"It's in the way that you use it, Boy don't you know. So don't you ever abuse it, Don't let it go." Eric Clapton from "It's In The Way That You Use It"
The nurse came in today with a skip in her step.. I know that it had nothing to do with me, so I asked her if she went out trolling for victims. Yes, she said, she did go out but not to find an artery in which to sink her fangs in, instead, she said she just went to play some billiards and have a good time. I guess it was snanks night off from devouring. But as she skipped around the room it got me to thinking.
There are things in this world that go together. Peanut butter and jelly, Tom and Jerry, Ben and Jerry, loneliness and me. There are things that we always assume work better together than apart. Things like burgers and fries, Kate and Allie, Simon and Simon, BJ and the Bear, drinking and smoking. But no to things are so connected that they couldn't live without one another, except playing pool and hair metal.
Why is it that when the rack is set we feel the need to hear Whitesnake? Tawny Kitaen cartwheeled across that Jaguar over 21 years ago. Steve Miller Bands "The Joker" came out in 1977. Is there any reason the kids that are populating the pool halls and bars are relating to this music? And classic rock gets an exemption from me. Yes, hearing Led Zeppelin while sinking the 9 ball of the snap like Fast Eddie Felson is a pure entertainment. Yes, "Paranoid" by Black Sabbath should be played at least once a night in these dens of degradation. But why the hair metal. Cinderella? Are you kidding me? Poison? Give me a break, I swear if I hear "Every Rose Has It's Thorns" one more time I'm killing people, I don't care where I am. Do I need to hear "Cherry Pie" without getting to see the smoking hot girl in the video? No, I think that time has passed.
Is it so hard to shoot pool to Emo? Isn't your Fall Out Boy and Panic At The Disco enough for these kids? Do I really have to hear "Bad To The Bone" three times a night? I get it, you're bad, to the bone, now put on some Bob Knows Best for Christ sake. At least it would be funny as compared to the 12 bar blues of George Thoughorgood, for the One Gagillionth time.
Last night as I sat at the bar, downing Captain and Coke like it was a cure, I hear so many songs that made me sick, I barely knew where to begin. So I asked Bree the bartender why she thought the Jukebox from 1987 was still in service. The gorgeous barmaid gave me a smile and said that no good music had been made since 1988. Horse pucky I said slamming my fist to the bar so hard that it spilled my drink on Ashleigh, the three fingered hooker. Bree had no idea, Ashleigh was headed for the bathroom to wring out her clothes, cause who would want a hooker that wreaked of spiced Rum and soda pop?
The point that I am taking way to long to get to is this: Where's the pool hall greats of today? Where are the songs that make you want to play that cue stick like a guitar? Where's the Appetite For Destruction ( or the Chines Democracy for that matter). Where's the Swing Town? Where's the Brown Eyed Girl?
Are the classic songs gone? Is anyone writing music that is worthy of Color of Money status? What are your favorite songs to shoot some stick too?
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Unscheduled Stop
"I'm not aware of too many things, I know what I know if you know what I mean" Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians from "What I Am"
Today, as I mellowed out after my medication, the nurse came back in to talk. She wanted to set me straight on a few delusions that I had been harboring, little fugitive thoughts that I was keeping from the harsh reality of the light. One of the reasons I remain in this Asylum is I chose it. It's a wonderfully false world that allows me to be a version of myself. Not always the real me but, like Beatlemania, an incredible facsimile. Having the nurse spell out in one short paragraph what I wasn't able to wrap my mind around cracked my facade to the mortar.
First of all, the comments are being disabled today for two reasons. One is I have some family issues that I have to deal with and won't have time to answer all your comments. Two, I don't think comments are gonna be easy to come up with so, I'm letting you off the hook. Tomorrow we will return to our normal scheduled hijinx.
What I really am.
I'm delusional. I'm irresponsible with other people's feelings. I'm confused about what I expect from life. I'm inadequate in my own mind. I'm prone to fits of irrational jealousy. I'm self centered and opinionated, a horrible combination. I'm walking around in a near constant state of sadness. I'm more alone in a crowded room than I am when I'm by myself. I'm and idealist and a dreamer who prefers my fantasies to reality more often then I care to admit. I'm smart enough to finish the NY Times crossword puzzle and too stupid to realize that it doesn't mean shit.
What I am not.
I'm not the writer that I want to be. I'm not all that likable. I'm not very in touch with how other people feel about me. I'm not a bad guy. I'm not trying to hurt anyone. I'm not comfortable in difficult relationships. I'm not sure that I won't die alone. I'm not sure if I have what it takes. I'm not going in sane. I'm not about to give up.
What I'm becoming.
I'm becoming the man I wish I was through hard work and determination. I'm becoming the writer I want to be. I'm becoming more accepting everyday. I'm becoming worthy of you. I'm becoming a better person. I'm becoming more compassionate. I'm becoming undone by the truth, and I'm also becoming stronger by dealing with it.
What I wish.
I wish that things were different. I wish that I was proud, strong, secure, and happy. I wish you the best life you can imagine. I wish you undeniable happiness. I wish I didn't have to wish for these things.
Dixie Cup of Love : You.
Today, as I mellowed out after my medication, the nurse came back in to talk. She wanted to set me straight on a few delusions that I had been harboring, little fugitive thoughts that I was keeping from the harsh reality of the light. One of the reasons I remain in this Asylum is I chose it. It's a wonderfully false world that allows me to be a version of myself. Not always the real me but, like Beatlemania, an incredible facsimile. Having the nurse spell out in one short paragraph what I wasn't able to wrap my mind around cracked my facade to the mortar.
First of all, the comments are being disabled today for two reasons. One is I have some family issues that I have to deal with and won't have time to answer all your comments. Two, I don't think comments are gonna be easy to come up with so, I'm letting you off the hook. Tomorrow we will return to our normal scheduled hijinx.
What I really am.
I'm delusional. I'm irresponsible with other people's feelings. I'm confused about what I expect from life. I'm inadequate in my own mind. I'm prone to fits of irrational jealousy. I'm self centered and opinionated, a horrible combination. I'm walking around in a near constant state of sadness. I'm more alone in a crowded room than I am when I'm by myself. I'm and idealist and a dreamer who prefers my fantasies to reality more often then I care to admit. I'm smart enough to finish the NY Times crossword puzzle and too stupid to realize that it doesn't mean shit.
What I am not.
I'm not the writer that I want to be. I'm not all that likable. I'm not very in touch with how other people feel about me. I'm not a bad guy. I'm not trying to hurt anyone. I'm not comfortable in difficult relationships. I'm not sure that I won't die alone. I'm not sure if I have what it takes. I'm not going in sane. I'm not about to give up.
What I'm becoming.
I'm becoming the man I wish I was through hard work and determination. I'm becoming the writer I want to be. I'm becoming more accepting everyday. I'm becoming worthy of you. I'm becoming a better person. I'm becoming more compassionate. I'm becoming undone by the truth, and I'm also becoming stronger by dealing with it.
What I wish.
I wish that things were different. I wish that I was proud, strong, secure, and happy. I wish you the best life you can imagine. I wish you undeniable happiness. I wish I didn't have to wish for these things.
Dixie Cup of Love : You.
Friday, May 2, 2008
"Overkill, overview, Over my dead body,,Over me, over you, Over everybody. Too much information running through my brain. Too much information driving me insane" The Police from "Too Much Information"
Somebody must have pulled the string on the Chatty Cathy Surgically Enhanced Nurse doll because as she dropped pills in my mouth like a courtesan feeding grapes to Caesar she would not shut up. Her verbal assault and battery hammered me with bullets of information I just didn't need to know. Why would I give a rats blistery ass about her cramps? Do I seem like the king of sociopath that wants to hear about any one's first boyfriend Jimmy? As I prayed for a meteor to crash through the roof and crush the life out of her, I drifted off in the sweet bliss of dreamland, sponsored by Ambien.
Intelligence in the country must be at an all time low. Is it possible that we are de-evolving to a Jessica Simpson like mental state? Will I one day wake up[ to realize that crayons do, in fact, taste like purple? I can hear you out there, those are some disgusting noises coming from the Tri-State area, but anyway, you're saying "We're not getting no more dumber". But how else to you explain the way television treats us. And I'm not even talking about the insipidness of reality TV. I'm talking about adspace.
There are things that, as an alpha male, type A personality, Scorpio, Buddha Adonis I don't need commercials for in order to know that they are necessary and I must have them. For instance, I had the great displeasure of watching a couple lying in bed, smile splashed across their overly eager faces, as the woman tells about how she likes it for the tingling sensation. The hapless oaf next to her just nods in agreement. Then Sally Spinderella shucks more bullshit at me as she points to the chucklehead and says "He likes if for the silky smoothness." Again, nothing but smiles form the semi-human bobblehead taking up half the mattress. The across the television screen I see "KY Lubricants". Well no wonder he was smiling like a jack-o-lantern, it was butt sex time. Ridiculous. This commercial in not necessary. If I'm going to enjoy the company of a Sahara crotch, I knew where to get lube, in a jiffy.
OR. You see a woman in her middle years on a swing set with a much younger, hotter girl. I know the line is coming because this ad is the main sponsor of my "Girls Next Door" marathon, some ad executive should be shot. "Mom, do you ever get that not so fresh feeling?" Are you fucking kidding me? And the mom does that tilted head with a smile like she knew the question was coming look. "I knew you were gonna ask, I can smell you from here." Then the mom shoves a plastic bottle of Italian salad dressing the younger woman's Calvin's. I understand that its necessary to maintain good feminine hygiene, must I see commercials for it.
Limp dick. Get Cialis. Sorry to bother you while your eating dinner with my boner problems, please enjoy the bratwurst. Charmin, it's squeezable soft. Yeah, and it's for wiping my ass, not like I can live without it, not need for a commercial. These are products, yes, that we need. Do we need to have a non-stop barrage of these silly innuendo fueled commercials? Then we wonder why the youngsters seem to be growing up before their time. I didn't know what an erection was until I was 12, my nine year old nephew knows that if it lasts for more than 4 hours he should call a doctor. You can't just blame the shows, you must place some of the blame on the commercials. And speaking of that, if I'm paying for satellite or cable TV, why do I have to endure ads at all? Even watching HBO I have to put up with their constant self promotion. It's a world go mad I tell ya, gone mad.
What commercials do you hate? Or love?
Dixie Cup of Love: Super Mom for inspiring this with a brilliant rant.
Somebody must have pulled the string on the Chatty Cathy Surgically Enhanced Nurse doll because as she dropped pills in my mouth like a courtesan feeding grapes to Caesar she would not shut up. Her verbal assault and battery hammered me with bullets of information I just didn't need to know. Why would I give a rats blistery ass about her cramps? Do I seem like the king of sociopath that wants to hear about any one's first boyfriend Jimmy? As I prayed for a meteor to crash through the roof and crush the life out of her, I drifted off in the sweet bliss of dreamland, sponsored by Ambien.
Intelligence in the country must be at an all time low. Is it possible that we are de-evolving to a Jessica Simpson like mental state? Will I one day wake up[ to realize that crayons do, in fact, taste like purple? I can hear you out there, those are some disgusting noises coming from the Tri-State area, but anyway, you're saying "We're not getting no more dumber". But how else to you explain the way television treats us. And I'm not even talking about the insipidness of reality TV. I'm talking about adspace.
There are things that, as an alpha male, type A personality, Scorpio, Buddha Adonis I don't need commercials for in order to know that they are necessary and I must have them. For instance, I had the great displeasure of watching a couple lying in bed, smile splashed across their overly eager faces, as the woman tells about how she likes it for the tingling sensation. The hapless oaf next to her just nods in agreement. Then Sally Spinderella shucks more bullshit at me as she points to the chucklehead and says "He likes if for the silky smoothness." Again, nothing but smiles form the semi-human bobblehead taking up half the mattress. The across the television screen I see "KY Lubricants". Well no wonder he was smiling like a jack-o-lantern, it was butt sex time. Ridiculous. This commercial in not necessary. If I'm going to enjoy the company of a Sahara crotch, I knew where to get lube, in a jiffy.
OR. You see a woman in her middle years on a swing set with a much younger, hotter girl. I know the line is coming because this ad is the main sponsor of my "Girls Next Door" marathon, some ad executive should be shot. "Mom, do you ever get that not so fresh feeling?" Are you fucking kidding me? And the mom does that tilted head with a smile like she knew the question was coming look. "I knew you were gonna ask, I can smell you from here." Then the mom shoves a plastic bottle of Italian salad dressing the younger woman's Calvin's. I understand that its necessary to maintain good feminine hygiene, must I see commercials for it.
Limp dick. Get Cialis. Sorry to bother you while your eating dinner with my boner problems, please enjoy the bratwurst. Charmin, it's squeezable soft. Yeah, and it's for wiping my ass, not like I can live without it, not need for a commercial. These are products, yes, that we need. Do we need to have a non-stop barrage of these silly innuendo fueled commercials? Then we wonder why the youngsters seem to be growing up before their time. I didn't know what an erection was until I was 12, my nine year old nephew knows that if it lasts for more than 4 hours he should call a doctor. You can't just blame the shows, you must place some of the blame on the commercials. And speaking of that, if I'm paying for satellite or cable TV, why do I have to endure ads at all? Even watching HBO I have to put up with their constant self promotion. It's a world go mad I tell ya, gone mad.
What commercials do you hate? Or love?
Dixie Cup of Love: Super Mom for inspiring this with a brilliant rant.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
Going Postal
"I've been really hungry, baby. Trying to hold back these cravings for so long, and if you feel like getting a meal baby, come on, oh, come, let's go to Vons" Bob Knows Best from "Let's Go To Vons"
As the nurse entered with my morning Dixie cup of alternate reality inducers I smelled something that hadn't hit my sinus cavity since I was remanded to the Asylum for my own protection. The source of the scent was vexing until she bent over me, her bosom nearly spilling out of her tight white uniform. The aroma was coming from her. Specifically, her mouth. She had eaten a chili burger from Tommy's before work. That selfish tramp didn't even bring me so much as a french fry. And smelling that delicious sandwich on her breath got me to thinking.
The Food Network, according to a friend of mine, is ESPN of fat people. Not the most politically correct of statements, as I prefer the non de plume of "Big Boned American", but the gist of his analogy was pretty hysterical. But what is a food lover to do? Eating the same thing, even if it's the greatest mean ever prepared, eating it everyday would turn it into something you despise. Imagine your favorite chow, now imagine that it's Law and Order, on every friggin night, different side dishes, but the "boong boong" is still happening every time the screen goes black. Eventually, you change the channel to one of the 27 CSI's on CBS.
Super Mom makes my favorite dish for me, maybe, twice a year. Once for my birthday and if I'm lucky I get it once more during the course of the year. Lasagna. A giant dish of flat noodles, meat, sauce, and cheese.. It's the most perfect, yes I know it's improper English, there can't be a better than perfect, tell that to the guys that wrote that "more perfect Union" line in the Constitution, but anyway, there is no food that can can supplant Lasagna in my heart. Well, at least as far as home cooked fare goes.
When it comes to fast food, I am in hell. Don't get me wrong The Slow has it's charms and the Barbecue here will make your eyes bleed sauce, it's that good. But there is no Tommy's. No Del Taco. No In and Out. No good char-broiled burgers what-so-ever. In California I was spoiled by these things, as my waist line will testify, but here I'm like Richard Kimble looking for the One Armed Burgermeister. A good cheeseburger is like good sex. It satisfies. It's fulfilling. And a day or two later you want some more. Now that I'm not getting either, I'm starting to understand those people that snap and shoot twenty people waiting in line for stamps. All of them could be saved by a blow job and a burger basket.
Now go out to eat, and I'm talking dining here, there's only one p[lace that is worthy of my undying love. Lowry's Prime Rib. Don Jerry, reputed mob boss and father of Atomic, took, no that's the wrong word, treated the Jew and I, along with Atomic, to a dining experience that has forever stained my brain with lustful thoughts of 1 1/2 inch cuts of prime rib, red, medium rare, juicy as an Otter Pop, steak of the Gods. I salivate at the mere mention of the succulent beef. To you vegetarians, vegans, and PETA activists out there, you have no idea what you are missing. If God didn't want us to eat cows, she wouldn't have made them taste so good.
What's your favorite meal? Home cooked? Fast food? Favorite place to dine?
Dixie Cup of Love: Don Jerry
As the nurse entered with my morning Dixie cup of alternate reality inducers I smelled something that hadn't hit my sinus cavity since I was remanded to the Asylum for my own protection. The source of the scent was vexing until she bent over me, her bosom nearly spilling out of her tight white uniform. The aroma was coming from her. Specifically, her mouth. She had eaten a chili burger from Tommy's before work. That selfish tramp didn't even bring me so much as a french fry. And smelling that delicious sandwich on her breath got me to thinking.
The Food Network, according to a friend of mine, is ESPN of fat people. Not the most politically correct of statements, as I prefer the non de plume of "Big Boned American", but the gist of his analogy was pretty hysterical. But what is a food lover to do? Eating the same thing, even if it's the greatest mean ever prepared, eating it everyday would turn it into something you despise. Imagine your favorite chow, now imagine that it's Law and Order, on every friggin night, different side dishes, but the "boong boong" is still happening every time the screen goes black. Eventually, you change the channel to one of the 27 CSI's on CBS.
Super Mom makes my favorite dish for me, maybe, twice a year. Once for my birthday and if I'm lucky I get it once more during the course of the year. Lasagna. A giant dish of flat noodles, meat, sauce, and cheese.. It's the most perfect, yes I know it's improper English, there can't be a better than perfect, tell that to the guys that wrote that "more perfect Union" line in the Constitution, but anyway, there is no food that can can supplant Lasagna in my heart. Well, at least as far as home cooked fare goes.
When it comes to fast food, I am in hell. Don't get me wrong The Slow has it's charms and the Barbecue here will make your eyes bleed sauce, it's that good. But there is no Tommy's. No Del Taco. No In and Out. No good char-broiled burgers what-so-ever. In California I was spoiled by these things, as my waist line will testify, but here I'm like Richard Kimble looking for the One Armed Burgermeister. A good cheeseburger is like good sex. It satisfies. It's fulfilling. And a day or two later you want some more. Now that I'm not getting either, I'm starting to understand those people that snap and shoot twenty people waiting in line for stamps. All of them could be saved by a blow job and a burger basket.
Now go out to eat, and I'm talking dining here, there's only one p[lace that is worthy of my undying love. Lowry's Prime Rib. Don Jerry, reputed mob boss and father of Atomic, took, no that's the wrong word, treated the Jew and I, along with Atomic, to a dining experience that has forever stained my brain with lustful thoughts of 1 1/2 inch cuts of prime rib, red, medium rare, juicy as an Otter Pop, steak of the Gods. I salivate at the mere mention of the succulent beef. To you vegetarians, vegans, and PETA activists out there, you have no idea what you are missing. If God didn't want us to eat cows, she wouldn't have made them taste so good.
What's your favorite meal? Home cooked? Fast food? Favorite place to dine?
Dixie Cup of Love: Don Jerry
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Neon Sign of Destiny
"I left there in a hurry, looking forward to my big surprise. the next I discovered, that the fortune teller told me a lie." The Rolling Stones from "Fortune Teller"
The nurse had what I can only describe as a queer look upon her face. Not queer in the Isiah Washington calls her a faggot way, but in the Daniel Day Lewis is a nutty brilliant bastard kind of creep. She looked off kilter. As she forced a handful of meds into my pie hole I mumbled something about her not quite seeming like her dirty whore self. After a moments pause, she fessed up that she had been to a psychic and she was a little tossed by what she had learned. I swallowed my dose of peaceful easing feelings and drifted off thinking about what the nurse had told me.
Dionne Warwick and I are never going to be friends. It has nothing to do with her niece, Whitney Houston, being a crack addicted wack-o. It has everything to do with her lending name and image to her ridiculous Psychics Friends Network. She might as well of called it the How To Rip Off The Gullible Sheep Of The World Network. I would think that she was Satan incarnate, a title that rests on Dick Cheney's mantel, if it weren't for the lemmings that racked up ginormous phone bills because they wanted to get real answers from a telephone operator. Now I know you think that I'm gonna start bitching about lack of hope and mob mentality, but I have something different in mind. A story about my own trip to see Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic.
On one gray and gloomy Southern California Saturday I was bored to the point that masturbation wasn't even going to help anymore. So, in order to save myself some chaffing I decided to bomb up to Hollywood to visit my favorite record store, The Rock Shop. As fate would have it I found a meter parking spot on Hollywood Blvd about 50 yards from the musical nirvana that was my destination. As I looked down at the stars beneath my Chuck Taylor's, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a neon sign that changed my plans for the day. Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic, my skeptical bones perked at the pure rapture of hearing what lie in store for me from this low rent Sylvia Brown. I ponied up the greenbacks that I was going to purchase an Otis Redding Anthology with and sat in a straight back chair staring at my Nostradamus Whore with greedy, wanting eyes.
Stella wasn't the showwoman that I was hoping for. No Barnum nor Bailey was she. No chanting with eyes closed and hands raised to the ceiling. No speaking in tongues. No jittering table or other flabbergasting special effects. She just reached across the small round table, took hold of my hands, and asked if there was any specific things I wanted to know about. I shrugged. Half because I figured if she was such a great psychic she would know why I was there, and half because I had no idea what I wanted to be lied about. Love. Career. Money. I choose love. I wanted to know who and when I would get married. At the time I was probably 25 or so, and it didn't seem out of the loop that I should want to know about my bride.
After a few minutes of "deep concentration" or it might have been a quick nap, Stella informed me that I would find my bride in my 32nd year. For a bonus she threw in an interesting tid-bit. She said that 32 would be a "mystic age" for me in which job, family, and happiness would converge. Needless to say, I waited on pins and needles for my 32nd birthday. You know what happened that year? Nothing. 32 sucked just like the previous 31. No great love, no great job, certainly no great grins. My skepticism was renewed and that's when I knew that Dionne and I would never exchange Christmas cards.
Do you believe in psychics? ESP? Tarot Cards?
Dixie Cup of Love: Nostradamus for keeping it cryptic.
The nurse had what I can only describe as a queer look upon her face. Not queer in the Isiah Washington calls her a faggot way, but in the Daniel Day Lewis is a nutty brilliant bastard kind of creep. She looked off kilter. As she forced a handful of meds into my pie hole I mumbled something about her not quite seeming like her dirty whore self. After a moments pause, she fessed up that she had been to a psychic and she was a little tossed by what she had learned. I swallowed my dose of peaceful easing feelings and drifted off thinking about what the nurse had told me.
Dionne Warwick and I are never going to be friends. It has nothing to do with her niece, Whitney Houston, being a crack addicted wack-o. It has everything to do with her lending name and image to her ridiculous Psychics Friends Network. She might as well of called it the How To Rip Off The Gullible Sheep Of The World Network. I would think that she was Satan incarnate, a title that rests on Dick Cheney's mantel, if it weren't for the lemmings that racked up ginormous phone bills because they wanted to get real answers from a telephone operator. Now I know you think that I'm gonna start bitching about lack of hope and mob mentality, but I have something different in mind. A story about my own trip to see Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic.
On one gray and gloomy Southern California Saturday I was bored to the point that masturbation wasn't even going to help anymore. So, in order to save myself some chaffing I decided to bomb up to Hollywood to visit my favorite record store, The Rock Shop. As fate would have it I found a meter parking spot on Hollywood Blvd about 50 yards from the musical nirvana that was my destination. As I looked down at the stars beneath my Chuck Taylor's, my peripheral vision caught a glimpse of a neon sign that changed my plans for the day. Madame Stella Hollywood Psychic, my skeptical bones perked at the pure rapture of hearing what lie in store for me from this low rent Sylvia Brown. I ponied up the greenbacks that I was going to purchase an Otis Redding Anthology with and sat in a straight back chair staring at my Nostradamus Whore with greedy, wanting eyes.
Stella wasn't the showwoman that I was hoping for. No Barnum nor Bailey was she. No chanting with eyes closed and hands raised to the ceiling. No speaking in tongues. No jittering table or other flabbergasting special effects. She just reached across the small round table, took hold of my hands, and asked if there was any specific things I wanted to know about. I shrugged. Half because I figured if she was such a great psychic she would know why I was there, and half because I had no idea what I wanted to be lied about. Love. Career. Money. I choose love. I wanted to know who and when I would get married. At the time I was probably 25 or so, and it didn't seem out of the loop that I should want to know about my bride.
After a few minutes of "deep concentration" or it might have been a quick nap, Stella informed me that I would find my bride in my 32nd year. For a bonus she threw in an interesting tid-bit. She said that 32 would be a "mystic age" for me in which job, family, and happiness would converge. Needless to say, I waited on pins and needles for my 32nd birthday. You know what happened that year? Nothing. 32 sucked just like the previous 31. No great love, no great job, certainly no great grins. My skepticism was renewed and that's when I knew that Dionne and I would never exchange Christmas cards.
Do you believe in psychics? ESP? Tarot Cards?
Dixie Cup of Love: Nostradamus for keeping it cryptic.
Tuesday, April 29, 2008
Licorice Pizza
"Radio is a sound salvation, Radio is cleaning up the nation. They say you better listen to the voice of reason, But they don't give you any choice' cause they think that it's treason. So you had better do as you are told. You better listen to the radio." Elvis Costello from "Radio, Radio"
The nurse must have had a bit of the old in-out last night because her mood was brighter than sunshine in summer time. She brought a portable radio, a stack of discs, and an over flowing Dixie cup of melody enhancers. She held each disc up for my approval, most of which I waved off like a pitcher wanting to throw the heater when the catcher wanted the big breaking ball. After a while I had whittled it down to three wonderful albums that is one way of another changed my life.
Music is the soundtrack of my life and the only thing worse than having bad background music is perhaps being Oprah Winfrey's lingerie washer. What we listen to is important. I have tried to be diligent about teaching my 9 year old nephew the importance of song. He doesn't understand exactly what I'm talking about but eventually, when he's a man, he will hear Immigrants Song and he will remember the time we spent listening to music together. The fast paced, move or die, society that we life in makes just kicking back and listening to an album an arduous task. But sometimes, something must be done to prevent this Speed Racer like dash towards death from claiming us. We must take pause to darken the room, put on an over sized pair of headphones, load a pipe to the brim with Gen-13, Dangergirl, or Lebanese Blonde hash and enjoy an album in its entirety.
My favorite album to listen to with a good incense burn going is The Beach Boys "Pet Sounds". Maybe because I was born and raised in Southern California, maybe because SuperMom loved them more than she loved the sperm donor, or maybe because I just have extraordinarily good taste in music and women, but the Beach Boys have always been my own personal lithium. The music to calm the savage beast. Whenever a bad day threatens to push me to Travis Bickle like kind of places, I slide a copy of Pet Sounds into the disc changer and I'm calm as Yanni on an elevator. The stand out tracks have to be "Wouldn't It Be Nice", "Sloop John B.", and the greatest song ever recorded (in my humble opinion) "God Only Knows." Which is one of the two songs that I will have played at my wedding, should I find a willing bride.
Another album that had a profound effect on my life is Oingo Boingo's "Only A Lad". There are plenty of you out there that only know Boingo as the "Weird Science" band, and that makes me sad. During the course of my life, I have attended 28 different Boingo shows, and every one of the them was amazing. Never saw a band show. Never left thinking I was gyped or wanted my money back. I always left entertained and happy. With Only a Lad, the songs that stick out are "Little Girls", "On the Outside", "Capitalism" and "Only a Lad". I don't recommend that you run out and check this out, it's an acquired taste, you either have the Boingo gene or you don't. I was lucky enough to born with it, thank God.
But the 8 tracks on an album known to some as "Zoso" and others simply as "Zeppelin IV" can't be beat for ear pounding, tinnitus causing, rock-n-roll noise pollution. Yes, it's the album with "Stairway" on it, but its so much more than that. It's like biting into an egg roll and lasting lobster. The album is home to "Black Dog", "Rock and Roll", "Misty Mountain Hop", and "Going to California" filled out with "The Battle of Evermore", "Four Sticks" and brought all the way home with "When The Levee Breaks". This record is the sonic equivalent of Valhalla. It's orgasmic, life changing, soul inspiring, the definition of the true power of music. My life without Zoso would seem somehow incomplete. I know that's insane since if it didn't exist I couldn't miss it, but somehow I know I would be looking for it, searching high and low, like the soul mate that eludes me. It's a part of me, as real as the blood in my veins, the air in my lungs, or the cholesterol that chokes my arteries.
I ask that you think about the soundtrack to your own life. Make sure that the memories that get associated with songs, get tied to good ones. No one wants to remember something like their first real meaningful kiss and have Leo Sayer be playing in the back ground. You don't want to think of the one that got away, and the song that brings it all back is "Baby Got Back". Control the soundtrack, make it stand out, make it exceptional. But mostly, make it your own.
Which albums mean the most to you?
Dixie Cup of Love: Brian Wilson, Danny Elfman, and Robert Plant.
The nurse must have had a bit of the old in-out last night because her mood was brighter than sunshine in summer time. She brought a portable radio, a stack of discs, and an over flowing Dixie cup of melody enhancers. She held each disc up for my approval, most of which I waved off like a pitcher wanting to throw the heater when the catcher wanted the big breaking ball. After a while I had whittled it down to three wonderful albums that is one way of another changed my life.
Music is the soundtrack of my life and the only thing worse than having bad background music is perhaps being Oprah Winfrey's lingerie washer. What we listen to is important. I have tried to be diligent about teaching my 9 year old nephew the importance of song. He doesn't understand exactly what I'm talking about but eventually, when he's a man, he will hear Immigrants Song and he will remember the time we spent listening to music together. The fast paced, move or die, society that we life in makes just kicking back and listening to an album an arduous task. But sometimes, something must be done to prevent this Speed Racer like dash towards death from claiming us. We must take pause to darken the room, put on an over sized pair of headphones, load a pipe to the brim with Gen-13, Dangergirl, or Lebanese Blonde hash and enjoy an album in its entirety.
My favorite album to listen to with a good incense burn going is The Beach Boys "Pet Sounds". Maybe because I was born and raised in Southern California, maybe because SuperMom loved them more than she loved the sperm donor, or maybe because I just have extraordinarily good taste in music and women, but the Beach Boys have always been my own personal lithium. The music to calm the savage beast. Whenever a bad day threatens to push me to Travis Bickle like kind of places, I slide a copy of Pet Sounds into the disc changer and I'm calm as Yanni on an elevator. The stand out tracks have to be "Wouldn't It Be Nice", "Sloop John B.", and the greatest song ever recorded (in my humble opinion) "God Only Knows." Which is one of the two songs that I will have played at my wedding, should I find a willing bride.
Another album that had a profound effect on my life is Oingo Boingo's "Only A Lad". There are plenty of you out there that only know Boingo as the "Weird Science" band, and that makes me sad. During the course of my life, I have attended 28 different Boingo shows, and every one of the them was amazing. Never saw a band show. Never left thinking I was gyped or wanted my money back. I always left entertained and happy. With Only a Lad, the songs that stick out are "Little Girls", "On the Outside", "Capitalism" and "Only a Lad". I don't recommend that you run out and check this out, it's an acquired taste, you either have the Boingo gene or you don't. I was lucky enough to born with it, thank God.
But the 8 tracks on an album known to some as "Zoso" and others simply as "Zeppelin IV" can't be beat for ear pounding, tinnitus causing, rock-n-roll noise pollution. Yes, it's the album with "Stairway" on it, but its so much more than that. It's like biting into an egg roll and lasting lobster. The album is home to "Black Dog", "Rock and Roll", "Misty Mountain Hop", and "Going to California" filled out with "The Battle of Evermore", "Four Sticks" and brought all the way home with "When The Levee Breaks". This record is the sonic equivalent of Valhalla. It's orgasmic, life changing, soul inspiring, the definition of the true power of music. My life without Zoso would seem somehow incomplete. I know that's insane since if it didn't exist I couldn't miss it, but somehow I know I would be looking for it, searching high and low, like the soul mate that eludes me. It's a part of me, as real as the blood in my veins, the air in my lungs, or the cholesterol that chokes my arteries.
I ask that you think about the soundtrack to your own life. Make sure that the memories that get associated with songs, get tied to good ones. No one wants to remember something like their first real meaningful kiss and have Leo Sayer be playing in the back ground. You don't want to think of the one that got away, and the song that brings it all back is "Baby Got Back". Control the soundtrack, make it stand out, make it exceptional. But mostly, make it your own.
Which albums mean the most to you?
Dixie Cup of Love: Brian Wilson, Danny Elfman, and Robert Plant.
Monday, April 28, 2008
The Big Hitter
"Life imitates the game of chess, You can be the rook or the pawn. If you have the strategy that's best, You can be the king or in this case the Don." Smashmouth from "Padrino"
I noticed some black ink on the finger tips of the nurse as she placed my peace makers on my tongue. With an accusatory tone usually reserved for public defenders I asked if she got booked for turning tricks or aggravated assault. It could've gone either way. She snickered and said that someone in my condition could never understand the complexities of her policeman/jailbird fantasies. Condition? What am I pregnant? I really got drop of few pounds, this is getting ridiculous, but back to her kink. I imagined the nurse involved in all types of degenerate activities, but I didn't think she would play the submissive role in a cops and robbers showcase. But it did get me to thinking.
When it comes to bizarre interests or strange hobbies I've got some Nicole Ritchie looking skeletons in my proverbial closet. Two interests in particular have always concerned Super Mom, one of which is my fascination with the Mafia.
My heritage is German, English, with a smattering of Dutch thrown in to explain my love of wooden shoes and pot. Nothing wrong with the mix I have but, how I wished that I had been pure blood Sicilian. First, and most attractive feature is the food. German cuisine seems based on shame, the bad things done in the name of Germany are absolved through wads of saucy meat dishes. Italian food is comfort food. It requires a bunch of people to be enjoyed properly. It takes love to be prepared, time and caring. Then there's the language. The Language of Love. Only in Italian can you tell someone that they should burn in the deepest levels of hell and have it sound complimentary. But for me, the greatest part would be a possible life in the Cosa Nostra.
How could I want a life of crime and murder? In the same way that Cheney likes being Vice President while making his friends rich, how Suge Knight runs his business with a strong trigger finger. I would be able to do it because I would enjoy the work. Mobsters, as a rule, don't whack civilians. Sure they rip of corporations, maybe run some numbers and book making operations, but killing soccer moms in the suburbs isn't usually on the docket. Though, if ordered by the Don, I'm sure my sense of loyalty and devotion to the family would compel me to do as ordered.
There are aspects of family, camaraderie, and loyalty, the cornerstones of the mob, that I find as appealing as Scarlett Johannson in a bikini. Sure there are some cons on the for/against list, but you gotta be willing to take the bad with the good.
My other strange and life long obsession has been serial killers. I'm mesmerized by what makes them tick. What drives them to violent sprees of murderous rage? How do you go about being a PTA dad when three members of your sons Boy Scout troop are buried under the above ground pool? Once, back in my younger years, I was sitting at the computer reading a particularly grisly website when Super Mom asked me what I was reading. I told her she didn't want to know, begged her not to pursue the line of questioning, but alas she did. So I told her that I was looking at a website that ranked serial killers by number of victims. She was completely mortified and never again asked what I was reading when I was on the computer.
Do you have any strange interests or hobbies?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Sopranos and the Corleones.
I noticed some black ink on the finger tips of the nurse as she placed my peace makers on my tongue. With an accusatory tone usually reserved for public defenders I asked if she got booked for turning tricks or aggravated assault. It could've gone either way. She snickered and said that someone in my condition could never understand the complexities of her policeman/jailbird fantasies. Condition? What am I pregnant? I really got drop of few pounds, this is getting ridiculous, but back to her kink. I imagined the nurse involved in all types of degenerate activities, but I didn't think she would play the submissive role in a cops and robbers showcase. But it did get me to thinking.
When it comes to bizarre interests or strange hobbies I've got some Nicole Ritchie looking skeletons in my proverbial closet. Two interests in particular have always concerned Super Mom, one of which is my fascination with the Mafia.
My heritage is German, English, with a smattering of Dutch thrown in to explain my love of wooden shoes and pot. Nothing wrong with the mix I have but, how I wished that I had been pure blood Sicilian. First, and most attractive feature is the food. German cuisine seems based on shame, the bad things done in the name of Germany are absolved through wads of saucy meat dishes. Italian food is comfort food. It requires a bunch of people to be enjoyed properly. It takes love to be prepared, time and caring. Then there's the language. The Language of Love. Only in Italian can you tell someone that they should burn in the deepest levels of hell and have it sound complimentary. But for me, the greatest part would be a possible life in the Cosa Nostra.
How could I want a life of crime and murder? In the same way that Cheney likes being Vice President while making his friends rich, how Suge Knight runs his business with a strong trigger finger. I would be able to do it because I would enjoy the work. Mobsters, as a rule, don't whack civilians. Sure they rip of corporations, maybe run some numbers and book making operations, but killing soccer moms in the suburbs isn't usually on the docket. Though, if ordered by the Don, I'm sure my sense of loyalty and devotion to the family would compel me to do as ordered.
There are aspects of family, camaraderie, and loyalty, the cornerstones of the mob, that I find as appealing as Scarlett Johannson in a bikini. Sure there are some cons on the for/against list, but you gotta be willing to take the bad with the good.
My other strange and life long obsession has been serial killers. I'm mesmerized by what makes them tick. What drives them to violent sprees of murderous rage? How do you go about being a PTA dad when three members of your sons Boy Scout troop are buried under the above ground pool? Once, back in my younger years, I was sitting at the computer reading a particularly grisly website when Super Mom asked me what I was reading. I told her she didn't want to know, begged her not to pursue the line of questioning, but alas she did. So I told her that I was looking at a website that ranked serial killers by number of victims. She was completely mortified and never again asked what I was reading when I was on the computer.
Do you have any strange interests or hobbies?
Dixie Cup of Love: The Sopranos and the Corleones.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
My Life In The Dark
"Monsters & Madmen, All come alive. When the dead start walking there's no place to hide " Oingo Boingo from "When the Lights Go Out"
As the nurse was getting the water just right for my weekly sponging she was in an unusually chatty mood. She was yammering on about life, love, and other nonsense. I was trying my best to avoid eye contact as it makes the bath time awkward. To know me is to know my disgust of communal bathing, but even with the bile creeping up my esophagus at the mere thought, her babbling was really getting to me. She even started peppering me with questions. It was worse than being on the Ellen Degeneres show with Melissa Ethridge, I wouldn't have much to say in that mix, just be watching and choking back my gag reflex. One of her questions did get me thinking though.
My adoration for cinema started at a young age. My Super Mom used to pack my brother, sister and I into our 1968 white Vista Cruiser station wagon, acquired via trade for, get this, a 1966 Mustang, the worst trade in history until it was topped by the Minnesota Vikings trading 12 draft picks to the Dumbass, I meant Dallas Cowboys for the perennial bust, Herschel Walker. Both trades, in hindsight, break my heart. But I digress. Super Mom would load us into the wagon, affectionately called Moby Dick, and take us to the drive in theater. I was a wee small fry at the time and don't remember the flicks, but I do remember wearing my Scooby Doo pajamas to the drive in and playing on the swings. Yeah, they had swings.
My earliest celluloid memory is of a day my ever so brilliant sperm donor decided to take me to a movie because actually spending time with me at home would require too much effort, as I was actually fairly well behaved in public, not so much on the home front. So, Father Knows Nothing takes me to the local mom and pop, yeah there we still theaters with marquees and names like The Savoy and the Onyx. The cinematic masterpiece that I witnessed that day, at a very young, impressionable age, probably has a lot to do with my near psychosis. He took me, for my first cinematic memory, to see the Turkish prison epic, Midnight Express.
Watching men give head to other men, a woman plastering her pouty titties to a slab of prisoner barrier glass, and watching a man bite off and spit out rather graphically, another mans tongue could explain some of my night terrors. How, after witnessing this, the favorite movie of my childhood ended up being E.T., I have no idea, but Spielberg played an earlier role in my neurosis.
The night before taking my brother and I on our first pre-dawn fishing trip, the Dr. Mengele of Movies, showed us Jaws on the precursor to HBO, ONTV. You can only imagine the effect that Jaws has on a nine year old in a boat the size of a Ritz cracker bobbing around the Pacific before the sun rises. I still hate fishing. It's amazing that I like movies at all with that guy filling my brain with fear and terror while still wearing Under-Roo's.
What was the first movie you remember seeing? Any horrible experiences with cinema?
Dixie Cup of Love: Steven Spielberg for terrorizing me.
As the nurse was getting the water just right for my weekly sponging she was in an unusually chatty mood. She was yammering on about life, love, and other nonsense. I was trying my best to avoid eye contact as it makes the bath time awkward. To know me is to know my disgust of communal bathing, but even with the bile creeping up my esophagus at the mere thought, her babbling was really getting to me. She even started peppering me with questions. It was worse than being on the Ellen Degeneres show with Melissa Ethridge, I wouldn't have much to say in that mix, just be watching and choking back my gag reflex. One of her questions did get me thinking though.
My adoration for cinema started at a young age. My Super Mom used to pack my brother, sister and I into our 1968 white Vista Cruiser station wagon, acquired via trade for, get this, a 1966 Mustang, the worst trade in history until it was topped by the Minnesota Vikings trading 12 draft picks to the Dumbass, I meant Dallas Cowboys for the perennial bust, Herschel Walker. Both trades, in hindsight, break my heart. But I digress. Super Mom would load us into the wagon, affectionately called Moby Dick, and take us to the drive in theater. I was a wee small fry at the time and don't remember the flicks, but I do remember wearing my Scooby Doo pajamas to the drive in and playing on the swings. Yeah, they had swings.
My earliest celluloid memory is of a day my ever so brilliant sperm donor decided to take me to a movie because actually spending time with me at home would require too much effort, as I was actually fairly well behaved in public, not so much on the home front. So, Father Knows Nothing takes me to the local mom and pop, yeah there we still theaters with marquees and names like The Savoy and the Onyx. The cinematic masterpiece that I witnessed that day, at a very young, impressionable age, probably has a lot to do with my near psychosis. He took me, for my first cinematic memory, to see the Turkish prison epic, Midnight Express.
Watching men give head to other men, a woman plastering her pouty titties to a slab of prisoner barrier glass, and watching a man bite off and spit out rather graphically, another mans tongue could explain some of my night terrors. How, after witnessing this, the favorite movie of my childhood ended up being E.T., I have no idea, but Spielberg played an earlier role in my neurosis.
The night before taking my brother and I on our first pre-dawn fishing trip, the Dr. Mengele of Movies, showed us Jaws on the precursor to HBO, ONTV. You can only imagine the effect that Jaws has on a nine year old in a boat the size of a Ritz cracker bobbing around the Pacific before the sun rises. I still hate fishing. It's amazing that I like movies at all with that guy filling my brain with fear and terror while still wearing Under-Roo's.
What was the first movie you remember seeing? Any horrible experiences with cinema?
Dixie Cup of Love: Steven Spielberg for terrorizing me.
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