold spaghetti between two slices of Wonder bread and wallowed in the carb load sandwich. It's decadent and bad for you, but isn't the best stuff always bad for you?
What's your favorite cold leftover?
Dixie Cup of Love: MeatLoaf, cause naming yourself after a glob a meat is tough.
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