"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.
Saturday, August 2, 2008
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.
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